And there is goodness in Caliban; I know it. He is kind and cannot bear to see me sad. This day, the gift of the mirror, the sharing of his deepest secret … it is all by way of apologizing for grieving me.
If a person does good in the name of bad all unwitting, surely God in His greatness must understand and forgive it?
Caliban watches me hopefully.
“No,” I say to him. “I will not tell Papa. Not … not unless there is some cause for it I do not see today.”
He sighs with relief and gratitude. “Thank you.”
We descend from the crag, and I am grateful to leave it and its watchful monster behind. We make our way to the pine woods, where Caliban with his sharp forager’s gaze picks out the round heads of mushrooms just beginning to push their way through a covering of pine needles. We find enough to fill half my bag before it is time to return to the palace.
Papa emerges from his sanctum in good spirits and I am glad of it, even though guilt makes a knot in my belly and dampens my appetite.
From the beginning, it felt as though Caliban and I shared a secret.
Now it is true.
Belatedly, I think to pray that the airy sylphs that accompany us on our journeys tell no tales.
THIRTEEN
CALIBAN
Why?
Why-oh, why-oh, why, why, why?
Miranda says, is that why you hide from Papa and me? Is that why you hide for so long?
No.
It was before he put Umm in the ground.
Why? What did I think when I had no words to think thoughts?
I do not know.
Miranda says, do you remember anything else about when Papa and I came to the isle?
Yes … but. But, but, but … to say will make Miranda more sad, yes? I do not want to make Miranda more sad.
I do not lie, but I do not say.
But later I think.
Why?
I had no words to think thoughts when you and Master come here, Miranda, but I had eyes to see and now I have words to say. I remember I wake with a feeling like creepity ants on my skin. I remember after I wake I go to the high place where Setebos watches.
I watch, too.
I see a storm. I see waves and clouds and rain and lightning, and a thing coming over the water; a thing like a leaf on a stream, only big and made of wood, with things like bed-linens that hang from trees on it, and where it comes is a path where there is no waves. I see on it a man standing and holding a big stick with a shiny thing on top.
A man standing on water! Long hair comes from his chin. He holds his stick high and makes sounds, and the clouds go away and the waves lie down.
Now I know it was Master singing his magic words.
Then I did not know.
But I remember Master’s sounds come more slow and more slow, and the wood thing like a big leaf on a stream comes more slow and more slow. There are cracks in it and the water is going higher around it, but it comes, it comes until it cannot come anymore through the water because there is ground under the water that makes it stop. I watch Master put down his stick and pick up a thing in cloth. He holds it close to his chest like it is the very best thing. He goes into the water that is high as his waist, and carries it to the shore.
You, Miranda.
He puts you on the ground and moves the cloth. I see your little face, your arms and legs and hands and feet. You are asleep. He goes onto his knees and puts his hands together. He looks at you and then he looks at the sky and talks to it for a long time.
Praying to God in the sky, yes?
Master is more strong after the words. Master puts his head down and puts his lips on your head. Master stands and goes back into the water to the thing like a leaf to get his big stick, then comes back to the shore.
Master lifts his voice like it is a heavy thing, plants his stick, and says words that calls the little spirits, the earth and air and water spirits.
They come.
And I think …
No, I did not think, then. But I see. I see a thing change in Master’s face.
What?
I do not know what.
A thing that makes me remember Umm. Not Umm who is good and pets my hair and puts her lips on my face. Umm who is bad. Umm who hits. Umm who is hungry for a thing that is not food.
(What are you hungry for, Master?)
Master makes a circle around you in the sand with his branch, Miranda. You sleep and sleep. The little spirits bring things to shore, things like the chest in your chamber, only many. They do not go near you sleeping in the circle. Master watches and smiles, but it is not a good smile.
I am afraid.
Master points his stick at the path to the palace and the gnomes begin to carry things there, but Master does not follow yet. He looks at the sea and opens his arms and lifts his stick and says more magic words. The waves come up and swallow the wooden thing.
When it is gone, Master says another thing. I do not think it is magic words because nothing happens, but there is a hard sound in his voice, and it is the sound of Umm’s voice when she is angry. Not hot and fast angry, but slow and cold angry. When Ariel is bad again and again and does not do what Umm says, she uses the hard voice that is slow and cold. And then she puts him in the tree.
Then Master picks you up in his arms, Miranda, and he carries you after the gnomes.
You are sleeping, still sleeping.
I run fast to the palace, faster than Master and the little spirits. I take Umm’s things that are shiny.
I go to my place and hide.
Why?
Because I am afraid.
I do not know what Master says, but I do not think he was talking to the sea, Miranda. I think there is another place beyond the sea, so far away we cannot see it, a place you and Master come from. And I think there is someone else there, someone that Master is very, very angry at.
FOURTEEN
MIRANDA
Papa needs a hare.
It seems the sylphs told no tales, for Papa’s thoughts are wholly occupied by the endeavor of freeing the spirit Ariel. He keeps his promise, and that evening for the first time, Caliban is not locked in his cell.
I imagine Caliban will be excited, but he has been quiet since we left the crag, and even the prospect of his freedom does not stir him. He only tests the door a few times as though to reassure himself that it is true before retiring with his supper, leaving the door ajar.
I had thought mayhap Papa would allow Caliban to join us at the table since he had proved his loyalty, but it seems not.
“You must not get in the habit of thinking the lad your equal in stature, Miranda,” Papa chides me. “Nor allow him to think it. You are as far in stature above base-born Caliban as the noble spirit Ariel is above the simple nameless elementals that serve us.”
“I know nothing of the spirit save his moans and wails,” I murmur.
“No mind,” Papa says dismissively. “You shall gain a greater understanding of my meaning when Ariel is freed. According to the witch’s notes, it is a powerful and a most mercurial spirit, so we shall invoke Mercury’s aid. I intend to undertake the effort in the first hour of Mercury’s day three weeks hence, when the planets are in a favorable aspect. I shall need a hare for the ritual,” he adds. “Can you guess why a hare?”
It has been a long time since Papa set me such a test. I try to remember the stories he has told me of the planets which are the seven governors, and the tales written in the stars about them.
At last I give up and shake my head.
“Mercury is named for that Roman god whom the Greeks named Hermes,” Papa says.
Now I remember. “The messenger.”
Pleased, Papa nods. “Fleet-footed Hermes, divine messenger, patron of thieves and tricksters, shepherd of souls. The ancient Greeks depicted him with winged sandals on his feet.”
“So he was swift like a hare,” I say. “And like draws like.”
“Indeed.” Papa ac
cords me another nod. “Thus do the emanations of Mercury wield influence over those creatures which are fleet of foot; and thus do those self-same creatures, among others, draw Mercury’s influence.” He looks at me, his gaze shrewd and thoughtful. “You’ve a keen mind, child, though I fear I’ve neglected it these many months. Once I succeed in this endeavor, that will change, I promise you. And one day, you may even be of aid to me in my own studies.”
I say nothing, thinking.
Fleet-footed Hermes—it is a pleasing phrase. But I am not so sure about thieves and tricksters. I try to imagine a god with winged sandals. It is a pleasing image. But is he real? And if so, what has the messenger god of some ancient Greek people to do with a celestial body moving in its sphere in a harmonious universe ordered by the Lord God Himself?
I want to ask Papa, but I am weary from the day’s long sojourn and my thoughts are crowded by too many questions to give voice to them.
And Papa is still talking. “… attributes of Mercury are neither masculine nor feminine, for he is either one or the other; in conjunction with a masculine planet, he becomes masculine, but in conjunction with a feminine planet, he becomes feminine. Of his own nature, he is cold and dry, and melancholic in aspect—Miranda, are you paying heed?”
I give him a guilty glance. “Yes, Papa.”
His expression softens. “The day grows late and you should be abed,” he says kindly. “On the morrow, I shall give you a list of confluences that you may begin copying and memorizing.”
I am grateful for his kindness. “Thank you, Papa.”
I sleep and my dreams are uneasy, tinged by guilt and overshadowed by the memory of the monstrous grinning skull rearing out of the crag, muddled with images of hares and hens. I dream of the great spheres turning in the heavens above and around us, and atop one crystalline sphere there runs a god with winged sandals on his feet. It seems to me that his face changes from a man’s to a woman’s as he passes the other planets in their stately orbits, but it always wears a trickster’s grin.
But the dreams fade in the bright light of day, and I find I am excited about the new task Papa has set me. He gives me a slate with a list of beasts and birds and things over which Mercury has rulership to copy and memorize, cautioning me that it is only the merest beginning drawn from diverse sources according to his own studies.
To Caliban he gives the task of catching a hare. “Do you think you can do it, lad?” he asks.
Caliban looks uncertain. “Hares are very fast, Master.”
“True,” Papa says. “But hares are not blessed with reason. You need not be swifter than a hare, only more clever. Now how do you suppose you might outwit a hare?”
Caliban considers, then brightens and mimes a throwing gesture. “Hit it with a rock, Master?”
“Well reasoned,” Papa praises him. “But I require the hare alive and uninjured. What else might you do?”
I look up from my slate. “There is a meadow where we have seen hares, Papa. Might one not study their pathways and dig a hole and cover it with long grasses to trap one?”
He gives me a stern look. “I am asking Caliban, Miranda.”
Feeling slighted, I return to my slate.
“Dig a hole like Miranda say, Master?” Caliban suggests tentatively.
“Yes, of course, one might set a trap.” Papa hands him a worn length of braided leather cord. “How might you use this to do so, lad?”
Caliban turns it over and over, tugs it taut, ties a knot in it. ’Tis true that he’s become ever so much more dexterous, but I can see he has no guess. When he steals a glance at me, I shake my head ever so slightly. I do not have a guess, either.
“Here.” Papa takes the cord back from him and ties a different kind of knot, one that slides up and down the length of the cord and makes a loop of it. He returns it to Caliban. “If you’re cleverer than a hare, you ought to be able to find a way to make use of this to catch one. Only mind that it doesn’t choke ere you’ve a chance to release it.” Caliban looks askance at the cord, and Papa makes a shooing gesture at him. “Well? Go forth!”
“Shall I help him?” I ask Papa, half-rising from the kitchen table.
“No.” Papa taps my slate with one finger. “I’ve allowed Caliban’s education to take precedence over yours for too long. There’s food enough in the larder to last a few days. Copy this list in a fair hand fifty times over, Miranda, and come evening, I’ll expect you to recite its contents from memory.”
I bend to my task. “Yes, Papa.”
Caliban hesitates until Papa makes another shooing motion. “Go, you! Come back with a hare.”
“You won’t punish him if he fails, will you?” I ask when Caliban has gone.
“Ah, lass!” Papa laughs. “Such a tender heart you have, and such a keen sense for injustice visited on those less fortunate! No, I’ll not punish the lad for not knowing what no one has taught him.” He lays a hand on my shoulder. “Primitive man’s ability to devise and use tools is one of the first elements to separate us from mere beasts. I am curious to see what our wild boy will do with the challenge.”
“Oh, I see.”
He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “To your studies.”
I write out my list of words diligently.
Hare, hart, fox, weasel, ass. Quicksilver, tin, marcasite. Emerald, topaz, red marble. Nightingale, blackbird, thrush. Hazel, marjoram, parsley, grain.
I chant the words softly to myself, sounding out the ones I do not know. Many of the unfamiliar words roll wonderfully from my tongue: marcasite, emerald, nightingale, marjoram.
I wonder what manner of things they might be.
It seems to me that the words are clustered in groups of like things. Silver and tin are metals and marble is a stone, so I might guess that marcasite and emerald are either metals or stones; and blackbirds and thrush are birds, so nightingale is either a stone or a bird. Hazel is a tree and parsley is a green, so marjoram is likely a plant. Hart is a word I know, but it falls amidst the beasts, so mayhap it no more represents that heart that beats within one’s breast than hare represents the locks that grow atop one’s head. And quicksilver … what does that mean?
I cannot fathom how can silver be quick. And to think that this is only the merest beginning!
The depth and breadth of Papa’s knowledge fills me with awe. I write out my list and erase it with a fold of my robe and begin again, over and over, until my robes are filthy with dust and my piece of ochre chalk is worn to a sliver. By the time I have finished, I feel as though these words have become a part of me; and that I, in turn, have forged a connection with Mercury in his gentlest aspect by memorizing a handful of those things that are dear to him.
In my thoughts, the trickster’s sly grin curls upward in approval.
And I understand better, if only a little bit, why Papa’s studies consume him so. To understand how and why the world is ordered is a heady business. I only wish I knew for certain what each and every word meant.
Caliban returns empty-handed that day, flinching at the prospect of reporting his failure.
“No mind, lad,” Papa says cheerfully. “Keep trying. You’ll find a way to use that cord. Tomorrow’s another day!”
As for me, once Caliban has been sent to his cell with his supper, I recite my list flawlessly. Papa is so pleased, I dare to ask him what the unfamiliar words mean, and he tells me of fabulous beasts like the hart, which is crowned with majestic antlers like branches rising from its head, and the ass, which labors on behalf of humans as diligently as our little earth spirits. He tells me which of my guesses are right and wrong, describing the hard green radiance of emeralds and the beauty of the nightingale’s song. He chuckles when I ask him how silver can be quick.
“’Tis a most wondrous chymical element, child,” he says to me. “A liquid metal of surpassing virtue, a veritable parent to lesser metals. It is Luna to sulfur’s Sol in the sacred marriage of conjunction.” He collects himself, remembering to whom he is speaki
ng. “Some call it living silver, for it moves and flows like water; swifter than water, as does no other metal on earth. Can you guess its true name?” I shake my head, and he smiles, touching the side of his nose. “Mercury.”
“Mercury,” I echo. “Because it is swift.”
“Indeed,” Papa says. “But it is dangerous, too.” His expression darkens, and he glances in the direction of his sanctum on the upper story of the palace, musing to himself. “I fear that many a practitioner of the spagyric art has perished handling it without due respect.”
I do not know what the spagyric art means, but I can follow his gaze. “Do you speak of Caliban’s mother, Papa?”
His grey gaze returns, stormy-eyed. “That is not a fit topic for a young girl to discuss, Miranda.”
I shrink. “I’m sorry! It’s just…” He waits. “I wondered how you were so very sure she perished, Papa,” I say quietly. “Caliban knew it was so. He … he found her. After … after she died, but…” I find myself trembling and swallow hard, cutting my words short. But before we came here, I think.
Papa’s eyebrows raise. “He told you this?”
I nod. “He said you put her in the ground.”
“I saw her remains given a decent burial.” His tone is curt. “Likely it is more than the witch Sycorax deserved.”
I look at the table. “She was his mother.”
“Miranda.” Papa’s voice is like a cord jerking my head upward. “I seek only to protect you,” he says in a gentler tone. “You are too young and innocent to bear the brunt of the world’s unpleasantness. I thought it would trouble your dreams to know that the witch perished beneath our very roof. And I had no way of knowing the lad had found his mother’s body,” he added. “Indeed, until it was confirmed, I could not be certain of his parentage. The witch’s notes mention the boy only in passing.”
I am silent, wondering if Papa’s notes make mention of me.
Papa frowns, but it is a thoughtful frown. “Since it has come to it, mayhap this is an opportune moment to impress upon you the volatile nature of such an element, and the danger of seeking to bend it to one’s will. Based upon my reading of the witch’s journal, yes, I believe that she perished from prolonged inhalation of mercury’s vapors, which are poisonous during certain stages of the work.”