But lightning does not burn so, and I think to myself: Ariel.
Ariel is in the storm.
“All is lost!” says a voice from the ship. “Mercy on us! We are wrecked! Save yourselves!”
Oh, that is no human voice that could make itself heard in such a storm, no. Only Ariel. What game is this?
“Do not listen to him!” I shout into the wind. “Do not trust him!”
Oh, but I am far away, poor dumb monster; I almost cannot hear my own voice. Little figures like ants jump from the ship, jump into the boiling sea, one; one, two, three, four; one, two.
I think they will drown, but no, there is Ariel, a great whooshity darkness sweeping down like wings out of the storm. One he carries away, whoosh-whoosh; and then the four, whooshity-whoosh, he carries them away far away to different places on the isle where I cannot see.
The ship does not crash on the rocks, but spins in a circle. There is no more blue-white fire on it.
Little gnat voices cry.
The wind shifts and whoosh, there is Ariel again, a great looming thing of storm-clouds, taller than trees, raising the waves and carrying the ship, the whole ship, away to the south.
I am holding my breath.
I let it out.
The rain stops.
The wind stops.
I push my wet hair out of my eyes and look over the cliff. There are still two men in the water. One is swimming, swimming strong toward the shore. One is holding on to a wooden thing that floats and kicking his feet.
I did think to seek out Master’s enemies, but now I think those are the men that Ariel did save his own self; and he will be watching over them. I do not know why, but these two in the water do not matter to him. If these are men Ariel does not care to save, that Prospero has not bidden him to save, these are the men I need to do what my own hands cannot.
I go to find them.
FORTY-FIVE
MIRANDA
When the storm dies at last, it is like a long-sought blessing. Still, I cannot stop weeping. I sit with my back pressed against the wall of the watchtower and my knees drawn up beneath my rain-soaked yellow gown. Silent tears slide down my face. My body aches, my burned hip hurts, and I cannot summon the will to stand.
Papa lowers his staff, retrieves the fallen spyglass, and surveys the sea. “The greater part of the deed is done,” he says in a voice grown hoarse from long chanting. “Though it is no thanks to you my working did not fail.”
“I trust there are no survivors,” I say, and I am surprised at the depth of bitterness in my own voice.
Papa stares at me, his face haggard. “No survivors? What manner of man do you take me for?”
I look away. “I do not know.”
“Oh, Miranda!” Now a note of sorrowful reproach enters his voice. “Could you not, just once, have done as I bade you? Could you not have trusted me as I have begged you so many times? If Ariel has carried out the fullness of my bidding as I believe he has done, he has spirited them all to safety, and not a man aboard the ship did perish.”
So they are not dead.
I am not complicit in killing an entire shipful of men.
My breath hitches in my throat, and I take in a gulp of air. I do not know whether to laugh or scream. I let my head fall back against the stones of the tower and gaze at Papa. “Well, if it is so, I am surpassingly glad to hear it. But could you have not, just once, entrusted me with the whole truth?”
He frowns at me. “Child, you know full well that it was imperative that the working be untainted—”
“If knowledge be a taint, the working was tainted!” I shout at him. Papa falls silent in astonishment at my interruption, looking at me with lips parted. I press the heels of my hands against my stinging eyes, then lower them. “I know you seek vengeance against your brother and the king, Papa,” I say wearily. “I know you seek to ensnare the king’s son with a love potion.”
Papa takes a deep breath, the spyglass in his hand trembling. “How did you come by this knowledge?”
I rock my head back and forth against the hard stone. “Oh, Papa! It matters naught. What matters is the truth, and the truth is that the working didn’t require perfect ignorance on my part.”
I should like him to acknowledge the truth of my words; I should like him to apologize.
He does neither.
Papa, I think, does not like to be wrong. I do not think he understands how a world can exist in which he is wrong and I am right.
At least he does not punish me for my disrespect. I suspect he is too exhausted to do so.
I am tired, too.
I do not want to quarrel.
Neither, it seems, does Papa. He slumps to sit heavily on the ledge of the window across from me, bracing himself with his staff. “Do you remember a time before the isle, Miranda?”
“I think so.” I keep my voice low. “I remember a house with pictures—paintings, they were paintings—on the walls. Betimes it seems as though I must have dreamed it. And yet I remember women with soft hands and gentle voices, who combed my hair and put ribbons in it, who sang me to sleep at night.”
Papa nods. “’Tis true. There were several women who attended you. Do you remember how we came to the isle?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. Although I know what Caliban has told me, I have no memory of it. “No, Papa.”
He gazes out the window opposite him. “Would you hear a piece of irony, child? It is in this very hour, with the greatest part of my working done, that I meant to divulge the truth of our origins to you.”
I do not know whether to believe him.
His gaze returns to me. “Twelve years gone by, I held the title of Duke of Milan, ruler of a great city and a mighty duchy, and you, my only child, were not yet three years of age. But I cared naught for the trappings of power, only for my studies. I entrusted the affairs of state to my brother Antonio, your uncle.” He grimaces. “I should have seen the ambition growing in him like a canker. But being absorbed with celestial matters, I paid too little heed to worldly ones. He suborned the loyalty of my courtiers with bribes, favors, and promotions; and at last, he struck a vile bargain with the king of Naples, offering him fealty and tribute in exchange for the title of Duke of Milan.”
Papa’s voice cracks at the telling of this, and despite everything I am ashamed of my disloyalty. “A vile betrayal indeed,” I murmur.
“Under cover of night, my brother opened the gates of Milan to the king’s troops,” he continues. “We were abducted, child; abducted and set adrift at sea on the rotten carcass of a ship lacking sails or rigging.”
I cannot help but shudder, thinking of the storm I just witnessed. “Why did he not kill us outright?”
“He dared not,” Papa says simply. “Although Antonio had turned the court against me, the commonfolk yet revered me for my hard-won reputation for fairness and wisdom. And then there was you, Miranda, innocent as the dawn. My brother and the king dared not besmirch their hands with our blood, but trusted the sea to do it for them.”
“How did we survive?” I whisper. “By your arts?”
“By my arts, by God’s grace, and by the kindness of one of the noblemen entrusted to carry out the deed,” Papa says in a grim tone. “Lacking the heart to condemn us outright, he saw to it that the ship was outfitted with a measure of food and water, clothing and linens, many of my books and instruments, and my staff. Without those things, we surely would have perished.”
So there it is, the truth at last.
I am the daughter of a duke, although I do not fully fathom what that means. My memories are true.
I take a slow, shaking breath. “What do you mean—”
A gusting breeze announces Ariel’s presence, swirling through the westernmost window of the tower.
“Greetings, Master!” The mercurial spirit manifests with a bow. “I come to report that I have carried out thy will to the letter. I put such a terror in them, all save the sailors did jump into the sea
.”
Papa stands, fresh vigor infusing his features. “All are safe?”
“Aye, Master. Two made landfall on their own; the others, I have deposited about the isle as thou bade me.” Ariel gives a little shiver of distaste and holds out his hand. “Here are hairs plucked from the very heads of thy brother and liege and their courtiers.”
I remember solving the riddle of Caliban’s hair trapped in honey. How very long ago that seems to me.
“Bravely done!” Papa tucks the spyglass into the sash of his robe and takes the hairs from Ariel’s hand. “And the king’s son?”
“The prince mourns, supposing his father drowned and lost,” Ariel says soberly. “’Tis a sight to stir the hardest of hearts. The king mourns, supposing his son met the self-same fate.” He purses his delicate lips in disapproval. “Master, thou shouldst know that the king’s own brother and thine plot against him, thinking to make much of this opportunity thou hast afforded them.”
“Suffer no harm to come to him,” Papa commands Ariel. “I shall determine the king’s fate; yes, and my brother’s, too.”
Ariel inclines his head.
My own head is spinning, seeking to encompass the events and revelations of the day. For once, I am grateful to be ignored.
“What of the ship and its sailors?” Papa asks.
The spirit makes a graceful gesture toward the south. “I have borne them to the pirates’ cove as you bade me.”
“Noble spirit!” Papa says. “Go forth, and heed my words. Keep the king from harm; yet lead the king’s son to our doorstep.”
Ariel’s eyes darken and churn like the depths of the sea. “And my freedom, Master?”
Papa scowls at him. “Have you forgotten the torment from which I freed you? The torment unto which Sycorax bound you? I could visit the same upon you.”
Ariel’s gaze slides sideways to meet mine, and I look away. I have no sympathy left for him, not after all his games and the way he betrayed Caliban and me. “No, Master. I have not forgotten.”
“If the fullness of my working is accomplished by the day’s end, you shall have your freedom, ungrateful sprite. Until that hour arrives, do not trouble me with your impudence.” Papa flicks one hand at him. “Begone!”
Ariel departs to carry out his bidding.
I am left alone with my father, the erstwhile Duke of Milan; a title that means naught to me. It is true, all true. There are strange men roaming the isle and its shores, scores of them. I find myself trembling. I would that Caliban were here that he might help me make sense of it all.
Staff in one hand, plucked hairs in the other, Papa considers me. “Get up, Miranda. I’ve work to do. Did I not gift you with gowns and finery for this very day? Go forth to change your attire and make yourself presentable.”
I drag myself to my feet, clinging to the wall. “What do you mean to do to them, Papa? Your brother and the king?”
He hesitates. “As to that, I’ve yet to decide. We shall see if there is any penitence in their hearts.”
“And if there is not?” I say.
Papa does not answer. “Go, and do as I bade you.”
FORTY-SIX
CALIBAN
I scramble down the crag, but I cannot go as quick-quick as I would like. Although the rain has stopped, it is still slippity-slidey and going down is more dangerous than up. When I reach the shore, the men already did find each other.
I look for Ariel, but I do not see him. I hope it is because he is about doing Master’s bidding, and not because he is hiding in the wind.
The wooden floating thing—it is round in the middle and flat on the ends—did crash on the rocks. There is a raggedy-jaggedy hole in it and the men are splashing in the water to drag it ashore.
I think it must be a great treasure for them to work so hard; but no, there is only red water spilling out of it. When the men do drag it onto the stony shore, they fall to their knees and take turns putting their hands in the hole, drinking the red water from their hands like it is fresh cold water and they are so very thirsty.
Although I go slow so I will not make them afraid, the men are afraid when they see me anyway.
“The prince spoke truly!” one says, his eyes so very wide there is white all around them. “Hell has lost its devils, and here’s one come to claim us!”
The other picks up a big rock.
“Do not be afraid,” I say to them. “I will not hurt you.”
“It speaks!” the white-eyed one says to the other; and then to me, “What manner of devil are you?”
“No devil.” I open my hands so they can see they are empty. “Only a friend.”
“A friend!” The other laughs, only it is a laugh like a great sob. He puts down the rock. “Then I pray you, friend, tell us we are not the sole survivors of this wreck. Did you see any others gain the shore safely?”
“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.