The spirit is silent for a moment. “What term of service dost thou demand, good magus?”
Papa frowns and glances at me. Why, I cannot begin to guess. “In good faith, I cannot set a number to it,” he says. “Events will fall out as heaven ordains them, and I can glimpse the future but dimly at this juncture. I will make you no false promises. But I think no more than thrice three years, mayhap less. ’Tis less time than you’ve been imprisoned in this rude bark, howling your agony to the skies,” he adds, his voice taking on a hint of impatience. “What sayest thou, gentle Ariel? Will you swear fealty to me and become my trusted servant?”
The spirit’s words come grudgingly. “I will.”
“Then do so in the name of the Lord God,” Papa says in a stern tone, his staff planted firmly.
A gust of wind sighs through the branches of the sundered pine, making its needles tremble and quake. “In the name of the Lord God most high, I, Ariel, do swear my fealty to thee.”
“So mote it be.” Papa raises his staff aloft. The crystal flashes as more words of power spill from his tongue. The nameless hare’s limp corpse lies at his feet, slow blood seeping from its slit throat and pooling on the flagstones. The sundered pine tree sways and shivers. “By the cursed name of Setebos, I release thee!” Papa cries, slamming his staff down once more.
There is a long, drawn-out shriek; whether from the spirit or the tree, I cannot say. The bloody mist roils and the flagstones in the courtyard heave and shudder underfoot. I stumble and nearly drop the thurible. Caliban reaches out a hand to steady me, and I am grateful for it.
Bright rays of sun pierce the red mist, turning it golden, then silver, then dissipating it altogether.
Papa smiles in quiet triumph.
A wind springs up from the very heart of the riven pine; springs up and takes shape, descending to touch lightly on the flagstones in front of Papa. The hare’s blood is smeared beneath its bare, delicate feet.
Ariel.
The spirit is more substantial in appearance than the airy sylphs or the transparent undines, but less so than the earthy gnomes, and altogether more singular. It is fair to look upon, bearing the semblance of a slender youth with skin as white as the churning crests of waves, drifting hair as pale as fog, and eyes as changeable as the sea; one moment lucid and clear, the next dark and stormy with hidden depths. A filmy garment that appears to be woven of gossamer spider-thread and jasmine petals hangs from its shoulders and clings to its limbs, quivering in the breeze. I cannot help but stare at the spirit, for it is wondrous and lovely to behold.
It bows to Papa. “Well met, Master.”
Papa inclines his head. “Well met, my servant Ariel.”
Ariel’s gaze shifts to me and Caliban. He—for I suppose it is a he after all—smiles faintly. It is a beautiful smile, but there is something cold and cutting in it. Caliban lets out a harsh barking cough and moves away from me, and the spirit’s smile deepens, its lips curling. “Ah!” he says. “This pretty little lass must be thine own daughter, Master. And I see thou hast found the witch’s unwholesome whelp. Dost think it wise to keep him so close?”
“Do not bait the lad, gentle spirit,” Papa says in a mild tone. “I could not have freed you without his aid. Caliban’s parentage is no fault of his own, and he has proved himself a good and loyal servant this day.”
“Is it so?” The spirit Ariel’s voice is light, but his eyes are dark and brooding. His pale hair stirs in the breeze, floating about his head like wisps of fog. “Well, I shall prove myself the better.”
Papa smiles again. “Nothing would please me more.”
SEVENTEEN
CALIBAN
Servant.
I do not know this word, and I do not like its sound in Ariel’s mouth. I am happy when Master says for Ariel to find him this thing and that thing, herbs and flowers and stones, and Ariel goes, whooshity-whoosh, away like the wind.
Oh, I remember that Ariel, how he smiles like a knife and comes and goes like the wind.
I carry the dead hare by its hind legs. It is long and skinny and I am sad that it is dead. Fleas creepity-hop in its soft hair.
Hare hair.
Master says to hang it from a tree in the kitchen garden so its blood can come out. Before he goes to his big room to be alone, Master says to dig tubers and onions in the garden and we will have stew for supper. No studies for Miranda today, Master has too many things to do. Master is oh, so very, very happy today.
I am not.
Miranda is not.
But we dig onions to peel and tubers that we wash in water from the well and I ask Miranda, what is a servant?