Miranda and Caliban(85)

There is a great clap of thunder in the offing and a wind springs up along the colonnade that encloses the garden. It swirls down the hall and spills through the arched doorway, a maelstrom of wind and fog from which Caliban tumbles, landing sprawling on the paving stones. Ariel’s figure resolves itself from the maelstrom, though it is Ariel as I have never seen him, taller and more fearsome. His white sleeves flutter behind him and now it seems to me that they are not sleeves at all, but wings; and I wonder if I have ever beheld the mercurial spirit’s true form.

As for Caliban, he collects himself to sit crouched on his haunches, the knuckles of one hand braced on the ground, his head hanging low.

“What manner of strange brute is this?” the prince whispers to me, and for a moment, I cannot help but see Caliban through his eyes; a crouching, bestial thing smeared with filth and gore, half naked in ragged trousers, coarse and rough and repugnant in every aspect.

Monstrous.

I never believed I would see him thusly and I do not answer the prince, for I am ashamed.

Then Caliban lifts his head and gazes at me, and there is such love and misery and heartbreak in his dark eyes, I feel as though my own heart is shattering into pieces within me. My hand is yet clasped in Prince Ferdinand’s. I withdraw it quietly, but Caliban has already seen.

He looks away, his shoulders hunching as though to absorb a blow.

“So, villain,” Papa says to him in a voice as hard as stone. “Though I have shown you every kindness, taken you under my roof, fed and clothed you and seen that you were taught language when you had none, you stand accused by these good men of plotting my murder. Will you confess it?”

Caliban utters a harsh bark of laughter and stares at Papa. “Every kindness? I was free and you did make a servant of me!”

“I sought to civilize you!” Papa shouts at him. “An ill-advised effort, and one which you’ve sought to repay with murder! Have you aught to say for yourself?”

I wish that Caliban would deny it; I wish it were untrue. I wish … ah, dear Lord God, I do not know what I wish. When in my life have my wishes ever mattered?

“Yes,” Caliban says in a low, savage voice, so low that all must strain to hear his words. “I only wish I did succeed, Prospero.”

Papa’s hand tightens on the amulet. Caliban flinches in anticipation of the agony to follow, and I flinch in involuntary sympathy. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the prince give me a bemused glance.

He does not know what Papa is capable of.

None of them do.

Nor will they learn it today, for Papa stays his hand and does not inflict a punishment upon Caliban for them to behold. I do not think it is mercy that dissuades him, but rather the presence of an audience before whom he wishes to preserve the semblance of magnanimity.

“I’ll decide your fate on the morrow,” he says instead. “Gentle Ariel! Take the ungrateful wretch to his chamber. Lock the door and bring me the key, and bid the little gnomes seal him within it as they did long ago.”

Ariel bows. “It shall be done, Master.”

Caliban accompanies him without protest, nor does he glance in my direction as he goes.

I am trembling.

“Are you frightened?” the prince asks me gently, touching my arm. “Do not be afraid, my lady. I promise you, whatever the sullen brute has done, he cannot harm you.”

I think of the trumpet flowers withering on my window-ledge and very nearly burst into hysterical laughter.

Caliban.

Oh, Caliban!

Why, I should like to scream at him, why?

But in the secret place inside me where I once contemplated the possibility of Papa’s demise, I know why.

There is a feast that evening. It takes place in the great dining hall that Papa and I never use, for it is far too vast a space for our modest stores of oil-lamps and beeswax candles to light.

But tonight, Papa is profligate; profligate with our stores, profligate with his magic, profligate with his magnanimity. Air elementals have driven the dust from the tiled floor, water elementals have washed it clean. The earth elementals have scoured the fixtures, and never-before-used sconces gleam beneath candlelight; the platters and chalices of the pirates’ treasure gleam atop the long, moldering trestle table that stretches the length of the hall.

Papa has dispatched Ariel to bear the good tidings of the survival of the king and his retinue to the sailors in the pirates’ cove; and to return with a barrel of wine from the ship’s stores that all might celebrate on this joyous occasion of reunion, forgiveness, and reconciliation.

The barrel is tapped, wine is poured.

“To the betrothal of Ferdinand and Miranda!” the king proclaims, hoisting his chalice.

Everyone follows suit and drinks.

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.

I try not to choke.

Papa’s cold gaze rests on me. I sip my wine, smile and blush, and hold my tongue lest I say aught to spoil the moment.

Ferdinand raises my hand to his lips and kisses it chastely, regarding me over the rim of his chalice with his besotted gaze.

There are things, so many things, I should like to say.

Do you not think it passing strange that you should love me so, when you scarce know me?

My liege, do you not think it strange?

My lords, do you not think it strange? This storm that sprang out of nowhere, do you not think it passing strange?