Papa bids Caliban to procure a white he-goat from amongst the wild goats that roam the isle. When Caliban succeeds, the goat is tethered in an abandoned garden where it bleats in protest all day long, until Papa is sufficiently irritated to silence it with a charm. It continues to bleat noiselessly, opening its muzzle to expose its curiously even and childlike teeth, its pink tongue protruding. Its amber eyes with their inhuman vertical pupils beg the empty skies for an answer.
I do not give the goat a name. Those days have long since passed. I have not named a hen since Bianca’s sacrifice, and I did not name Oriana’s replacement when she grew too old to give milk and was slaughtered and rendered into stew meat.
I fear for Papa’s health and wonder if he has begun to lose his wits. In the secret part of me where I think dreadful thoughts to which I dare not give voice, I wonder if it would not be so terrible if Papa were to perish with his great work undone. It is a vile thought unworthy of my filial loyalty and I am ashamed to think it; and yet, I do.
Once, I should have feared for my own survival were aught to befall Papa, but those days, too, are behind me. Caliban provides for most of our needs now, and he would be more than capable of providing for our survival if we were bereft of Papa’s presence. The elementals would not obey us; there would be no gnomes to till the gardens, no undines to fill the wells and make the fountains flow, but we could till the earth ourselves and fetch water from the stream.
We could make the isle our own Eden, Caliban and I.
Betimes it is a pleasant thought; betimes, a terrifying one. I have an inkling, now, of what it means for a woman to lie with a man as bride and bridegroom, and that I do not fear. Rather, I welcome it. And yet, what do I know of bearing children? Only that my own mother died of my birth, and that I suspect that like my woman’s courses, it is a bloody, messy business. I have not forgotten the Lord God’s injunction to Eve.
I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children …
And so I put the disloyal thought aside and continue to paint at Papa’s bidding, peopling the walls of his sanctum with images of all of the seven governors, including an image of the Sun even more splendid than the first, and many of the various faces of the twelve signs of the Zodiac, until such a morning when Papa greets me with his grey eyes wide and shining, gladness radiating from him as though the very marrow of his bones is alight with it.
“Miranda,” he says in a deep, hushed voice, and I could weep at the suggestion of affection in it, the affection he has not shown me since the day he found me with Caliban on the grassy banks of the stream. “The hour is nigh. I have prayed and prayed upon the matter, and God has spoken to me.”
My throat tightens. “Yes, Papa?”
Papa nods with great solemnity. “If I am to succeed in this working, a great sacrifice is required of me.”
“Is it the he-goat, Papa?” I say.
“Oh, the goat, aye; but it is merely an offering.” Papa shakes his head, white hair stirring. “No, if I succeed on the morrow, I have pledged to the Lord God Himself that I will renounce my magic.”
I gaze at him.
Papa smiles a tranquil smile at me and places his hands on my shoulders. “Your rightful destiny awaits you, Miranda; yours and mine alike. And I shall procure it for the both of us. Once it is done, there shall be but one last image for you to render.”
If I am to succeed on the morrow …
There is no more time left.
I swallow hard against the taste of fear in my mouth.
FORTY-TWO
CALIBAN
It is still dark when I wake with a feeling like creepity ants crawling on my skin, summer-dark and warm, but oh, my skin is creepity-crawling, and I have felt this before. It is a warning from Setebos who watches.
Something is coming.
Across the sea, someone is coming.
I want to go to the high place to see even though Master has forbidden it, but no, there is Master himself, there is Prospero, banging on the door of my chamber with his staff and shouting, “Awaken, awaken, make haste and fetch the white he-goat to the courtyard, you lazy villain!”
Fetch it yourself, I think; but I do not say it. He would only punish me, or worse, make Miranda do it.
So I fetch the goat. It does not want to come and fights the rope, its mouth opening and closing without any noise, but I am stronger than the goat is. “I am sorry,” I whisper as I drag it to the courtyard. “I am sorry.”
“Cease your muttering,” Prospero says to me, and I do. He is in fine robes I have never seen before, all yellow-gold and shimmering, and there is a circle of gold around his hair.
I look sideways at Miranda and see that she is in a fine new yellow gown, too, although this I did see in the pirates’ treasure so many years ago. Oh, and there are gold necklaces with sparkling stones around her neck, too; but she looks sideways at me, quick, quick, and I see her face is pale in the faint light.
She is afraid.