Miranda and Caliban(86)

But I say nothing. There are too many men; their presence stifles me, their voices crash over me like the waves of the ocean. Dear God, how shall I endure on a ship filled with dozens of such men in close quarters? How shall I endure in a city filled with hundreds or even thousands? I fear I shall go mad.

The goat is carved; our platters are heaped high with slabs of roasted meat. I poke listlessly at mine.

The men eat their fill, belch into their beards, stretch their booted legs out beneath the long table, and compare tales of the storm.

I learn that the purpose of their journey was to see the king of Naples’s daughter wed to the king of Tunis, and that this was accomplished ere the storm separated them from the royal fleet and drove them hence.

I understand that these are the specific set of circumstances Papa has sought to influence with my aid, the work of long years of intrigue and negotiations.

I learn that the king—Alonso is his name—and Papa’s brother, who is called Antonio, repented of their wickedness and wept in the innermost courtyard; the former promising to restore Papa’s title as Duke of Milan, the latter vowing to relinquish all claim to it.

I do not care.

Do I?

“Surely God is good to bring us together, Miranda!” the prince says fervently to me, squeezing my hand.

His heart, I think, is kind.

I am not sure mine is.

The men speak of Caliban and his wickedness. It is a wickedness, it seems, distinct from their own sins. It is a wickedness owing to savagery and ingratitude; a wickedness beyond redemption. The men speak at first of hanging Caliban for the crime to which he has confessed, and then of clapping him in chains and putting him on display when we return to the mainland so that all the world might mock him and jeer at him.

I am heartsick at the prospects, and yet how can I plead for clemency? Caliban is guilty, and he has shown himself lacking in all remorse. I should have known; I should have guessed what darkness was in his heart and dissuaded him from attempting such a mad, wicked thing.

But how was I to do so when Papa forbade all communication between us?

Oh, dear Lord God, if only I had not sought out Caliban at the stream that day, if only I had not insisted on following him, if only I had not lost my footing and fallen … if only so many things had gone differently.

If only Papa had fed Caliban a few more miserly crumbs of kindness; if only I had heeded Ariel’s advice and understood that there was a measure of cruelty in my own kindness to him.

Ariel.

The night is late and the candles are burning low when the spirit enters the hall unbidden, the deceptively gentle breeze that accompanies him causing the guttering candles to flicker.

The men fall silent upon his entrance.

Ariel bows. “Master.”

At the head of the table, Papa fixes him with a lopsided squint. “What are you about, sprite?”

“The moon rises high in the sky and the hours of the day are all but counted, Master,” Ariel says. “Have I failed thee in any particular?”

“You have not,” Papa says.

“Thou didst promise me my freedom,” Ariel says, and although his voice is soft and low, there is the promise of thunder in it.

Papa hesitates. I am quite certain that he should like to refuse Ariel. I wonder if he will dare to do so, and I wonder what Ariel will do if Papa does so. But again, there is an audience present; an audience of men before whom Papa does not wish to appear aught less than a man of his word.

“So I did.” Papa clambers to his feet, leaning on his staff. “So I did.” He sways a little, makes a magnanimous gesture with his other hand. “Your oath is fulfilled to the letter, gentle spirit,” he pronounces. “In the name of the good Lord God, go, and be free of it!”

There is no great thunderclap this time, no great rush of wind; only a sound like a sigh, and then Ariel is gone.

I cannot decipher the expression on Papa’s face.

“Truly the Lord’s blessing is on this day,” he says. “But the spirit speaks the truth, for it draws to a close, and thus do I declare this night’s revel to be finished. Sleep, gentlefolk, and awaken to a new dawn.”

There is no bedding to spare, but the king and his men are content to stretch their length on the floor of the hall.

It is a relief beyond telling to be dismissed to the privacy of my chamber, though the prospect of sleep eludes me. I cannot help but picture Caliban; Caliban hanging from a gallows, his eyes bulging in the throes of death; Caliban in chains, his shoulders hunched, enduring the jeers and taunts of a hateful, mocking crowd.

I cannot bear it.

And so in the deep stillness of the night, I rise from my pallet and begin knotting my bed-linens together.





FIFTY-FOUR





CALIBAN


I tear and bloody the nails of my fingers and toes trying to climb the walls of my chamber to reach the high windows, but it is no good. There are no gaps between the tiles like on the stone walls outside.

I pull and pull on the handle of the door, but the lock holds.

Then I do push against the stone blocks that those little gnomes did pile in my door until the skin is scraped from my hands and arms and shoulders and my legs are shaking and sore, but that is no good, either.

Caliban is a prisoner, the poor dumb monster. Just like in the beginning, only everything is different.