“If you would have me do so,” I murmur. He passes the spyglass to me. I transfer the chain of the thurible to my left hand and raise the spyglass to my own eye, following the line of his pointing finger.
Far out at sea, there is a ship. Unlike the poor faltering vessel which Caliban described when he told me of witnessing Papa’s and my arrival on the isle—a ship of which I have no memory—it is a beautiful thing, proud and graceful, riding the waves with majestic white sails bellied out with wind. Tiny figures swarm over the surface of it. For the first time, I well and truly understand that whatever Papa plans, there are human lives at stake, and dread grips my heart.
“What do you mean to do, Papa?” I whisper, lowering the spyglass.
“Watch and you shall see,” he says sternly. “But as you love your life, Miranda, disturb me not, for this working requires the whole of my attention.”
I nod in obedience. “Yes, Papa.”
Papa spreads his arms wide, his staff in his right hand. “Barchia!” he cries. “Bethel almoda, Hamar benabis, Zobaa marrach, Fide arrach, Samores maymon, Aczabi!” Although I have heard Papa chant the secret names of the seven governors many times, these are words unknown to me.
A wind springs up in answer, and I realize that Papa is summoning it. At first it is a light breeze and harmless-seeming, but as Papa continues to chant, the wind grows in intensity. It comes from every direction, swirling through every window of the watchtower.
The pale blue sky begins to darken as clouds gather.
The wind rises and rises.
The sea begins to turn angry, darkening in turn beneath the darkening sky. Gentle rolling swells are churned into peaks crested with white foam.
“Barchia, Bethel almoda, Hamar benabis, Zobaa marrach, Fide arrach, Samores maymon, Aczabi!”
Wind blows in buffeting gusts, the sound of it rising to a roar.
The sea is roiling and my stomach roils, too. Although I am hard-pressed to keep my feet in the gale, I manage to put the spyglass to my eye. The ship that was sailing so gracefully only moments ago is now pitching violently up and down as it climbs the peaks of waves which grow ever steeper and plunges into troughs that grow ever deeper. The tiny figures are scrambling in a frantic attempt to lower the sails. Overhead, lightning flickers in the depths of the dark, towering thunderheads; flickers and then strikes with a furious suddenness, jagged blue-white veins reaching for the churning sea. I stagger backward, dropping the chain of the thurible. The clang of the bowl’s falling is inaudible beneath the howling of the wind. The lid comes loose and coals scatter across the floor of the watchtower.
There is a crack of thunder so loud it seems my ears must burst to hear it. All my childhood terror of storms returns to me tenfold, and I should like nothing better than to run to my chamber and hide under my bed-linens.
But oh, dear Lord God, the ship and its poor inhabitants!
Papa’s tone shifts, and the wind shifts with it, gathering in the west in accordance to his will.
Lightning flashes and thunder booms. The heavens unloose a pelting rain that comes sideways through the west window of the watchtower. I wipe my face with the sleeve of my gown and look through the spyglass. Enwreathed in strange flames, the ship is being driven by the wind, driven straight for the isle; straight for its rocky shoals. When that happens, I think every man aboard the ship will perish.
This is the great working to which I have contributed.
I cannot bear it.
“Papa, please!” I catch his arm. Tears streak my face, erased by the rain. “Please, do not do this!”
He turns his face toward me and his expression is terrible. Rain plasters his hair to his head; wind lashes his beard into tatters. “Did I not bid you not to disturb me?” He grasps my amulet in his left hand and gestures in my direction as though to swat a fly. “Leave be, Miranda!”
My muscles seize in response to his admonition and pain assails every part of me.
My legs give way beneath me and I fall to the floor of the watchtower, the spyglass tumbling from my hand. A lone coal from the thurible, miraculously unextinguished by the rain, burns through my yellow gown to sear the flesh of my hip. It is the least of my hurts.
Ignoring me, Papa resumes his chant.
The storm rages on.
FORTY-FOUR
CALIBAN
Oh, oh, oh! Master has raised such a storm!
I try to reach the high place before it comes, but it is too far; I am fast, but not fast enough to outrun a storm. I am only beginning to climb when the rain comes.
It is bad, but it is not so very bad. The rain makes the rocks slippity-slidey under my fingers and toes, but then I am very good at climbing and the rocks keep away the worstest of the wind that blows so hard from the west.
I do not care about the thunder and lightning. Setebos will protect me, and this storm is not meant for me, not like when that Ariel did make himself a storm above my head.