Miranda and Caliban(57)
“Will you answer honestly if you may?” I press him.
“I will.”
“For a month and more, Caliban has been angry at me,” I say. “Do you know why?”
Ariel’s eyes darken. “He is not angry at thee, my lady.”
To my chagrin, I feel the prick of tears in my own eyes. “Then why does he treat me so unkindly?”
“O la!” The spirit’s expression changes to one of dismay. “Do not weep, my lady.” He sighs, the sound like a wind in the trees. “But as to thy question, it is one I may not answer.”
I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my gown. “Did you do or say aught to set him against me?”
“I?” Ariel touches his breast. “I tell thee again, Caliban is not set against thee. He is set against himself, and thou art the cause of it.”
“How so?”
The spirit shakes his head. “That, too, I may not answer.”
I realize that Ariel has evaded my prior question. “Do you deny that you had aught to do with it?”
He is silent a moment. “Thou thinkest that I have no fondness for Sycorax’s spawn, and I will not gainsay it. Her loathsome blood and the darkness that is attendant on it runs in his veins. And yet, the witch’s whelp has a tender heart and mine is not unmoved to pity. Am I cruel to him? Aye, betimes I have been; and betimes it has been for no greater cause than a whim born of tedium or lingering spite. But in this matter, there is kindness in my cruelty, Miranda, and cruelty in thy kindness.”
I gaze at him. “I do not understand.”
“Nor can I make thee,” Ariel says with unwonted gentleness. “But thou didst beseech me to speak honestly, and thus I shall say this: Leave him be, my lady. Allow him his brooding and sullen anger and do not seek to assuage it; for if thou dost not, both of thee will suffer for it.”
“For kindness?” I say. “For love?”
There is a terrible sympathy in Ariel’s gaze. “Thou art the shoals on which Caliban wilt dash his heart to pieces.”
I shake my head in vehement denial. “No! Caliban is my only and dearest friend! I would never hurt him!”
Ariel casts his sea-shifting gaze skyward as though to beseech the Lord God in His heaven for patience, then lowers it to meet mine. His trickster’s smile is tinged with regret and the shadow of knowledge unspoken. “I wish thee the courage of thy convictions, Miranda, but I grow weary of thine ignorance.”
“’Tis not—” I begin indignantly.
A breeze springs up, and he is gone in a swirl of mist.
The sylphs that have accompanied me cavort without a care. Despite their presence, I feel so very alone.
Even so, I have attained that which I sought, and it is a thought that cheers me. I turn back toward the palace and thrust the memory of Ariel’s unwanted intrusion and his harsh implications aside, concentrating my thoughts instead on the movement of the serpent’s coils and the intricate patterns of its smooth, overlapping scales, envisioning them writ large on the walls of Papa’s sanctum and adorned with clawed feet and mighty wings, curls of flame spewing from its gaping jaws.
Bit by bit, the dragon takes shape in my mind and my hands itch to take up a brush and bring it to life.
By the time I return to Papa’s sanctum, I have nearly managed to forget the entire encounter.
THIRTY
CALIBAN
I do not mean to go back to the balcony outside Master’s sanctum, but after weeks pass … I do. At first I do because I am lonely and I miss Miranda, and even if it is dangerous to be there, I can watch her and she does not know. But then it is not only Miranda, but it is the pictures she makes.
You have magic in your hands, Miranda.
Those are the words I think to myself. I do not dare say them out loud and be found, no, but I think them to myself.
Magic.
And I think it is a finer magic than Master’s, for what is his magic good for? It is good for making servants and punishing them; yes, and for punishing his own daughter, too, punishing her almost to death. It is good for freeing Ariel, and that is good for no one but Ariel and Master, and Ariel is still angry at being a servant anyway. But Miranda’s magic, oh! Such colors! Such men! Such women! Such creatures!
I did like it when Miranda did draw bugs and birds and flowers on her slate before, but those are things I have seen and know, and these pictures are so big and grand; and they are things I have never seen and I do not know how Miranda can see them in her head. What is the great coiled thing like a winged serpent beneath the bright-faced man’s feet? I do not know, and yet I know pieces of it: snake, bat, lizard. How does it become a whole?
To watch her make a picture is like listening to a story, like the stories Miranda did tell me sometimes about the pictures that the stars in the sky make at night, stories that Master did tell her.
They are beautiful.
She is beautiful.
I would watch her every moment of every day, but the longer I stay, the more it may be that Master will see me and punish me; and there are chores to be done, hey-ho, for Caliban is a servant, the poor dumb monster. So I fetch wood and figs and fish like a good servant, I gather acorns and honey and sour oranges, I obey and I am quiet and good, oh so good, that Master does not think about me.
Miranda …