Miranda and Caliban(34)

Papa hesitates. “The spirit Ariel was imprisoned by Sycorax because he refused to honor such base demands,” he says. “If he is to serve willingly, I must honor his nature in turn.”

That is a lie, I think; but is it a lie Papa believes? Does he know the truth that Ariel imparted to Caliban and me? She bade me to lie with her as a man lies with a woman. She beseeched me to get her with child.

Or did Ariel lie?

There are lies and lies.

I do not know.

Papa squeezes my hands, then lets them go. “Never think I do not appreciate your labor, Miranda,” he says. “One day…” He shakes his head. “No, no mind. That is for another time.”

I peer at him. “When?”

“When you are a woman grown,” he says and his voice takes on a stern note. “Not before.”

“When will that be, Papa?” I dare to ask. “When I am ten?”

“Ten!” He laughs. “’Tis unlikely. Do not trouble your head about it, child. When the time comes, you’ll know.”

It seems careless and unkind of him to answer me thusly. How? How am I to know when I am a woman grown? Will it be in four years or five years or ten? Is there some manner of sign for which I might watch? I want to howl and storm and rage like Ariel in his tree or Caliban in his cell. I think of the endless lists of properties and correspondences he bids me commit to memory when all I want to know are the most basic of truths: Who are we and where did we come from? Why are we here on this isle? And now this … how in the name of all that is good and holy will I know when I am a woman grown?

The questions swell inside me until I think I will surely burst, and I open my mouth to let them out.

It is at that moment that Caliban’s shadow darkens the doorway that leads to the kitchen garden.

I swallow hard and close my mouth.

Papa rises to his feet, a thunderous expression on his face. “Get in here, boy!”

Caliban obeys him, his head hanging low. “I am sorry, Master.”

“Not as sorry as you shall be, I daresay.” Papa’s hand closes around the amulet that contains Caliban’s hair. “I entrust you with your freedom, and you repay the kindness by abandoning my daughter without a word, leaving all your chores undone and left to fall to her alone?”

Caliban flinches. “I am sorry, Master,” he says again. “I was bad.” He steals a glance at me, misery in his gaze. “I am sorry, Miranda.”

My heart fills with pity, my own anger forgotten. “’Tis all right,” I say gently to him. “You were angry.”

“Enough!” Papa’s hand tightens around the amulet and Caliban lets out a howl of agony, falling to the floor. His limbs draw tight to his body, his fists pressing into his belly, and his skin shudders and twitches as the muscles beneath cramp into knots. On and on it goes, Caliban writhing and groaning with pain, and I find myself standing with no memory of having risen, my own hands fisted at my sides in helpless sympathy.

At last Papa releases the amulet. Caliban lies unmoving on the floor, his breathing hoarse and ragged.

“I take no pleasure in punishing you, lad,” Papa says, and his breath comes hard, too. “Do not make me do so again.” Eyes closed tight, Caliban nods. “Very well.” Papa adjusts the amulets that hang about his throat and smooths his robes until every fold is in place. “When you have recovered, you may replenish the woodpile. Miranda, I would have you attend to your studies today.”

I nod my obedience, too.

When Papa has gone to his sanctum, I kneel beside Caliban, patting at him in a vain effort to soothe away the pain. “Oh, Caliban! I’m sorry.”

Although he does not open his eyes, one rough-skinned hand covers both of mine and stills them. “Do not be. I was bad.”

“You were angry,” I say again. “I was angry for you!”

Caliban smiles a little bit, his lips curving upward. “I know.” He opens his eyes and gazes at me. “Now I will go fetch wood.”

I shake my head. “Rest. I will go.”

“No.” With an effort, Caliban pushes himself upright and clambers to his feet. He stands wavering and unsteady, taking a deep, long breath as though to test his ability to take air into his lungs. His dark eyes are very serious and intent. “Do your studies, Miranda. Master is angry, too. Do not make him more angry. I will go.”

“All right,” I whisper.

I watch him limp away. Somehow, I feel myself to blame for his pain.

Since I do not know what else to do, I ply myself to my studies as Papa bade me, sitting at the kitchen table with my head bent over my slate and a bit of ochre chalk in my hand, copying and memorizing the properties and correspondences of jade and other stones that are green in hue, none of which I have ever seen, nor ever hope to see within my lifetime.

“Oh, la!” a light voice says, and a light breeze brushes over me. “What art thou about?”

It gives me a start to see Ariel in our kitchen. With his moon-pale skin, sea-changing eyes, and fluttering white garments, the spirit looks out of place in such homely surroundings. “No business of yours,” I say, rubbing my slate clean. It is an hour’s worth of labor gone, but it gives me bitter satisfaction to deny him. “What do you want of me? Why are you here?”

Ariel’s eyes widen, as clear and blue as a summer sky. “Why, I am here to tender my profound apology, milady!” He gives me a sweeping bow. “I heartily beg thy forgiveness for having offended thee.”