“I believe there is a word locked in your memory, lad.” Papa touches Caliban’s brow with one finger. “It is the name of the unholy deity that Umm worshipped and taught you to worship in turn. It is the name with which she bound the spirit Ariel into captivity. You have but to recollect the name and tell me, and you shall have your freedom.” Straightening, he smiles and holds out his arms. “When Ariel is free, Caliban is free!”
The last part, Caliban understands. “Why?” he spits, glowering. “Why, Master? Ariel is bad.”
The spirit groans.
I think about the sewing casket Papa gave me this morning. It seems to me that I remember the ladies with the soft hands and soft cheeks sewing in the chambers of the stone house where pictures hung on the walls, silver needles darting and flashing, intricate patterns of embroidery growing slowly in their wake. Papa said he could show me a simple stitch; mayhap he is right, and I could teach myself more. If he would permit me to study one of his robes with fine embroidery at the hem, mayhap I might determine how it was done.
Although that is a foolish dream; ’twould be better were I to learn how to use whatever fabric remains to us to cut and sew simple garments. I know only that I should like to have been given a day, one day, to enjoy my unexpected gift; to examine the hanks of colorful thread one by one, to test the edges of the shears and the sharpness of the needles.
It would have made a fine new lesson for Caliban, too. Instead, he is being set a task that may be impossible to accomplish.
“… must learn to trust Master,” Papa is saying sternly to him. Caliban wears a sullen look.
“Papa,” I say when he has finished. “Is it not possible that the name you seek might be found in one of your books?” Although I have only caught an accidental glimpse, I know Papa has a great many books in his sanctum. One day when I am grown, he says I may be allowed to handle some of them.
“Do you imagine I have not scoured their pages, child?” Papa says, but his voice is mild. “Do you suppose I have not tried invoking the names of demonic spirits known to the magi of yore in my attempts to free the spirit?”
“No,” I murmur.
“The witch guarded her secrets closely, most especially the name of whatever foul deity she served.” Papa raps his knuckles lightly on Caliban’s head, and there is a measure of affection in the gesture. “If it is to be found anywhere, it is within the confines of her son’s thick skull.”
Caliban grunts.
I sigh, thinking what a difficult chore it will be to make him understand what is being asked of him.
“Miranda.” Papa’s gaze is at once stern and bright, like the sun’s rays breaking through clouds far out to sea. “Your assistance in this matter is vital. There is a reason for everything I do, and one day when you are older, I promise, I will reveal the full scope of all that my plans encompass. Today I merely ask that you have a measure of the faith in yourself that I have in you.”
Once again, I am ashamed. “Yes, Papa.”
He smiles at me. “Very well.”
We retreat from the outer courtyard, abandoning the pine tree and its captive spirit—Ariel.
In a generous gesture, Papa determines that Caliban and I might be allowed to conduct our lessons outside his cell without supervision, so long as we do not leave the palace grounds.
At least it is something, I think.
And I set about the task of attempting to explain the notion of God to the witch’s son.
NINE
CALIBAN
God is big.
God is in the sky.
God is bigger than Caliban and Master and Miranda; God is bigger than grass and trees. God is bigger than the sun and moon.
Please, God is to pray. Thank you, God is to pray.
What is God? God is Master’s Master. God is Miranda’s Master. God is everyone’s Master.
Why is God? God makes everything.
Miranda and Caliban count chickens. One … two … three … four big hens, then one … two … three.
Now Nunzia is not. Nunzia is dead.
We eat Nunzia. Nunzia is good. Nunzia is in the sky with God.
We count little hens. One … two … three … four … five little hens. Elisabetta is the little hens’ mother. Claudio is a rooster. Claudio is the little hens’ father.
Big hens make eggs. Eggs make little hens. God makes everything.
Master is Miranda’s father.
Umm is Caliban’s mother.
Umm is not. Umm is dead.
(I know.)
Is Umm in the sky with God? No. Umm is bad. Umm makes Ariel not free in the tree. Umm does not pray to God. Umm says please and thank you to a bad name.
What is the name?
It is a bad name.
Why?
Because it is not God.
Why is God good?
Because God is God.
To know a thing from yesterday and yesterday and yesterday is to remember.
I remember yesterday.
I remember Umm. I remember Ariel. Umm is good and bad. Ariel is good and bad.
Bad, bad, bad.
Master says no, Ariel is good. Master is good and bad.
I am good. I find nuts. I find nuts and dates and olives. I find sticks for the fire and fishes to eat.
I remember yesterday and yesterday and yesterday.
(I find Umm. Umm is dead.) Miranda is good. Miranda has white thread and black thread and red thread and green thread and blue thread and yellow thread.
Where is Miranda’s mother?
Where is Caliban’s father?
Miranda says, I do not know. Miranda says, what is the bad name?
I am bad.
I do not want to say.
I say, I do not know.
TEN
MIRANDA