Miranda and Caliban(30)

“Do not bait the lad, gentle spirit,” Papa says in a mild tone. “I could not have freed you without his aid. Caliban’s parentage is no fault of his own, and he has proved himself a good and loyal servant this day.”

“Is it so?” The spirit Ariel’s voice is light, but his eyes are dark and brooding. His pale hair stirs in the breeze, floating about his head like wisps of fog. “Well, I shall prove myself the better.”

Papa smiles again. “Nothing would please me more.”





SEVENTEEN





CALIBAN


Servant.

I do not know this word, and I do not like its sound in Ariel’s mouth. I am happy when Master says for Ariel to find him this thing and that thing, herbs and flowers and stones, and Ariel goes, whooshity-whoosh, away like the wind.

Oh, I remember that Ariel, how he smiles like a knife and comes and goes like the wind.

I carry the dead hare by its hind legs. It is long and skinny and I am sad that it is dead. Fleas creepity-hop in its soft hair.

Hare hair.

Master says to hang it from a tree in the kitchen garden so its blood can come out. Before he goes to his big room to be alone, Master says to dig tubers and onions in the garden and we will have stew for supper. No studies for Miranda today, Master has too many things to do. Master is oh, so very, very happy today.

I am not.

Miranda is not.

But we dig onions to peel and tubers that we wash in water from the well and I ask Miranda, what is a servant?

Miranda thinks, and the skin on her little brow goes wrinkle-crinkle, then it goes smooth. “Why, it is someone who is good and helpful, isn’t it?” She touches my arm with wet dirty fingers and smiles at me. There are no knives in Miranda’s smile, only sunlight. “Like you, Caliban.”

But, but, but … if that is true, why does it itch so? Oh, it is not an itch, not really, but it is a feeling I do not have a name for—an angry not-knowing feeling, a feeling that if I did understand the thing I do not understand, I would be angry. And that is a feeling like an itch.

Twisty words for twisty thoughts. I do not want to think them, but the itch makes me. Miranda says a servant is someone who is good and helpful, but I do not think that is what Master means.

Master means it is someone who does what Master says, what Master wants. And Ariel did not want to be a servant; Ariel wanted to be free.

Like me.

But I was not trapped in a tree. I was free before Master made me come to him. And I did not make a promise to the Lord God in the sky to do what Master says for years and years and years.

So why am I a servant?

I ask Miranda this.

“Oh, Caliban! Why does it matter?” Her brow goes wrinkle-crinkle again. She touches me again, puts her hand on mine. “You’re my friend. Servant is only a word. Like Master.”

I look at her hand on mine. It is little and pale. Even with dirt under them, her fingernails are like seashells. My hand is bigger and stronger and darker, and my fingernails are raggedy jaggedy. Not as much as before, but still.

Only a word.

Words fall through my thoughts like stones through water.

Servant.

Unwholesome. That is another word, a word Ariel said about me. I do not know it, and I do not like the sound of this one either; but it does not make as strong of an itch inside me, not yet. I let it fall. I will pick it up another time.

Master.

But Master is not a word in the same way as servant because it is his name, and one person’s name is not the same as a word that is a name for every one of that thing, like boy or hare or tuber.

I say this to Miranda.

Her eyes go wide and her mouth opens and closes. “Oh! It’s not … Caliban, did you think Master was Papa’s name?”

“Yes.” I feel my own brow crinkle. Could it be untrue? It is the name Master gave me to call him. “Is it not?”

She takes her hand away, puts her hands together in front of her and looks down. “No.” Her voice is soft. “No, it’s, um … I suppose you would call it a title. A term of respect.”

I echo the word. “Respect?”

Miranda looks up and her eyes ask me silently to understand. “To show thanks and loyalty, yes. Just as I call him Papa because he is my father, and just as we say that God in His heaven is the Master of us all. Remember? I taught you as much.”

I scrub dirt from a tuber and think a great many thoughts. Servant and Master; these words are knotted together. Ariel did not say the word until he says his promise, until Master frees him from the tree. Ariel knew. I did not know. It is like Master has told me a lie.

Did he?

I cannot remember all the words from when I had no words. I remember the first knowing and that is Miranda, knowing she is Miranda even if I did not have any words but her name yet; and then the second knowing that is like when lightning comes, and that is finding a thing that was lost from long, long ago when Umm was alive. Me. A word that is my name. Caliban. I am Caliban.

What did Master say? Did he say, “I am Master”? Did he say, “Call me Master”? Or did he only touch his chest and say, “Master”?

I look at Miranda. She is peeling onions now, her hands go peel, peel, peeling away the crinkly brown skin. If I ask about the word again, it will make her sad. Maybe it is true it does not matter, it is only a word. But there is magic in words.