Miranda and Caliban(29)
“Hermes, Hotarit, Haruz, Tyr, Meda!” Papa calls, swinging the thurible in a circle around him. “I call upon you by all your names! I conjure you above all by the high Lord God who is the lord of the firmament and of the realm of the exalted and great! Good Lord Mercury, receive my petition, and pour out the powers of your spirit upon me!”
Three times the invocation is repeated, and each time, Papa’s voice grows stronger and more resonant. At last he rises a final time and hands the thurible to me, holding his staff aloft.
The air feels like it does before lightning strikes.
The great pine shivers and creaks.
Papa says a word I do not know, so softly it is almost a whisper, except that there is power in it that rumbles like thunder. He stamps the heel of his staff against the flagstones and the crystal atop it flares; and then there is a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, sudden and ear-shattering. It startles me, and I cry out without meaning to.
“Shh!” Caliban is beside me, attempting to shield me from the splinters of bark and wood that rain down upon us. When it stops, he pats my shoulders in a clumsy effort to comfort me, his dark eyes worried. “It is only Master’s magic.”
I shudder and lean against him. “I know.”
The top of the pine has been split asunder, the two halves of its trunk gaping. A glowing red mist, like a cloud of sun-struck blood, fills the gap. The sight of it makes my skin prickle and puts an unpleasant taste in my mouth. It seems the spirit Ariel is not yet free, for it lets out a plaintive wail and then sighs, forming words for the first time in my memory. “Free me! Oh, free me!”
“That I will do gladly,” Papa says. “In exchange for thy service.”
The spirit groans in anguish. “Thou bidst me exchange my prison for fetters,” it says bitterly. “Is Ariel never to be free? I cry thee mercy, good magus!”
I feel a twinge of pity for the spirit Ariel, and beside me, Caliban lets out his breath in a huff.
Papa is unmoved. “I am a godly Christian man,” he says. “Unlike the foul witch Sycorax who bound you in this knotty prison, I shall demand no deed of you that is offensive in the eyes of the Lord God most high. Gentle spirit, if you serve me loyally and without complaint, I shall grant thee thy freedom.”
The spirit is silent for a moment. “What term of service dost thou demand, good magus?”
Papa frowns and glances at me. Why, I cannot begin to guess. “In good faith, I cannot set a number to it,” he says. “Events will fall out as heaven ordains them, and I can glimpse the future but dimly at this juncture. I will make you no false promises. But I think no more than thrice three years, mayhap less. ’Tis less time than you’ve been imprisoned in this rude bark, howling your agony to the skies,” he adds, his voice taking on a hint of impatience. “What sayest thou, gentle Ariel? Will you swear fealty to me and become my trusted servant?”
The spirit’s words come grudgingly. “I will.”
“Then do so in the name of the Lord God,” Papa says in a stern tone, his staff planted firmly.
A gust of wind sighs through the branches of the sundered pine, making its needles tremble and quake. “In the name of the Lord God most high, I, Ariel, do swear my fealty to thee.”
“So mote it be.” Papa raises his staff aloft. The crystal flashes as more words of power spill from his tongue. The nameless hare’s limp corpse lies at his feet, slow blood seeping from its slit throat and pooling on the flagstones. The sundered pine tree sways and shivers. “By the cursed name of Setebos, I release thee!” Papa cries, slamming his staff down once more.
There is a long, drawn-out shriek; whether from the spirit or the tree, I cannot say. The bloody mist roils and the flagstones in the courtyard heave and shudder underfoot. I stumble and nearly drop the thurible. Caliban reaches out a hand to steady me, and I am grateful for it.
Bright rays of sun pierce the red mist, turning it golden, then silver, then dissipating it altogether.
Papa smiles in quiet triumph.
A wind springs up from the very heart of the riven pine; springs up and takes shape, descending to touch lightly on the flagstones in front of Papa. The hare’s blood is smeared beneath its bare, delicate feet.
Ariel.
The spirit is more substantial in appearance than the airy sylphs or the transparent undines, but less so than the earthy gnomes, and altogether more singular. It is fair to look upon, bearing the semblance of a slender youth with skin as white as the churning crests of waves, drifting hair as pale as fog, and eyes as changeable as the sea; one moment lucid and clear, the next dark and stormy with hidden depths. A filmy garment that appears to be woven of gossamer spider-thread and jasmine petals hangs from its shoulders and clings to its limbs, quivering in the breeze. I cannot help but stare at the spirit, for it is wondrous and lovely to behold.
It bows to Papa. “Well met, Master.”
Papa inclines his head. “Well met, my servant Ariel.”
Ariel’s gaze shifts to me and Caliban. He—for I suppose it is a he after all—smiles faintly. It is a beautiful smile, but there is something cold and cutting in it. Caliban lets out a harsh barking cough and moves away from me, and the spirit’s smile deepens, its lips curling. “Ah!” he says. “This pretty little lass must be thine own daughter, Master. And I see thou hast found the witch’s unwholesome whelp. Dost think it wise to keep him so close?”