Miranda and Caliban(79)

“No,” I say truthfully, for I did not see where Ariel put the men he did save. I think it is best if these two believe they are alone on the isle. “Only you.”

The men weep and curse, dipping their hands into the wooden thing.

“To His Majesty King Alonso!” one says, and drinks from his hands, red dripping from them like blood. “To His Highness Prince Ferdinand!” the other says, and he drinks, too.

I begin to think this will be harder than I did know. “I can show you where there is fresh water.”

The men stare at me. “Shall we drown our sorrows in mere water when there is sweet red claret at hand?” one says. He beckons to me. “If you call yourself a friend, come, and toast to the memory of our dear, drowned sovereign and his only son and heir.”

I hesitate.

“Drink or be damned!” the other cries. “If you be not a devil, what manner of creature be you?”

I join them. “Only a monster,” I say soft and low. “A poor dumb monster.”

They laugh and laugh as though it is the best of jests I have made.

I put my hands through the hole in the wooden thing and fill them with red water that is called claret. I drink it down, slurpity-slurp, and it burns in my mouth and in my belly.

The men laugh and sob and laugh and drink and sob and laugh, red dripping, dripping. “To Alonso! To Ferdinand! Drink, friend monster!”

I drink and the world spins. I cannot think how to make them do as I want. Yes, this will be harder than I did know.

“What is this place, monster?” one says to me. There is no longer white around his eyes; they are tired and heavy. “Where is it that we find ourselves fetched and wrecked and forsaken?”

I do not drink any more of the sweet red claret. “It is an isle; if it has a name, I do not know it.”

They drink.

“How came you here?” the other asks me. “Who else abides here?”

Oh ho!

I dip my hands and make a show of drinking, letting the sweet red claret spill through my fingers. “A great magus rules here,” I say. “He is powerful and cruel. But he has a daughter.”

One of the men sits upright, his eyes no longer so sleepy. “A daughter, you say! Is she beautiful?”

Oh, Miranda!

I put my hands through the wooden hole again, and this time I do drink, and now the sweet red claret is singing in my mouth, singing in my throat, singing all the way down to my belly. “Yes,” I whisper. “She is beautiful in every way, as good and bright and beautiful as the sun.”

One of the men nudges the other. “Tell us more!”

I do.

I see hunger grow in them, especially the white-eyed one who was most afraid at first; I see him think yes, yes, I could wed the beautiful maiden and be king here, and then I know what he does want to hear. I tell him I will be his faithful servant, he will live in the palace and I will call him Master, I will bring him nuts and honey and fish every day, I will gather wood and tend the fire; everything, everything if only he will kill the cruel magus. Oh, Master, oh, Prospero, you did teach me very well what things men do want to hear! But the day grows long and I am afraid you may summon me, and I will not have a chance to use these men’s hands anymore.

“It must be done soon,” I say to them. “Quick quick! In the warm afternoon when he does take his sleep.”

It is not true, but I cannot think how else to make them go.

One yawns, sleepy-eyed again. They have been drinking sweet red claret all the while. “Sleep’s a fine notion. On the morrow, monster. Leave us this day to mourn in peace.”

Oh, stupid Caliban, dumb brute!

“To mourn, yes,” I say, and I hear knives in my own voice. “Who do you think did raise the storm that did kill your king and your prince?”

The men stare at me.

I have them now.

I point in the direction of the palace. “It was my master. He did drown them. He did drown them all.”

Now they are on their feet and the fuddlement of the sweet red claret goes out of their eyes.

One picks up a big rock. “For King Alonso!”

“For Prince Ferdinand!” The other picks up a long piece of wood, heavy and wet from the sea, and slaps it against the palm of his hand. “Lead on, friend monster,” he says. “Lead on.”





FORTY-SEVEN





MIRANDA


In a waking daze, I do as Papa bade me, exchanging my rain-soaked finery for another fine gown, this one white and silver. The bodice is embroidered with seed pearls like the kidskin slippers that for so long were the only proof of my memories of a time before the isle.

Now I know; still, I have no slippers for my bare feet.

I comb out my tangled and wind-whipped hair. Once, I had ladies to perform such a task for me.

I am the daughter of the Duke of Milan.

I am Miranda.

Who is Miranda?

I am a stranger to myself.

Oh, Caliban! Where are you? I need you to touch my hand; the merest of touches, a fleeting touch with all the gentleness of which I know you are capable, to remind me who I am.

But you are not here. There are only trumpet flowers withering on my window-ledge.

Outside, I hear singing.

It is a high, clear voice, inhuman in its purity; inhuman, too, in the careless cruelty of the ditty it sings.