Miranda and Caliban(26)
“Shall I help him?” I ask Papa, half-rising from the kitchen table.
“No.” Papa taps my slate with one finger. “I’ve allowed Caliban’s education to take precedence over yours for too long. There’s food enough in the larder to last a few days. Copy this list in a fair hand fifty times over, Miranda, and come evening, I’ll expect you to recite its contents from memory.”
I bend to my task. “Yes, Papa.”
Caliban hesitates until Papa makes another shooing motion. “Go, you! Come back with a hare.”
“You won’t punish him if he fails, will you?” I ask when Caliban has gone.
“Ah, lass!” Papa laughs. “Such a tender heart you have, and such a keen sense for injustice visited on those less fortunate! No, I’ll not punish the lad for not knowing what no one has taught him.” He lays a hand on my shoulder. “Primitive man’s ability to devise and use tools is one of the first elements to separate us from mere beasts. I am curious to see what our wild boy will do with the challenge.”
“Oh, I see.”
He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “To your studies.”
I write out my list of words diligently.
Hare, hart, fox, weasel, ass. Quicksilver, tin, marcasite. Emerald, topaz, red marble. Nightingale, blackbird, thrush. Hazel, marjoram, parsley, grain.
I chant the words softly to myself, sounding out the ones I do not know. Many of the unfamiliar words roll wonderfully from my tongue: marcasite, emerald, nightingale, marjoram.
I wonder what manner of things they might be.
It seems to me that the words are clustered in groups of like things. Silver and tin are metals and marble is a stone, so I might guess that marcasite and emerald are either metals or stones; and blackbirds and thrush are birds, so nightingale is either a stone or a bird. Hazel is a tree and parsley is a green, so marjoram is likely a plant. Hart is a word I know, but it falls amidst the beasts, so mayhap it no more represents that heart that beats within one’s breast than hare represents the locks that grow atop one’s head. And quicksilver … what does that mean?
I cannot fathom how can silver be quick. And to think that this is only the merest beginning!
The depth and breadth of Papa’s knowledge fills me with awe. I write out my list and erase it with a fold of my robe and begin again, over and over, until my robes are filthy with dust and my piece of ochre chalk is worn to a sliver. By the time I have finished, I feel as though these words have become a part of me; and that I, in turn, have forged a connection with Mercury in his gentlest aspect by memorizing a handful of those things that are dear to him.
In my thoughts, the trickster’s sly grin curls upward in approval.
And I understand better, if only a little bit, why Papa’s studies consume him so. To understand how and why the world is ordered is a heady business. I only wish I knew for certain what each and every word meant.
Caliban returns empty-handed that day, flinching at the prospect of reporting his failure.
“No mind, lad,” Papa says cheerfully. “Keep trying. You’ll find a way to use that cord. Tomorrow’s another day!”
As for me, once Caliban has been sent to his cell with his supper, I recite my list flawlessly. Papa is so pleased, I dare to ask him what the unfamiliar words mean, and he tells me of fabulous beasts like the hart, which is crowned with majestic antlers like branches rising from its head, and the ass, which labors on behalf of humans as diligently as our little earth spirits. He tells me which of my guesses are right and wrong, describing the hard green radiance of emeralds and the beauty of the nightingale’s song. He chuckles when I ask him how silver can be quick.
“’Tis a most wondrous chymical element, child,” he says to me. “A liquid metal of surpassing virtue, a veritable parent to lesser metals. It is Luna to sulfur’s Sol in the sacred marriage of conjunction.” He collects himself, remembering to whom he is speaking. “Some call it living silver, for it moves and flows like water; swifter than water, as does no other metal on earth. Can you guess its true name?” I shake my head, and he smiles, touching the side of his nose. “Mercury.”
“Mercury,” I echo. “Because it is swift.”
“Indeed,” Papa says. “But it is dangerous, too.” His expression darkens, and he glances in the direction of his sanctum on the upper story of the palace, musing to himself. “I fear that many a practitioner of the spagyric art has perished handling it without due respect.”
I do not know what the spagyric art means, but I can follow his gaze. “Do you speak of Caliban’s mother, Papa?”
His grey gaze returns, stormy-eyed. “That is not a fit topic for a young girl to discuss, Miranda.”
I shrink. “I’m sorry! It’s just…” He waits. “I wondered how you were so very sure she perished, Papa,” I say quietly. “Caliban knew it was so. He … he found her. After … after she died, but…” I find myself trembling and swallow hard, cutting my words short. But before we came here, I think.
Papa’s eyebrows raise. “He told you this?”
I nod. “He said you put her in the ground.”
“I saw her remains given a decent burial.” His tone is curt. “Likely it is more than the witch Sycorax deserved.”
I look at the table. “She was his mother.”