Miranda and Caliban(60)

“I do not know,” I say truthfully. “Spirit, I do not know why you do anything you do. And if you have told me true, neither do you.” Always I am running away from him, but today, no; today, I take a step closer. “Do you?”

The line of Ariel’s mouth twists. It is not a true smile, for there are none of his knives in it; but I think it is a true face, for there is a deep and honest sadness in it. “No,” he whispers, then; “Yes.”

I take another step. “Which is it?”

Ariel laughs and his eyes blaze, blaze; as bright as the mica-flecked rocks I set in the empty hollows of Setebos’s eyes long ago blaze in the sunlight. “Both, thou fool!” He shakes his head, hair flying like foam around his head, his mouth twisting harder as though it fights to flee his face. “I am set against myself as surely as thou art. Aye, I chafe at the yoke of my captivity under our master Prospero, and it sits ill with me that a man should use his daughter thusly to gain his own ends, use the skill of her hands and aye, the very blood of her womb; and yet my goal is mine own freedom and I cannot attain it save that his plans come to fruition. Those are the horns of the dilemma on which I am hooked.” Now his mouth is hard and not smiling, not at all. “Mayhap I have learned not to hate thee, but thou shouldst not trust me, monster.”

“I do not,” I assure him. “Prospero?”

Oh, but the handle of the door is turning, and like that, whoosh, Ariel is gone and I am alone.

Spying.

I throw the cloth over the mirror, run for the balcony, and dive over it, clinging to the walls of the palace like a lizard and scrambling downward.

That evening Master orders me to kill a hen, and I do it. That evening we have a feast, for Master is gladsome and merry and bids me to join them in the kitchen and make merry, too.

That evening I speak to Miranda.





THIRTY-TWO





MIRANDA


Papa will not say what has come to pass that has him in such high spirits, only that his great work is progressing in accordance with his hopes, but it is a welcome change. In an expansive gesture of generosity, he even bids Caliban to join us for a grand meal; and somewhat to my surprise, Caliban does so with a modicum of good grace. Although he is quiet and withdrawn throughout the meal, I begin to nurture a spark of hope he has softened toward me.

After we dine on a rare meal of stewed chicken, Papa retires to his sanctum to survey the night sky; and miracle of miracles, for the first time in long months, Caliban does not flee my presence, but asks if he might speak to me, fanning the faint spark within my breast.

I smile at him, or at least in his direction, since he remains loath to meet my eye. “I would like that.”

Alas, I have spoken too swiftly.

Without once looking at me, Caliban tells me how he has been spending his days and what he has observed.

I listen without comment and a growing sense of hurt and anger. In truth, I do not know what to think. Mayhap I should be grateful that Caliban has softened at all, that he cares for me still; and yet I feel betrayed. Betrayed by his spying, yes, and his unexpected collusion with the spirit Ariel, but most of all by the fact that Caliban prefaces his tale by telling me that he saw Papa and me arrive on the isle all those many years ago.

Yes, that is the most painful.

It is quiet in the kitchen. The banked embers in the hearth crackle every now and then, their orange glow shifting beneath their blanket of grey ash. A clay lamp filled with oil pressed from last year’s olives flickers on the table between us and the night breeze carries the scent of pine pollen.

“Why, Caliban?” I say to him at last, and the words come out with an injured passion I cannot suppress. “Why did you never tell me that you saw Papa and me come to the isle?”

It startles him enough that he lifts his head to glance at me, dark eyes glimmering in the hearth-glow. “Miranda…” He looks confused. “I did tell you. Do you not remember?”

“No,” I say and it is true; but now a memory surfaces, a memory of Caliban’s voice divulging a momentous truth beneath the jaws of Setebos casting long shadows over the high crag. “Oh, Caliban! You knew I forgot so many things when I was … afflicted. Why did you not remind me?”

His shoulders rise and tighten. “After Master did hurt you, after you did heal and learn to be Miranda again, we did not speak of before things. But … but I do not think that is the very most important thing I am telling you tonight.”

I raise my voice. “It is to me, Caliban! All I have ever wanted to know is where I came from!”

He looks away. “You were sleeping. That is all I know, Miranda. All the time, you were asleep. I do not know where you and Master came from or how or why. Only that you did.”

I am weary.

The bulky pouch of moss strapped between my thighs feels wet and sodden. Soon it will begin to leak and stain my gown if I do not attend to it. I shall have to change it for a fresh pouch before I may take to my bed; change it and place it in a jar, a jar I must deposit outside the door to Papa’s sanctum.

“Let it be,” I say tiredly to Caliban. “Whatever end Papa works toward, I must accept it is for the best.”

He shakes his head, and the line of his jaw is stubborn. “No. He hurt you. I prayed to Setebos—”

“Setebos!” A jagged laugh escapes me. “Oh, Caliban! Do you know what your Setebos is?” I stand and dash tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. “It is the remains of a whale, Caliban; a great fish trapped in a volcanic eruption and turned to stone long before you or I was born. Nothing more.”