Miranda and Caliban(28)

That is all he says.

At night I think and do not sleep. I go outside to think. Now I am alone under the night sky. There is wind and the moon is bright. I count clouds going over the moon, one, two, three, four, five.

I climb the wall of the garden outside Miranda’s chamber. Inside Miranda is sleeping. I think about Miranda sleeping. The wind makes my hair move. How is hair like a hare? I do not understand why it is the same word. Miranda says it is made of different letters so it is not the same.

And Master says to use the cord to catch a hare without my hands. How-oh-how-oh-how? I am not the wind to make things move without hands. A big wind comes like it is laughing, ha-ha, no you are not, Caliban! It makes the long branches of the tree beside me move. And I think … o-ho! I pull a branch down and let it go. It jumps like a hare, hoppity-hoppity into the sky. That is how you make the cord move with no hands—pull down a branch and tie the cord to it.

But how do I make the branch stay until a hare comes?

I will think about it tomorrow. Now I do not have to be more clever than a hare, only a branch.

I go inside and sleep.





SIXTEEN





MIRANDA


Caliban has caught a hare.

It was some days in the doing, but it seems he has succeeded in devising something Papa calls a snare, and Papa is ever so pleased with him. I am happy for Caliban, though I will own, I am a little bit envious of the praise that Papa heaps on him. But that is petty of me.

The hare is understandably displeased at having been caught, and Caliban bears a number of scratches from its strong hind legs. Nonetheless, he bears it no ill will and keeps it in his cell since we have nowhere else to contain it. I rather wish that it had taken Caliban longer to catch it, or that the stars aligned for Papa’s endeavor sooner, for within a week’s time, Caliban has become passing fond of the hare. Resigned to its captivity, it hops around his cell and comes to nibble greens from his hand.

I am quite taken with it, too; but I have not forgotten Bianca’s fate. When Caliban asks if we should name the hare, I say no.

And then altogether too soon, the stars have aligned and Mercury’s day is upon us.

We gather in the kitchen in the darkness before dawn. Papa carries his staff and the thurible and he wears a robe I have never seen before, striped with blue and grey in the light of the banked embers in the fireplace. I know from my studies that these are colors that Mercury favors.

The hare is panicking. Caliban put it into the bag I sewed from scraps, but it kicks and thrashes. The bag is torn to shreds and the hare is tangled in it, which makes it struggle all the harder, scratching Caliban’s arms and chest anew as he clutches it to him. At last Papa takes pity on him and sends the hare to sleep with a touch and a word. It hangs limp in Caliban’s arms as we venture out to the courtyard and the great pine tree, and I am grateful I do not have to carry it. Papa gives me the thurible hanging from its silver chain to carry instead. I am pleased to be trusted with it, even if I do not like this undertaking.

The pine tree stands tall and stark against the grey sky, its branches creaking a warning. The spirit inside it is silent. Holding his staff in one hand, Papa chants the music of the spheres. The air trembles in response as dawn’s rays break in the east.

Now Papa wakes the hare with a touch. It struggles in Caliban’s arms and makes a terrible high-pitched sound.

“Hold it still for the knife, lad,” Papa says, pointing at the flagstones. “The quicker done the better.”

Squatting, Caliban holds the hare in place, stretching out its neck and pressing down on its flanks. The hare’s back legs kick as it screams and screams. Caliban’s shoulders tense, but he does as he’s bidden. I think we should have found some other place to house the hare. Papa drops to one knee beside Caliban, his staff tucked under his arm. His knife flashes in the rising sun and the hare’s screaming stops; but the spirit Ariel rouses to let out a long, wailing screech.

“Soon, gentle spirit,” Papa murmurs. “Soon.”

I do not like this. I would that it were over and done with. No, I would that it were not done at all.

Papa beckons for the thurible and I bring it to him. He lifts the lid and scatters incense over the coals. Fragrant smoke trickles from the thurible’s holes, and I know from my studies that it comes from a gum resin that contains elements such as oil of orange and clove and spikenard, scents that are pleasing to Mercury.

Rising, Papa takes it from me and swings it in a graceful arc. “May God bless you, good Lord Mercury!” he calls. “You who are wise, perceptive, intelligent, and the sage and instructor of every kind of writing, computation, and the science of heaven and earth! You have concealed yourself by your subtlety so that no one can possibly know your nature or determine your effects!”

In the tree, Ariel groans.

Papa’s face is gilded and bright with the dawn as he chants the invocation, his eyes keen and sure.

I glance at Caliban and find him looking at me. His chest is scored and streaked with blood and his expression is unhappy.

I wonder what he is thinking. This is how it began for us all those months ago; with Papa’s magic at dawn.

I wonder if he is sorry.

I hope not.

I think … I think if Papa succeeds in freeing Ariel, everything will change, though I do not know how or why. But at least Papa has promised not to threaten to take Caliban’s will away and leave me friendless.