Miranda and Caliban(53)
Thinking to use my own face as a model for Virgo, I seek to steal a glimpse of it in the round mirror which Papa obtained from the hoard of pirates’ treasure that now hangs upon one wall. It is greatly altered as Papa has etched a series of concentric circles of arcane names and symbols upon its bright surface, but there is room enough between them that I can make out my own features.
Papa rebukes me sharply for it. “Miranda! Leave it be.”
Stung, I turn away from the mirror. “I was but looking! I did not touch it, Papa, I promise.”
“’Tis dangerous merely to look.” Finding a length of ragged cloth, he drapes it over the mirror. “But ’tis not your fault,” he adds in a gentler tone. “Of course a young woman such as yourself would be hard-pressed to resist the lure of vanity, and I did not think to forbid you until this moment.”
Across the chamber, the salamander in its nest of fire opens its jewel-red eyes to regard me. In all this time, it has not spoken once, and I have begun to think I imagined it years ago.
Still, there is something unnerving in its stare.
Papa forgives me my unwitting trespass. He does not work with chymicals in my presence, but applies himself to his multitude of charts and follows my progress with a keen eye. I paint the initial lineaments of Virgo’s face from memory. Alone in my chamber the next morning, I peek at the hand-mirror that was Caliban’s gift that I might better bequeath Virgo with the likeness of an actual living maiden. Papa praises my work, but if he notes the resemblance, he does not comment on it. I wonder if it is true that it is vanity rather than pragmatism that compelled me to render my own features, and resolve not to do so again. It seems the safer course, even if I must call upon my imagination to render the illustrations in Papa’s book writ large. Although they are finely wrought, they are too small to afford a great deal of detail.
I should have to do so in any case with the next image that Papa bids me to render, which is the second face of Gemini and an image of which I can barely make sense. Papa translates the description and reads it aloud to me. “It is a man whose face is like an eagle, clad in a coat of leaden mail,” he says. “A linen cloth covers his head, and an iron helm with a silk crown upon it.”
At his side, I clasp my hands beneath my back and stare at the incomprehensible illustration of a man with a bird’s fierce beaked head crowned with metal and silk. “Is an eagle somewhat like an angry chicken, Papa?”
“An angry chicken?” Papa laughs, a hearty, full-throated sound such as I have seldom heard from him. “I suppose it is at that, though it is a far nobler bird. It is a bird of prey, akin to the hawks that hunt mice and rabbits in the meadows, Miranda. Surely you have seen those, albeit at a distance.” He returns to the book. “Now, he holds in his hand a bow and arrows. This is a face of oppression, evils—”
His voice stops and I glance up at him.
“That is all,” Papa says, and the laughter is gone from his voice.
A chill trickles down my back like rainwater and although I do not wish to grieve Papa, I cannot let the matter pass unremarked. Never had I imagined that there was aught unwholesome in the images that Papa bade me render.
But then there was the pale thing, floating in its jar …
“Oppression and evils?” I whisper without looking up from the illustration. “I do not understand.”
Papa is silent long enough that I peek to see if he is angry. He is frowning, but it is in thought, not anger. “There is no evil in this image, nor in any such image,” he says at last. “That I promise you. ’Tis true that they may be used for evil by an unscrupulous magus; and ’tis true, also, that a careless magus may wreak great harm using these images if, let us suppose, he does not take care that the planet which is lord of that astrological house is not conjunct with either of the infortune planets, or cadent at the time of the working, or that the working itself is compromised by an eclipse of the sun or moon.” He raises one finger. “That is why I bid you render no image save at my command.”
“What of those I have sketched up on my slate?” I ask in alarm. “I’ve drawn many that you described to me, Papa, and not always at your bidding!”
He smiles into his beard. “There is no harm in such impermanent scribbles. Outside the walls of my sanctum, you are free to practice at will and continue to hone your skills. It is only here in this place of power, wherein enduring images are wrought with purpose on a mighty scale, that there is danger.”
I dare to look up at him. “And yet I know naught of our purpose, Papa.”
“Nor need you,” he says sternly. “Not yet. This is a delicate business we are about, and any intention you bring to it might taint the working. Your innocence of the nature of our working is required to ensure it will be a pure expression of my intention. You need only to trust me. Do you?”
I nod.
I am not sure if it is true, but I am sure it is the only answer that I am unafraid to give him.
“That is well,” Papa says. “Know that there is no evil in our purpose, Miranda. If I bid you render an image of one of the faces of a sign, or an aspect of one of the seven governors, that rules over cruelty or injustice or misery, it is not because drawing down such unsavory elements is our purpose.” He pauses, lost in thought again for a moment and gazing into the distance. “It is because those elements bear influence on our purpose, and I seek the favor of the stars and planets to influence them in turn. Does that suffice to ease your fears?”