Caliban is bad.
But, but, but, but, but … why? Why is it bad? Because Master says it is bad? But it is a bad thing to say the name, too.
I do not want to say it.
But I want to be free. I want sun and sky and grass.
I want Miranda.
I do not want to be alone. I am angry. I do not want to be angry. Oh, but I am.
You shall have three days, Master says. You shall have water, but no food, Master says.
Ha!
Master lies.
There are lizards; lovely little lizzy-lizards, one, two, three. Lizards are green. Little green lizards on the walls, creepity, creepity, skritch, skritch, skritch. Lizards are fast but I am faster. I jump and climb and catch them. Blood goes squish, squish and little bones go crunch, crunch, crunch in my teeth.
But one day is long.
Two days is longer.
I make marks on the wall. One day, two days. Where is Miranda?
Three days.
No lizards today. Today I am hungry. Today my belly hurts. I drink water. Today is a very, very long time.
At night Miranda comes. I am sleeping, but I hear her voice and I wake. Miranda’s voice comes from the rocks. I go to the rocks and put my hands and face against them. Miranda talks through the rocks and says, listen and say nothing.
I am good.
I say nothing.
Miranda says, I am sorry. Miranda says, you must tell Master the bad name tomorrow. I listen.
Miranda says, please. Her voice is afraid and sad. Please, Caliban. Please.
I listen.
Miranda goes away.
The moon is in the window. I look at it and think. The moon is high and round and bright.
The moon is good.
I am not angry. I am sad, too. Why? Because Miranda is sad. Because my belly hurts. The name is like a stone in my belly. Ariel is in the pine tree. Ariel is not nice, but Ariel wants to be free. I want to be free, too. I do not want to be hungry. I do not want Miranda to be afraid and sad.
The moon goes away, and I am alone in the dark.
I do not sleep.
In the morning, Master comes and opens the door. Miranda is beside him. She is little and he is big. Miranda’s eyes are red.
Well, Master says, using his deep voice. Have you something this time to something something?
I look at him.
He looks at me.
Is a name bad because Master says it is bad? Is God good because Master says God is good?
I do not know.
I am tired and hungry. Miranda is sad and afraid. The name that is like a stone in my belly is heavy.
Master waits.
I say the name: “Setebos.”
TWELVE
MIRANDA
“Setebos.” Papa echoes Caliban in a thoughtful tone. I do not like the sound of the word. There is a kind of darkness to it that gives me a feeling like reaching under a rotten log crawling with grubs. But Papa is pleased, and smiles at Caliban. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it, lad?”
Caliban says nothing. His shoulders are hunched and his eyes are dark and watchful beneath the coarse hair that falls over them, and I cannot tell what he is thinking. It seems to me that something has changed in him, but I do not know what. There is a stillness to him that was not there before.
If it is so, Papa does not notice. His face has a faraway look, and I know that in his thoughts, he is already in his sanctum, poring over his books of magic. “Well done, lad,” he says absently. “Miranda, see that he’s fed.”
“Yes, Papa,” I say.
In the kitchen, Caliban sits at the table and eats journey-cakes and boiled eggs that I peel for him. There is a silence between us that feels strange, but I do not know how to breach it.
Does he understand that he lied to me?
Does he know that I betrayed him to Papa for doing so?
I do not know.
“What shall Caliban and Miranda do today?” I say at last, falling back on familiar ground. “Shall we gather mushrooms? Catch fish?”
“Mussshhrooms, yes.” Caliban rolls the word around in his mouth as though he is taking pleasure in the taste of it. “Now is good for mussshhrooms.”
It restores a measure of ease between us.
I fetch a cloth bag that I have sewn out of the remnants of robes that Papa cut down to size for me, with a long strap that I might sling over my shoulder, and Caliban and I set out to forage.
I think that we will go to the pine woods to the south where Caliban has found mushrooms flourishing in hidden places in the damp pine mast before, but he heads northwest toward the rocky crags above the palace. He sets a quick pace and I struggle to keep up.
Airy sylphs trail after us, drifting effortlessly on the spring breeze.
“Caliban?” I am half breathless. “Where are we going?”
He slows. “A place.”
“Is it your place?”