And then they are thirsty, and say, oh, friend monster, you did promise to take us to good fresh water.
I am thirsty, too. My mouth is dry like I did swallow sand and I think oh, Caliban, stupid Caliban, why did you not think to tell them sooner that Prospero did kill their king and their prince?
Why did you not think of vengeance? They are men like him, and I think vengeance is all he ever did want.
Is it what I want?
I do not think so, no. Even though I am angry and I hate him so very much, I do not think it is the same.
It is only that I want him to be gone, so he cannot punish me anymore, so he can never in the everest ever punish Miranda again.
So I can look at her.
So I can touch her.
So Master cannot take her away from the isle and away from me forever, because I am afraid it is what he means to do.
Even though I am thirsty too, I do not want to take time to drink, but the men moan and groan and I think they will not go any farther, so I lead them to a little spring that trickles from the rocks. Now the men dip their hands into the spring and drink and drink cold clear water, and it drips from their hands.
I drink one mouthful thinking, hurry, hurry, hurry!
A little spirit of air dances in the breeze above the spring, going in dizzy circles. One of the men says, oh, oh, what is it I see?
In the distance, I hear Ariel’s voice singing; and the other says, oh, oh, what is it I hear?
The breeze dies and the spirit drifts away. Slow, we are going too slow; and my belly is sick with fear at it.
“Do not be afraid,” I say to the men. “The isle is full of wonders; spirits that will dance in midair and the splashing fountains, sing oh, such very sweet songs for you, and give you such dreams that you will weep to awaken and long to sleep once more. And when Prospero, my old master, is gone, all the spirits of the isle will serve you. But we must hurry, we must go now to catch Master before he wakes.”
One of the men frowns. “Why do you not do the deed yourself and claim the isle, monster?”
I show him my teeth clenched in a smile. “It should be mine, for it was my mother’s before me. But my master has laid such a charm on me that I cannot harm him.”
“What’s to keep him from laying such a charm on us?” the other says.
“Nothing, if we do not surprise him,” I say through my smiling teeth. “That is why we must hurry.”
The men look at each other and nod.
Onward.
FORTY-NINE
MIRANDA
The prince’s name is Ferdinand.
I can scarce bear the way he gazes at me, besotted and unwitting. I should pity him, for ’tis not his fault; and yet there is no pity in my heart in this moment. I loathe him for being drawn into Papa’s snare and setting aside the burden of his grief so lightly; I loathe myself for letting it happen.
I loathe Papa for doing it, although this I admit to myself only in the secret place inside me.
“Is your daughter wed?” the prince says to Papa. “Tell me she’s not, for I’ll make her queen of Naples!”
Papa laughs. “You must prove your worth, lad.”
The prince’s eyes shine. “What task will you set me, good sir? Name it, and I’ll prove its equal!”
“Can you butcher a goat?” Papa inquires.
“I can dress a slain deer a-hunting in the field,” the prince says.
Papa claps a hand on his shoulder. “Well, then, you can butcher a goat. You’ll find one hanging in the garden and a knife on the sideboard. Make it ready for the spit, and see that the hearth is smoldering hot and the rack of firewood filled.”
The prince rises from his chair beside the hearth and bounds forth to do Papa’s bidding.
It is a relief to have him gone.
Papa and I regard each other. He wears a clean blue robe trimmed with silver, and I see that beneath his long white beard, there are new amulets hanging about his neck. “So you would see me made queen of Naples?” I ask quietly.
He plants his hands on the table, leaning over it, looming over me. The amulets sway and tangle in his beard. “Everything I have done, I have done for you, Miranda!” he says in a low, fierce voice. “For us!”
I look away, my eyes stinging. “The king’s son might have come to love me in his own right.”
Papa laughs again; this time it is a harsh sound. “Love! What do you know of love?”
Caliban.
I know Caliban in his constancy; I know Caliban in the depth of profound misery in his dark eyes, believing himself monstrous and unworthy of me. I know Caliban with his tense, hunched shoulders, the hard-muscled blades of his back spreading like wings as he crouches on the rocks above the stream to catch fish for our supper. I know Caliban who knows me; Caliban who knows Miranda.
Caliban, who leaves flowers on my window-ledge.
I do not know this prince.
He does not know me.