Winter is long and dull and grey, and even though it never gets truly cold on the isle, there is a damp chill that never seems to go away. The kitchen with its cozy hearth is the only place to escape it. In the past, I would spend most of my waking hours there, doing such chores or lessons as Papa set me.
This winter is different. Despite its discomforts, it is the finest one I remember. Under Papa’s tutelage, I graduate from forming the alphabet to writing entire words and then full sentences on my slate, feeling my mind stretch and grow in the process.
But most of all, it is good, oh, so very good, not to be alone and lonely! And now I am a teacher, too.
’Tis true that there are days when I despair of teaching Caliban to understand the notion of God—a notion I cannot remember not knowing and struggle to explain—but he makes great progress in other things. With every week that passes, it grows easier to converse with him.
It is strange to think that Caliban was a young child in this palace just as I was. I have known him only as a part of the isle’s very landscape, as much as the rocks and trees and sea, and never imagined it had been otherwise. Now I understand why he did not marvel at the palace when first Papa summoned him. It was already familiar to him; indeed, like as not he was born in it. He learned to crawl in its empty halls and played in its gardens while his mother Sycorax practiced her dark arts in the very sanctum that now belongs to my father, recording the results in a cypher.
Why did he leave the palace, I wonder? Did he flee upon his mother’s death? Or was it something else that caused him to leave its shelter? If it is true that Papa and I did not always live on the isle, I wonder, I wonder … could it be that he fled in the face of our arrival?
Where did he dwell for all that time? How did the witch Sycorax die? And how is it that Papa is so very certain that she perished years ago?
There are so many questions.
When Papa decides Nunzia is no longer laying well enough and must be sacrificed for our supper it grieves me, though not as deeply as the loss of my poor sweet Bianca. Papa praises me for the maturation of my sensibilities, and I use the sad occasion to speak to Caliban of death.
It seems to me that he understands; and understands, too, when I explain to him that his Umm is dead. This does not seem to surprise him—but after I tell him that Umm is not in the sky with God, he does not wish to speak further of her. Not of his mother, not of the spirit Ariel, not of the bad name.
If I press him, he becomes sullen. And so I press gently and with care, hoping to tease the name out of his memories without disturbing the peace of our household.
It is so hard to know how much Caliban remembers! I find myself wondering not only what he might tell me of his past when he is better able to do so, but if there is aught he might tell me of my past.
It is a dangerous and thrilling thought, but I dare not ask.
So instead we speak of God and trees and hens and nuts and fish and all manner of things beneath the sun.
Papa is patient throughout the long months of winter, content not to rush matters. I should like to think it is wholly due to kindness, but I suspect it is also true that the stars are not yet favorable for an endeavor such as freeing the spirit Ariel. Whatever the cause, Papa continues to be generous. He even grants Caliban and me permission to forage farther afield to gather firewood and fill our larder with whatever we might find when our stores begin to dwindle.
Airy sylphs attend us on our journeys, but they do nothing to trouble us. Those are my favorite times, when I need not cudgel my wits about God and memory, and Caliban is in fine spirits.
Outside the palace grounds, our roles are changed. Caliban knows all the best places to forage, and he is fast and deft and sure. We do not venture so far as the seashore, which Papa has forbidden, but Caliban scampers up the ridged trunks of date palms as quick as thought, throwing down handfuls of fruits, their flesh shriveled but still sweet. I laugh and fill the apron of my robe until it sags under the weight; and Caliban laughs too, eyes bright with pride. He climbs olive trees too, shaking their limbs until they discharge their overripe bounty.
Oh, and there are fish, too! Heedless of the chill waters, Caliban wades in the swift stream that descends from the mountains and catches fish with his bare hands, tossing them to the banks where they flop halfheartedly, sluggish with cold. I pick them up and put them in a pail, their silver scales shining.
When we bring home our spoils, Papa praises us. At night, he locks Caliban into his cell, but Caliban does not seem to mind so much. I think mayhap he is grateful for the shelter during these winter months.
On the days when the driving rain keeps us indoors, if there are no other chores to do, I practice sewing on scraps of fabric. I gloat over the rich colors of the thread, and Caliban gloats with me.