Miranda and Caliban(63)

All is calm.

There is a storm in the offing.

I do not trust Ariel, no, but in this I do believe him. It was a storm that brought Master—no. No, I will not call him that anymore, not in the thoughts I think. If I dare not say it aloud, I will call him by his name in my thoughts. For all his magic, he is only a man, and I swore no oath to serve him. Prospero. Prosssspero. I roll the word over, hearing it inside my head. Yes, it was a storm that brought Prospero and Miranda to the isle.

Now I am afraid it is a storm that will take them away.

Not him; her.

You, Miranda.

I wrap my arms around my knees and rock back and forth. I did not know I should have told her what I saw. I did not know she had forgotten.

How is it that I hurt her when it is the most veriest thing I never, ever wanted to do? Poor, dumb, clumsy monster. No wonder that Miranda thinks I do not love her.

But I did tell her tonight.

Yes, I did.

I think of her face when I did say what I did, of her pink lips open in surprise and her smooth brow going wrinkle-crinkle as she does try to understand; oh, and I wish that was all I think of, but it is the first time I have been so close to Miranda in oh, so many days, and I think of the light of the oil-lamp showing the curve of her breasts under her gown, warm golden light like honey on her skin, and I remember Miranda naked over the wash-basin and my rod stiffens and rises in my breeches, the head pushing out from its hood, and in my thoughts I say, no, no, I will not do it. Not thinking of Miranda, no. I pray to Setebos to take the wanting away, but Setebos only laughs at the stars, laughs and laughs as though to say, no, this is what you are, Caliban, not even I can change it.

Then it is too late and I am already untying my breeches and reaching for my aching rod, my hand sliding up and down, up and down, the poor dumb monster hunched over his swollen flesh.

Oh, it feels so good; and oh, it is cruel that a thing that is bad should feel so good.

Miranda, I am sorry.

Afterward I lie on my back and look at the stars like silver fishes between Setebos’s laughing jaws.

Is this badness inside me because Umm was bad, I wonder? It is the thing she did try to make Ariel do, I understand it now. To lie with her the way I want to lie with Miranda.

It is a thought that makes my belly feel sick, as though I have eaten fish that did spoil in the sun, but it makes my rod stiffen, too.

Why?

Maybe my father was a poor dumb monster, too.

I wish I did not have this badness inside me. I wish I could be a man like that Ariel did show me, handsome-faced and straight-legged, who would look at Miranda and think only good holy thoughts, and not want oh, so much to touch her little breasts, to feel the curve of them in the palm of his hand.

But I cannot.

I cannot, Miranda.

I will keep my promise to you. I will not spy; I will only be the good servant. I will go back to the palace at dawn so Master—Prospero—does not punish me and make your heart sore. I will wait and watch like Setebos for the storm that is coming, and I will put myself between you and anything that would harm you.

Always.

It is only that I did never believe one of those things could be me, because I do love you so much; and I am glad I said it to you, because it cut me like knives to think you did not know it.

But I am glad you do not understand it yet.

I do not want you to see the badness inside me.





THIRTY-FOUR





MIRANDA


Having declared that his fondness for me does, in fact, endure in a most pressing manner, Caliban proceeds to demonstrate it by continuing to avoid me. Given that he fled my presence after having done so, I cannot confess myself surprised; and yet I am hurt all over again. Now more than ever, more than any time since my affliction, I need my dearest friend by my side.

I begin to think I will never understand him.

Even if I were clever enough to think of a way to ask Papa about Caliban’s revelations without betraying the cause of my curiosity, I do not think I would be brave enough to do so.

Not anymore.

And so I bide my time, waiting for my woman’s courses to pass and thinking mayhap that when I return to Papa’s sanctum and resume my painting, I may find some pretext to make ever-so-subtle inquiries—but when I enter the chamber, all such thoughts go clean out of my head.

The walls are empty and white.

It shocks me to the core of my being. One hand flies to cover my mouth and I hear myself utter a muffled cry of dismay. “Oh, Papa! What happened?”

Papa gives me a careless glance. “What’s that, lass?”

I point at the walls, my finger trembling. “The first face of Aries … Virgo … Libra … oh, the Sun, Papa! What happened to them?”

“Ah.” He places a marker in the book he is studying and closes it. “Do not concern yourself, for there is naught amiss. I bade the gnomes cover them that you might begin anew.”

The unexpected loss of the paintings over which I labored so long and with such love fills me with anguish. “Oh, but—”

“Did you think such images were meant to endure, Miranda?” Papa shakes his head. “Even as the heavens revolve around us, that which will serve the needs of our working changes from day to day, week to week, and month to month; both with the movement of the spheres and those changing events that transpire on earth to which we beseech the seven governors and their various aspects to lend their influence.” A faint note of reproach enters his voice and his face creases in a frown. “I thought you understood as much. Was I mistaken?”