At the head of the table, Papa fixes him with a lopsided squint. “What are you about, sprite?”
“The moon rises high in the sky and the hours of the day are all but counted, Master,” Ariel says. “Have I failed thee in any particular?”
“You have not,” Papa says.
“Thou didst promise me my freedom,” Ariel says, and although his voice is soft and low, there is the promise of thunder in it.
Papa hesitates. I am quite certain that he should like to refuse Ariel. I wonder if he will dare to do so, and I wonder what Ariel will do if Papa does so. But again, there is an audience present; an audience of men before whom Papa does not wish to appear aught less than a man of his word.
“So I did.” Papa clambers to his feet, leaning on his staff. “So I did.” He sways a little, makes a magnanimous gesture with his other hand. “Your oath is fulfilled to the letter, gentle spirit,” he pronounces. “In the name of the good Lord God, go, and be free of it!”
There is no great thunderclap this time, no great rush of wind; only a sound like a sigh, and then Ariel is gone.
I cannot decipher the expression on Papa’s face.
“Truly the Lord’s blessing is on this day,” he says. “But the spirit speaks the truth, for it draws to a close, and thus do I declare this night’s revel to be finished. Sleep, gentlefolk, and awaken to a new dawn.”
There is no bedding to spare, but the king and his men are content to stretch their length on the floor of the hall.
It is a relief beyond telling to be dismissed to the privacy of my chamber, though the prospect of sleep eludes me. I cannot help but picture Caliban; Caliban hanging from a gallows, his eyes bulging in the throes of death; Caliban in chains, his shoulders hunched, enduring the jeers and taunts of a hateful, mocking crowd.
I cannot bear it.
And so in the deep stillness of the night, I rise from my pallet and begin knotting my bed-linens together.
FIFTY-FOUR
CALIBAN
I tear and bloody the nails of my fingers and toes trying to climb the walls of my chamber to reach the high windows, but it is no good. There are no gaps between the tiles like on the stone walls outside.
I pull and pull on the handle of the door, but the lock holds.
Then I do push against the stone blocks that those little gnomes did pile in my door until the skin is scraped from my hands and arms and shoulders and my legs are shaking and sore, but that is no good, either.
Caliban is a prisoner, the poor dumb monster. Just like in the beginning, only everything is different.
Oh, Miranda!
I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry so very sorry so very sorry, oh Setebos, I think you must hate me.
If only I could see you.
If only I could tell you with the words that you did teach me that I am sorry, so sorry, that I could not help that hatred for Master did grow in my heart until it was red and hot and sick.
It is still sick.
I am sick.
He held his hand in yours and you did let him.
I am sick.
Outside the high windows I cannot reach, the sun sets and the light goes away. For a time it is dark, and then the moon rises and there is a little silvery light that comes through the high windows.
In the morning the sun will rise.
I wonder what Master will do. Prospero; oh, I did call him Prospero to his face, and I am not sorry for it. No, not for that. Only for the other thing I said, and only because you did hear it, Miranda.
But I think he will kill me for what I did try to do. He did want to kill me before. Yes, I think I will die in the morning. It is a strange thing to think of not being, but I sit in the moonlight and think it to myself.
I am Caliban.
Caliban is; but tomorrow, Caliban will not be.
How can I not be?
This thought is like a heavy stone falling and falling through my thoughts and I follow it down but it only keeps falling and falling like it is falling in a well that has no bottom and the more I think it the more heavy it is until my head is heavy with it, and my head falls forward to touch my knees, and it is heavy so heavy— “Caliban.”
Thunk.
I think it is the stone hitting the bottom at last, but no, there is no stone and no well, only my head coming up hard.
I was asleep; I did dream.
“Caliban!”
Then oh, oh, oh! I am awake and it is Miranda’s voice I hear, Miranda’s voice that calls in a soft, scared whisper from the gallery above my cell where she did watch me when we were little. Quick, so quick, I am on my feet. I lift my face to find her. She is there, the moonlight a shimmer on her hair. My heart sings inside me like a bird. If I had wings, I would fly to her.
There is a slithering sound and something long and white comes out of the darkness. It is a rope that Miranda has made from her bed-linens. One end hangs in front of my face. I take it in my hand and tug. It does not move. The other end is knotted around the railing of the balcony.
“Can you climb it?” Miranda whispers to me.