The hare is panicking. Caliban put it into the bag I sewed from scraps, but it kicks and thrashes. The bag is torn to shreds and the hare is tangled in it, which makes it struggle all the harder, scratching Caliban’s arms and chest anew as he clutches it to him. At last Papa takes pity on him and sends the hare to sleep with a touch and a word. It hangs limp in Caliban’s arms as we venture out to the courtyard and the great pine tree, and I am grateful I do not have to carry it. Papa gives me the thurible hanging from its silver chain to carry instead. I am pleased to be trusted with it, even if I do not like this undertaking.
The pine tree stands tall and stark against the grey sky, its branches creaking a warning. The spirit inside it is silent. Holding his staff in one hand, Papa chants the music of the spheres. The air trembles in response as dawn’s rays break in the east.
Now Papa wakes the hare with a touch. It struggles in Caliban’s arms and makes a terrible high-pitched sound.
“Hold it still for the knife, lad,” Papa says, pointing at the flagstones. “The quicker done the better.”
Squatting, Caliban holds the hare in place, stretching out its neck and pressing down on its flanks. The hare’s back legs kick as it screams and screams. Caliban’s shoulders tense, but he does as he’s bidden. I think we should have found some other place to house the hare. Papa drops to one knee beside Caliban, his staff tucked under his arm. His knife flashes in the rising sun and the hare’s screaming stops; but the spirit Ariel rouses to let out a long, wailing screech.
“Soon, gentle spirit,” Papa murmurs. “Soon.”
I do not like this. I would that it were over and done with. No, I would that it were not done at all.
Papa beckons for the thurible and I bring it to him. He lifts the lid and scatters incense over the coals. Fragrant smoke trickles from the thurible’s holes, and I know from my studies that it comes from a gum resin that contains elements such as oil of orange and clove and spikenard, scents that are pleasing to Mercury.
Rising, Papa takes it from me and swings it in a graceful arc. “May God bless you, good Lord Mercury!” he calls. “You who are wise, perceptive, intelligent, and the sage and instructor of every kind of writing, computation, and the science of heaven and earth! You have concealed yourself by your subtlety so that no one can possibly know your nature or determine your effects!”
In the tree, Ariel groans.
Papa’s face is gilded and bright with the dawn as he chants the invocation, his eyes keen and sure.
I glance at Caliban and find him looking at me. His chest is scored and streaked with blood and his expression is unhappy.
I wonder what he is thinking. This is how it began for us all those months ago; with Papa’s magic at dawn.
I wonder if he is sorry.
I hope not.
I think … I think if Papa succeeds in freeing Ariel, everything will change, though I do not know how or why. But at least Papa has promised not to threaten to take Caliban’s will away and leave me friendless.
“Hermes, Hotarit, Haruz, Tyr, Meda!” Papa calls, swinging the thurible in a circle around him. “I call upon you by all your names! I conjure you above all by the high Lord God who is the lord of the firmament and of the realm of the exalted and great! Good Lord Mercury, receive my petition, and pour out the powers of your spirit upon me!”
Three times the invocation is repeated, and each time, Papa’s voice grows stronger and more resonant. At last he rises a final time and hands the thurible to me, holding his staff aloft.
The air feels like it does before lightning strikes.
The great pine shivers and creaks.
Papa says a word I do not know, so softly it is almost a whisper, except that there is power in it that rumbles like thunder. He stamps the heel of his staff against the flagstones and the crystal atop it flares; and then there is a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, sudden and ear-shattering. It startles me, and I cry out without meaning to.
“Shh!” Caliban is beside me, attempting to shield me from the splinters of bark and wood that rain down upon us. When it stops, he pats my shoulders in a clumsy effort to comfort me, his dark eyes worried. “It is only Master’s magic.”
I shudder and lean against him. “I know.”
The top of the pine has been split asunder, the two halves of its trunk gaping. A glowing red mist, like a cloud of sun-struck blood, fills the gap. The sight of it makes my skin prickle and puts an unpleasant taste in my mouth. It seems the spirit Ariel is not yet free, for it lets out a plaintive wail and then sighs, forming words for the first time in my memory. “Free me! Oh, free me!”
“That I will do gladly,” Papa says. “In exchange for thy service.”
The spirit groans in anguish. “Thou bidst me exchange my prison for fetters,” it says bitterly. “Is Ariel never to be free? I cry thee mercy, good magus!”
I feel a twinge of pity for the spirit Ariel, and beside me, Caliban lets out his breath in a huff.
Papa is unmoved. “I am a godly Christian man,” he says. “Unlike the foul witch Sycorax who bound you in this knotty prison, I shall demand no deed of you that is offensive in the eyes of the Lord God most high. Gentle spirit, if you serve me loyally and without complaint, I shall grant thee thy freedom.”