Miranda and Caliban(67)

He hesitates.

It will require a short jump to reach the next boulder, which protrudes from the surface of the stream. The water is colder than I reckoned, and I am not so hardy as Caliban; nor even so hardy as I was before I began spending my days assisting Papa in his sanctum. My feet are growing numb and the hem of my gown is sodden and heavy, tangling around my ankles. On the far bank, shimmering dragonflies hover above the reeds. Some distance upstream, the water elementals cease their antics and watch with idle interest.

If I do not make the attempt, I shall lose my nerve and my threat shall be proven a vain one. Gathering my skirts and my courage, I leap. For a moment, I think I have gained the boulder safely and begin to smile in triumph, but then one foot slips, and suddenly I am falling.

“Miranda!”

Caliban’s cry is the last thing I hear before the rush of the stream stops my ears. The shock of the cold water drives the breath from my lungs; cold, colder than I reckoned, and deeper, too. When I open my mouth, it fills with water and it is all I can do not to inhale it. The weight of my gown drags me down into the depths of the stream and the current takes me. I thrash against it to no avail.

I cannot breathe.

Oh, good Lord God, I cannot breathe! The water is cold, so cold, and the current is so strong that I cannot tell up from down.

My lungs burn.

Papa will be so angry at me for dying thusly, I think foolishly.

And then a hand clamps my wrist, pulling so hard that my shoulder aches in its socket. My head breaks the surface, and I gasp and sputter. Caliban gets his hands under my arms and hauls me from the stream to the safety of the near bank, where I lie curled and trembling with the cold, my teeth a-chatter.

“Miranda!” He pats at me with anxious hands, his worried face inches from mine. “Are you hurt?”

“N-n-nuh!” I force the words out between my chattering teeth. “Cold!”

Caliban bounds away to fetch an armload of broom, returning to scrub vigorously at me with the coarse stalks. Although it is a strange course of treatment, it causes the blood to rise to my skin and warms my limbs until I am no longer trembling. “Is that better?”

“Yes, thank you.” I manage to sit upright. “Forgive me, Caliban. That was unwise.”

He backs away from me and averts his gaze. “Yes.”

I should like to weep in sheer frustration. “Oh, Caliban! What has come between us? Why will you not look at me?”

“I cannot,” he murmurs. “You are too beautiful, Miranda.”

“Beautiful!” A wild laugh escapes me. I am a mess, soaked from head to toe. My hair is dripping and I am covered in bright yellow broom blossoms, their ragged petals clinging to my wet gown. I stare at him. “Do you jest?”

Caliban’s shoulders tense. “Do not look at me. You should not look at me.”

“Why?”

He steals one quick, darting glance at me. “Because you are beautiful,” he says again. “And I am a monster.”

The words are like a blow to my heart. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Because it is true!” There is a savage note of anguish in Caliban’s voice. “I am a swart, stooped thing with hunched shoulders and bowed legs, and … and a villain’s brow, and sullen eyes, speckled like a toad!”

Each word is a fresh new blow, cruel and vicious, cracking open my ignorant, selfish heart and driving understanding into it. Caliban loves me not as a friend, not with the innocence of childhood, but as a man loves a woman; loves me and believes himself unworthy.

Love is strong as death, says the Song of Solomon; jealousy is cruel as the grave.

I should like to laugh and rant like a madwoman at the blindness of my own folly; I should like to weep an ocean of salt tears for Caliban’s pain. He does not seek to flee my presence, only squats quietly on his haunches, his head hanging low, breathing like some hunted beast that can run no farther.

He is set against himself, Ariel said to me, and thou art the cause of it.

Ariel.

The words Caliban spoke are not his own, I am sure of it. Only the mercurial spirit would be so cruel.

Gathering myself, I go to Caliban. When I touch his shoulder, he flinches. “Did Ariel say as much to you?”

“It does not matter,” Caliban mutters. “It is true.”

“No.” I flatten my palm against his warm skin. “It is a lie. You are dear to me, and beautiful in my eyes, Caliban. Every part of you. You could never be otherwise.”

Caliban shakes his head. “Do not say so.”

“Should I not love you because your skin shines like polished wood in the sunlight?” Kneeling before him, I stroke his upper arms, feeling the corded muscles tense beneath my hands. “Should I not love you for the strength of these limbs that have saved my life this very day?” My heart quickening in my breast, I touch his averted face, stroke the hair from his brow. “Should I not love this face that is so dear to me? It is the first thing I saw when I emerged from a sleep like death. And your gaze … since we have been friends, your gaze has always been sweet toward me, has it not?” One by one, I touch the scattered moles on his face. “Should I not love you because you wear a constellation of stars upon your skin?”

“Miranda!” he groans. “Do not do this.”

Oh, but I have gained understanding; an understanding that is fragile and precious, and yet there is power in it.