The ship awaits us in the harbor, where the king’s crew have sailed it from the pirates’ cove. We make the long trek to meet it. Little gnomes trot alongside us carrying Papa’s trunks, my humble chest. Sylphs gambol around us in the jasmine-scented breezes. It is a fine, clear afternoon.
The prince is solicitous. He exclaims with horror when he realizes I have no shoes, and offers to carry me to spare my poor, delicate feet. I thank him and manage not to laugh.
He holds my hand.
I let him, because it is easier than explaining my refusal. And it is not so unpleasant, after all.
There is no sign of Caliban, but I do not doubt that he is somewhere near, watching. He knows every inch of the isle and all its secret places.
Thou art the shoals on which Caliban wilt dash his heart to pieces.
It is true.
Oh God help me, it is true.
In the harbor, a rowing-boat has been sent ashore to carry us to the ship. More men accompany it, sailors who rejoice in loud voices to be reunited with King Alonso and his men. The sailors marvel at the gnomes and the sylphs, at Papa’s presence, and most especially at mine. They call me “my lady” and treat me with reverent courtesy, escorting me aboard the boat.
I wonder where Ariel is.
I pray he will not be unduly cruel to Caliban in my absence, until such a day comes that I may fulfill my promise and send for him.
I pray such a day will come, because there is a canker of fear within my heart that warns me it may not. It warns me that the urgency of my promise will fade in this brave new world toward which I venture; a world in which Caliban could never be seen as aught but monstrous. I think of the glimpse of Caliban I saw through the prince’s eyes and shudder.
I will not let that happen.
I will not.
Once the last of Papa’s trunks is stowed on the rowing-boat, he dismisses the elementals. The sailors bend their backs over the oars and row, chanting in their loud voices.
So many, many men.
When we reach the ship, the prince climbs the rope ladder to board it before me so that he might extend a hand when I follow. The worn, sun-warmed planks of the ship are smooth beneath my bare feet.
Standing at the railing, I gaze across the sea at the isle that is the only home that I have ever known.
Orders are shouted; trunks are stowed. The rowing-boat is hauled aboard, the sea-anchor is lifted.
Ropes sing; sheets of canvas belly and snap.
The ship sets sail.
As the ship’s prow slides westward through the rippling waves, I see the twin curved arcs of Setebos’s jaws silhouetted against the sky. That is where Caliban will be, watching atop his high crag.
I raise my hand in farewell.
A warm hand comes to rest in the small of my back; it is Prince Ferdinand’s. He smiles at me, slanting afternoon sunlight brightening his brown eyes. “Whom do you salute, my lady?” he asks me.
One day I will tell him the truth, I will; but not today.
“No one,” I say to him. “No one.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
CALIBAN
I watch the ship go until I cannot see it. There is only the empty blue sky and the sun shining on the sea.
Miranda is gone.
She is gone.
Gone.
There is an emptiness inside my heart as big as the sky. Miranda is gone.
But she will send for me.
She did promise.
I go to the palace. It is empty, too. The gardens seem quiet, and I cannot think why until I do see that the fountains are stopped.
Quiet.
So quiet.
Master is gone; the little undines are free. No more splish-splashing fountains. The little gnomes are free; no more emptying chamber-pots and digging in the garden.
I am free.
Oh, but Miranda is gone.
In the kitchen, the larder is empty, but outside I see they did leave the chickens and the nanny-goat behind. “Hello!” I say to the chickens that do peck and scritchety-scratch in the dirt, to the nanny-goat with her full udder who looks at me with her yellow eyes. “Hello, hello! Do not worry, I will take care of you.”
They do not say anything, the poor dumb animals. But I will take care of them until Miranda does send for me. I milk the nanny-goat and scratch her ears the way she does like.
In the hearth, there is only grey ashes, but I dig in them and find embers underneath the grey. I bring kindling from the woodpile and blow on the embers until they do glow and catch fire.
I will tend the fire.
I will take care of the animals.
All until you do send for me, Miranda; only I wonder how long it will be. But you did promise.
(Oh, but he held your hand in his and you did let him, Miranda.) No.
No, I will not think thoughts that will make my poor empty heart sick with hatred and badness.
I look through the palace to see what else they did leave behind, and waah! In Master’s sanctum—no Prospero’s sanctum, I am free and I will not think that servant-word anymore—the walls are black with soot. All of Miranda’s paintings that were so beautiful are gone.
I wish they were not gone. I would have looked at them every day and thought about Miranda painting them.