Miranda and Caliban(72)
THIRTY-NINE
MIRANDA
When morning comes and I am allowed at last to break my fast, it is difficult to contain my hunger. Famished as I am, I am hard-pressed not to gobble my food with unseemly haste; but Papa’s scowling face across the table reminds me that I have only just been paroled for my most unseemly behavior.
The thought of it makes me flush all over again with shame, and I must duck my head to conceal it.
Of Caliban, I catch but a glimpse when he comes to rake the coals in the hearth. Although I am careful not to look directly at him, out of the corner of my eye I see that he is moving stiffly.
I can tell that he is careful not to look in my direction, too. Were I not wrung dry of tears, I should like to weep anew for both of us poor innocent sinners.
Once we have finished and I have wiped the silver platters clean, Papa bids me accompany him to his sanctum. There I see that he has completed the painting of the Lady Venus on his own while I was confined to my chamber.
The sight fills me with dismay. She is a crude caricature, her gown a triangle of grassy green that lacks any suggestion of folds. The red fruit she holds in one hand—an apple, the same fruit that tempted Eve in the Garden of Eden—is a vague, round blob. The golden tresses that are meant to spill over her shoulders are rendered in stark yellow squiggles. Her eyes are mismatched, one narrow and squinting, and the crimson smear of her mouth leers out at the world.
The Queen of Love has been ill served by Papa. Although I say naught, he follows my gaze and divines my thoughts.
“I had no choice but to render her myself,” he says in a curt tone. “It was necessary that the image be finished while the stars were yet favorable.”
“Of course, Papa,” I say. “What do you require of me?”
It transpires that there are two images Papa wishes painted in quick succession ere the stars shift to an unfavorable alignment, and these are the first and third faces of Cancer. I do not know what influences they govern, and he does not deign to tell me; wishing, I suppose, to preserve what ignorance is left to me.
It is less than he imagines, a thought that reminds me I never did tell Caliban about the secret the salamander revealed to me. Nor shall I ever if I remain obedient to Papa’s will, for he has forbidden me all communication with Caliban. And if I disobey him, it is Caliban who will bear the cost of it.
If there is any course of action save obeying Papa that lies before me, I cannot see it.
I study the images of the first and third faces of Cancer. The first face is the trickiest, for it combines elements of man and beast into a single creature, a four-legged being with the face of a man and the body of a horse. It wears a blanket of fig leaves, and has queer, attenuated fingers. Of course, I have never seen a horse, but gazing at the illustration, it seems to me that its body is not so different from that of a goat, which is a form I know well.
There are a good many horses in the Bible. A line from the Song of Solomon comes to me unbidden.
I have compared thee, O my love, to a company of horses in Pharaoh’s chariots.
Once again, I flush, remembering the sound of birdsong, the smell of grass, and Caliban’s mouth on my breast. I glance at the crude image of red-lipped Venus on the wall and she leers at me.
I shudder and return my gaze to the first face of Cancer, forming an image in my thoughts.
The little gnomes have replenished my pots of paint during my confinement. I take up the pot of shining black pigment and climb atop my stepping stool. I dip my brush, and with one sweeping stroke, I outline the curve of the horse’s neck. Another line from the Bible comes to me as I do so.
Hast thou given the horse strength? hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?
It is from the Book of Job, which is a terrible tale and one I do not wholly understand. Papa should like me to have the same faith in him, I think, that Job had in the Lord God. Job was rewarded for his suffering in the end, though I cannot help but wonder if he continued to mourn for the children that were lost to him. I hope so. I should hate to lose everything that was dear to me; and yet I fear I may.
I feel as insubstantial as a leaf borne on the rushing stream of Papa’s formidable will. All the bits of knowledge that I have gathered or that have been thrust upon me matter naught.
The lineaments of the first face of Cancer emerge beneath my brush. Were I made otherwise, mayhap I should not seek to make such a good job of it; and yet I cannot. It seems the last measure of joy left to me. After some hours, I climb down from my stool, step back, and admire my work—the proud arch of the horse’s neck, the bunched muscles of its haunches, the unlikely human face.
Why, I wonder, is one thing gauged noble and beautiful and another hideous and unlovely when it is all part of God’s creation?
Why is a horse more noble than a goat?
Why is a hawk more noble than a toad?
I am a monster, Caliban said to me, and though it be a sinful act I would undo if I could, there is a secret part of me that is glad I showed him he could never be monstrous in my eyes.
I wish Papa could see Caliban as I do; see the goodness and kindness in him, but I fear that is a thing that will never come to pass.
I clean my brush with sharp-smelling turpentine, then shake out my arms which are numb and aching from having been raised for so long, opening and closing my hands until my blood is flowing freely in my veins once more. I dip my brush into the pot of green pigment. The malachite from which it is ground corresponds with Venus. I do not use the pigment straight from the pot, but mix it on a piece of slate with other colors, brown umber and yellow ochre, until I have attained a more subtle leaflike hue.