Bad, bad, bad.
I am Caliban. Caliban is good. She is Miranda. Miranda is good. He is Master. Master is good.
Food is good. Water is good. Yes, please. Thank you, Master.
Sun is good.
Moon is good.
Yes, please. Eat food is good. Drink water is good. Master is good. Miranda is good. Thank you, Master.
I am Caliban.
Caliban is good.
No, bad. Bad, bad, bad.
Sorry.
Caliban is sorry.
Yes, Master. Please, Master. Thank you, Master.
SIX
MIRANDA
Teaching the wild boy—no, teaching Caliban—to speak is a lengthy business, but I do not mind. I am grateful that Papa allows me to play a role in it.
And I am very, very grateful that Papa chose to let Caliban keep his wits after all, judging that it would be a greater endeavor to continue attempting to civilize him than to tame him with magic. He says nothing of the spirit in the pine, though I am sure it too has something to do with his decision.
Papa casts the deeper binding spell he devised on Oriana instead. I am not permitted to attend, but at least casting this spell on a mere beast requires no sacrificial offering. Papa grumbles about wasting his art on a goat, but I think he wishes to know if it works.
It does. Oriana no longer tries to escape. She is different, though. All her mischief is gone and her lively gaze is dull. She takes no interest in the antics of the clutch of chicks that Elisabetta has hatched. She never tries to butt me when I milk her, but she takes no pleasure in it when I scratch her head.
Papa is pleased with the results.
Yes, I am very grateful that he chose not to further bespell Caliban.
I should like to say that Caliban is a good pupil, but it is only true sometimes. On good days he is eager to please. On bad days, he works himself into a fury at his captivity and howls and rages as wildly as ever. When that happens, Papa punishes him.
It grieves me to see Caliban fall writhing to the floor of his cell, his limbs twitching in pain.
He learns, though.
Bit by bit, day by day, the fight drains from him. He ceases to bloody the nails of his fingers and toes in an effort to escape, and no longer claws at his breech-cloth. Although he has not learned to use the chamber-pot, he no longer smears ordure on the walls of his cell, and the elemental spirits are better able to clean his messes. It still stinks, though.
On good days, Caliban regards Papa with worshipful awe. Those are the days on which he is most apt to master a new word or come to a new understanding of the way that words fit together to form a greater meaning.
On bad days, Caliban regards Papa with a mixture of suspicion and craven fear, and although his rages lessen, he is sullen and willful. I do my best to make him understand that if he only obeys Papa, there will be no punishment. On good days, it seems he understands this, but on bad days, he is beyond the reach of reason.
I think that if Papa would only allow Caliban a measure of freedom it might help, but Papa will not soften.
“The ability to reason is what separates us from beasts, child,” he says to me when I suggest it over supper. “I’ll grant you, the lad has evinced glimmerings of the faculty I feared we might never see, but a mere glimmering does not suffice. If he ever proves capable of demonstrating it consistently over time, remaining helpful and willing to learn and earn my trust, I will reckon him deserving of a chance to prove himself worthy of it outside his cell.”
“How much time, Papa?” I ask humbly.
He considers the question. “A full month’s time.”
A month.
It seems like a very long time; but then, it was a full month’s time before Papa decided I might be entrusted to give Caliban lessons on my own. I think mayhap Papa found the process more tiresome than he reckoned in comparison with his own studies, but I am grateful to occupy myself gainfully. I begin making marks on the walls of Caliban’s cell with ochre chalk to count the good days, hoping I might use them to teach him.
It is not easy.
“One, two, three, four.” I point at a series of Xs. “Good, good, good, good. See?” I hold up four fingers. “For four days Caliban was good.” I point at an O. “Bad. Yesterday Caliban was bad.” I erase the chalk markings with the heel of my hand, dusting it on the folds of my robe.
Caliban sets his jaw. “No!” Although he has not altogether lost the habit of crouching, he stands straighter now than he did when Papa first summoned him, and is a head taller than me.
“Yes,” I say firmly. I draw an X. “Today Caliban was good. One day.” I hold up one finger, then all ten fingers thrice over. “Master says that if you are good this many days, you may have sun.”