Miranda and Caliban(55)

There is one such that is called the Song of Solomon, which I read over and over. Though it makes me feel unsettled and strange to myself, for it is about the love between a man and a woman, I cannot help but return to it.

It is a glad day when my menstruum ceases to flow and I am able to rejoin Papa in his sanctum. Although I was unsuccessful in catching a glimpse of a hawk at close range, I saw a number of them from afar—and too, I spent a good deal of time in the garden sketching our chickens—and I am eager to resume work on the second face of Gemini, but Papa informs me the time is no longer opportune. He laughs to see me disappointed anew, though not unkindly.

“There will be time aplenty to complete it when the stars realign,” he says to me. “’Tis a far grander image I bid you render now.”

Papa speaks more truly than I reckoned for it is an image of the Sun—Sol, the Lord Sun himself—that he wishes me to create.

It will be the first time I have painted one of the seven governors, and I am apprehensive about undertaking such an important task. The illustration in Papa’s book depicts a man with a noble face and a fiery crown upon his head. His right hand is raised as though in greeting, and in his left he holds a round mirror. Beneath his feet is a curious creature bescaled like a serpent with twisting coils and veined wings, which Papa tells me is called a dragon. Its jaws are open wide and curling flames of crimson and gold come forth from its throat.

“As you may recall, there are those sages who hold that the image is that of a man in a chariot drawn by four horses,” Papa says. “But this is the one that speaks the loudest to me.” He strokes the edge of the page with one finger, grazing it with a touch as light and fleeting as a butterfly’s wing. “Now that you behold it, does it speak to you, Miranda?”

I glance involuntarily at the salamander, curled sleeping in its glowing brazier. “Yes, Papa. It does.”

He smiles. “I am pleased to hear it.”

I ready my paints and stare at the blank wall. The image of the Sun is to take pride of place upon it.

The wall taunts me with its empty whiteness.

I do not know how to begin.

I think of Papa chanting the music of the spheres each and every morning, calling down their influence. I should like to do the same, but it is not a part of his art that he has taught me, saying only that my girlish voice lacks the proper resonance for it.

Still …

I recall the night long ago I slipped from my chamber to beseech Caliban to obey Papa and betray the name of Setebos; how I lost my way in the maze of hedges and prayed to the Lady Moon to guide my steps; how she answered my prayers and helped calm my spirits that I might find my way free of the maze. And it seems to me now that I must ask the Lord Sun for his blessing in this undertaking. Papa thinks it is a fine idea and gives me leave to go.

At first I think it is a thing that should be best done outdoors beneath the open skies, in the courtyard where Papa performs his chants; and yet once I am there, with the ominous shadow of the riven pine that once held Ariel captive stretching over the flagstones, I do not feel the rightness of it. No, it is height that I crave; closeness to the sky, as close as I can come to the Sun. And so it is the winding stair of the watchtower that I climb, all the way to its high chamber with windows open to the four quarters of the winds.

It is a clear morning and the Sun shines merrily in the east, rising above the horizon degree by degree with the steady turning of its sphere.

I kneel before the eastern window and clasp my hands in prayer, closing my eyes. The Sun’s light is warm upon my face and I see red and gold as vivid as dragon’s fire behind my eyelids.

“May God bless you, O blessed Lord Sun,” I murmur. “Lord Sun, whose eye illumes all the sky, all-seeing, fiery and hot and dry, bearer of fruit and seed, almighty Lord of brightness and all that is good and holy, I beg you to guide my hand that I might render your image most truly.”

The crimson brightness behind my eyes blooms and the Sun’s warmth on my face feels like a blessing given. My heart expands within my breast as though the very Sun has ignited a divine spark within it.

Opening my eyes, I rise.

I am ready—oh, so ready!—to begin, and yet I find my feet hesitating and my gaze turning westward. Once upon a time, I sought to catch glimpses of Caliban from this very vantage.

I find myself seeking him now.

I do not spot him, but I see the parted jaws of Setebos arching toward the sky atop his crag, rendered small by the distance. I had seen them from this very tower as a child many times, taking them for naught more than spires of rock. Now I know better and a shiver runs over my skin as though a shadow has passed above me, dispelling some of the Sun’s warmth. Holding fast to the memory of brightness, I return to Papa’s sanctum and commence.

For many hours, I lose myself in the work of outlining the figure on a vast expanse of blank wall, concentrating on imbuing it with the Sun’s bright majesty. It is only when I reach the complicated form of the dragon that my hand falters and I realize the extent of my weariness.

With Papa’s permission, I approach the salamander in its brazier and study it closely. It shares a correspondence with a dragon, for I believe that they are reptiles in kind with an affinity for fire. But the salamander, which wakes to gaze at me with unblinking eyes, is not much bigger than the length of my hand, and it lacks the dragon’s twisting coils and bat-veined wings. And although it is a creature of fire, flames do not issue forth from its mouth. Indeed, its mouth remains closed, a delicate curve at the hinge of its jaw suggesting a smile in the flickering firelight.