Miranda and Caliban(42)
And so I ignore my discomfort, which after all is not so great that I cannot bear it without complaint. I am sure that my stomach will settle once I’ve broken my fast. I eat plain journey-cakes, unadorned by aught that might render my belly more bilious; and yet come noon, I feel no better.
Indeed, I feel rather worse. The dull, heavy pain expands to encompass my lower back and fitful cramps grip my belly. It is not wholly unlike a time some years ago when I took ill from eating unripe figs, and yet I suffer from neither nausea nor a flux of the bowels. It is a strange kind of pain, and I feel irritable and lumpish and almost weepy with it.
As the day wears on I begin to suspect it is not indigestion at all, but an imbalance of the humors. It is probable that I am suffering from an excess of black bile, rendering me melancholic. The realization is a relief, and I resolve to speak to Papa about it when he emerges from his sanctum in the evening. Doubtless he knows a purgative that will restore my humors to the proper balance, and mayhap he will even be proud of me for diagnosing my own ailment.
Melancholia, I think to myself, is ruled by Saturn, whose attributes are cold and dry. Plants and herbs that accord to Saturn include aloe, myrrh, onions, cumin, rue, and all plants that have thick leaves. These things I know by rote, though I do not understand their applications.
Although Papa has not yet entrusted me with a glimpse into his books of wisdom, he has described to me at length the various images the sages of yore claim one might wreak to draw Saturn’s influence. With great care, I limn one of those selfsame images, which is that of a standing man holding a fish above his head and a large lizard resting beneath his feet, upon my slate. It is my favorite among all the images of Saturn because fish and lizards are creatures I have seen with my own eyes, and I have practiced drawing them enough times on my sojourns that I can render them with considerable accuracy. The standing man resembles Papa. It is a good likeness, and for a few moments, I am passing pleased with it.
My belly cramps in a sickly manner.
Oh, and now I am not sure at all that I should be seeking Saturn’s favor to dispel this excess! Mayhap it is quite the contrary, and I should seek the favor of one of the seven governors such as Jupiter or Venus, whose attributes are hot and moist and sanguine, to balance my humors.
I erase my slate with the heel of my hand, brushing ochre dust on the skirts of my robe. I am dabbling in ignorance; and as Ariel said to me long ago, it is the fine edge of a blade that divides innocence from ignorance.
I am weary of both, and my low belly hurts with a dull, persistent ache that grows surprisingly difficult to ignore.
In the late afternoon, Caliban returns from foraging with a pail full of fish. I rise to assist him. I have been sitting for so long, my thighs feel wet and sticky. When I turn from opening the larder door, Caliban has a peculiar look on his face.
“Miranda,” he says in a cautious tone. “You are bleeding.”
“How so?” I look blankly at him, sure that I have sustained no injury. Nonetheless, his expression alarms me. “Where?”
He answers reluctantly. “On your bottom.”
“How can it be?” I turn to look behind me, tugging at the worn blue fabric of the robe I am wearing. Caliban is right. I can see the edge of a dark bloodstain spreading on the thin cloth and my throat tightens with fear. “Oh, no!”
“Are you hurt?” Caliban sets down the pail. “I will look.”
“No!” I back away from him in horror. For all that he has been a dear and constant companion for years, to let him see my privy parts is unthinkable. Having suffered grievously for disobeying Papa in the past, I am all the more mindful of his dictums. “No, Caliban, you mustn’t! Papa says I must never be immodest!”
Caliban scowls. “Master says many things. If you will not let me look, I will get him.”
I shake my head. “And disturb him at his studies? No, you mustn’t do that, either.”
His scowl deepens. “You are bleeding.”
I spread one hand over my belly. “I’m sure it’s naught but a flux brought on by something I ate.” My voice is shaking; I do not believe my own words. “Oh, I’m sorry! How very embarrassing.”
“Miranda—” Caliban takes a step toward me.
I retreat farther, filled with fear and mortification. “Leave me be, Caliban!” When he hesitates, I flee.
In my chamber, I place my wash-basin on the tiled floor and fill it with water from the ewer. I strip off my robe and crouch over the basin, examining myself. My thighs are smeared with blood. I splash water on myself with a cupped hand. Thin strands of crimson swirl in the clear water in the basin.
“Miranda!” It is Caliban’s voice, Caliban’s face at the window. In my haste, I have forgotten to close the shutters, which I am accustomed to leave open in all manner of clement weather.
“Caliban!” My voice is high and shrill. I cover my breasts with one arm, reaching for my soiled robe to cover my nether region. I am naked and terrified and furious, crouching like a beast and bleeding. Humiliated tears stream down my face. My nose runs, and I can taste a sickening salty slick on my lips. “Go away!”
At last he obeys and vanishes from sight.
Clutching the robe to me, I fling myself across the chamber and yank the shutters closed. The wood is old and cracked and the intricate latticework would do little more to keep out a prying gaze than it does a chill wind, but the garden is empty.