Prospero in Hell (39 page)

I passed between the cliffs and entered the ravine. Here in the shadow of the high rock walls, the vegetation became less tropical. To my right, I could hear the roaring of the river Father had dubbed the Eridanus. In the
deepening twilight, the tiny feylings twinkled and sparkled like unfixed stars. The moss was soft and spongy beneath my feet and filled the air with a loamy scent. I drew nearer the river and felt the cold spray from where the rushing water struck and tumbled over rocks. A rabbit nibbling the long grasses that grew on the bank raised its head but did not run or give alarm. The rabbits here had no predators, save for hawks and other winged creatures. Nothing that walked on legs had ever menaced them.

Cresting a small rise, I came upon a gentle dell. As I walked through its slender beeches, I began to feel an odd sense of familiarity. This section of forest was new and unfamiliar, but here and there something triggered a feeling of déjà vu: the old gnarled stand of lilacs, the rock that reminded me of the back of a beetle. It was not until I came to the semicircular growth of mountain laurels, nearly lost amidst the younger taller trees, that I realized, with a sharp sting of astonishment, where I was. In my childhood, this had been an open glade, with only the lilacs, the laurel bushes, and a stand of hortencias growing here. How different the old place looked overgrown with tall stately trees.

I closed my eyes and pictured the glade as it had once been, taking my bearings from the mountain laurels and Beetle Rock. Stretching out my arm, I opened them again and walked in the direction I pointed, dodging poplars and beeches. Between the trunks of twin white pines, I glimpsed a cascade of mountain grape. Circling the pines, I approached slowly and, reaching out, as if in a dream, pulled aside the vines.

They parted to show granite. Pushing aside more, I stepped forward and found myself standing on a flat rock about four feet square with two hefty pillars of crudely carved granite on either side. I ran my finger over the rough stone, tracing a bas-relief of a horned equine. Once, there had been a spiral carved on the rock beneath my feet as well, though, due to weathering and decayed leaves, I could hardly see it now. The grape vines spilling down either side of the pillars like a leafy-green veil added a sense of sacred seclusion that had not been here in my youth.

“The Shrine of the Unicorn,” I whispered aloud, remembering.

I came here for the first time on my fifth birthday, the day Father consecrated me to Eurynome. How fresh and beautiful the glade had looked. It was early May, and the island was still glistening from the spring rains. I remember a profusion of flowers and the wonderful scent of blooming lilacs.

How I had looked forward to that day! When we arrived here, I was aquiver with excitement; so much so that I danced about the glade, spinning
until my apron stood straight out before me, while I hummed the song Father had taught me to sing during the ceremony. Even when Father ordered me come stand beside him, I could not stand demurely as was my usual wont, but stood bouncing and humming, too filled up with joy to keep still. Even now, the memory of that moment brought a smile to my lips.

I had not known exactly what was to come, but Father had told me many wonderful stories of the White Lady of Spiral Wisdom and her brother, who so loved the world He incarnated among us so as to save mankind from the Wrath of Heaven. So, I knew whatever was to come would be something overtly good!

Of course, when we returned to Milan, I learned a rather different version of the salvation of man. Later on, in England, I can recall overhearing a lively discussion between my father and that notable churchman, Sir Thomas More, during which Sir Thomas pointed out that the Bible clearly stated Jesus was the only begotten son of God. To which my father replied, “True, but it was silent on the matter of whether God has other sons who have never been begotten, much less upon the matter of daughters.”

I myself took a less heretical view than Father. I made no attempt to affix Eurynome’s place in the hierarchy of Heaven. It was enough for me to know She was numbered among the Forces of Light.

Father had placed me on the altar stone and departed, so that I was alone in the grove. For a time, all was quiet and still, then I heard a sound in the distance so beautiful that I thought I would die from the beauty of it. In retrospect, I now realized it must have been Father playing to summon a storm, but at the time I had never heard my flute’s music and did not know what it could be.

A storm rose. Black clouds warred overhead, and thunder rolled through the ravine like cannon fire. Rain came down in sheets, drenching me where I stood in my pretty little dress. My hair stuck to me like a slick black shawl. But I was used to the rain, and it was not cold, so I did not mind. Dutifully, I sang the song my father had painstakingly taught me.

Then, lightning struck.

The searing white-hot bolt fell from the heavens, striking the imprint of a deerlike hoof in the center of the spiral carved into the altar stone beneath my feet. Sparks of blue-white fire leapt everywhere, crawling over my body like a shocking caress. I screamed, both in fear and joy, for although I could not move my limbs, I felt no pain.

The electricity snaked about, curling and leaping. Gathering together
before me, it formed a figure of white living fire, a slim deerlike horse with eyes the color of lilac petals and a curling horn of lightning upon Her brow. She tilted Her head, regarding me. I spread my arms and sang Her song as loudly as my little lungs could bear.

And then She stepped into me.

I can think of no other way of explaining what happened. First, I saw Her standing before me, then She came toward me, and then She was gone. For an instant, however, between when She stepped toward me and when She vanished, She and I became one being, and I knew all there was to know about love, the universe, and God. Then, I was myself again. The great wisdom was gone, save for a few traces. Yet She had stayed with me, a soft comforting presence, deep within. As I stood in the vine-covered shrine today, over fifty-three decades later, I could still feel her presence.

Later, after the storm ended, Father came to collect me. As we walked home that day, I recalled expressing gratitude that we had been so lucky as to land on this island where Eurynome had once stepped. Striding beside me, his long legs slowing for my benefit, Father smiled mysteriously and murmured, “Luck had nothing to do with it.”

Back in the present, my blood ran cold. How had we come to live on an island sacred to Eurynome? Might it have been because my Father’s patron, Queen Maeve of Fairyland, wafted us here? Could my consecration have been part of her plan to destroy Eurynome all along? But if so, why wait so long? Why had she not acted back when I was a child? Of course, Father might not know Maeve was Lilith. Perhaps, he was useful to her in other ways—he was after all a dread and powerful magician—and the Elf Queen bided her time so as not to alienate him.

I leaned against one of the granite pillars, frowning. The rock was damp beneath my head and smelled of wet lichen. Father duped by the Queen of Demons? I found that difficult to believe. Father seldom remained anyone’s fool for long, much less for centuries. The very concept of someone duping Father struck me as far-fetched.

Of course, if my realization on Erasmus’s roof was correct, and my judgment was suspect, then my faith in my father’s cunning told me nothing.

A murmur of voices alerted me that I was no longer alone. Not wishing to speak to anyone, I searched for a place to hide. Just behind the shrine, the mountain grape had smothered some laurel bushes. I ducked under the vines and tucked myself out of sight between two of the nearly dead bushes.

Around the corner came the unlikely pair of Erasmus and Caliban. I could not see their faces, but I recognized Erasmus by his green velvet pants and Caliban because he was the only one on the island wearing jeans. Instantly, a feeling of rage welled up within me. Erasmus had no doubt brought Caliban out here to pump him for tidbits he could use later to abuse me!

Forcibly reminding myself that there was no point in wasting anger on the inevitable, I leaned forward to hear what they were saying to each other.

“Interesting. Sounds like a busy schedule. Must have been quite a shock after all those years of solitary existence.” Erasmus paused. “What was life like, here on the island, before Father came?”

“Don’t know.” Caliban kicked a stone with the side of his foot, as one might kick a soccer ball. It flew across the leaves and bounced off the bole of a dead oak. “I don’t remember life before the master and Miranda. I suppose I lived here, but I have no memories of that period. ‘Lost to the mists of time,’ as the master would say.”

“And you have no idea… Hallo, what’s this?” Erasmus’s feet stopped before the granite pillar I had uncovered when I first arrived.

“The Shrine of the Unicorn,” Caliban replied reverently.

“Ah, the place where Father sacrificed his infant daughter to the lightning bolt.”

“I beg your pardon?” Caliban growled darkly.

“Nothing, just a little family joke.” The vines rustled as Erasmus drew them back. He knelt down and brushed some of the leaves and debris from the altar stone. “Interesting. Did you and your mother build this?”

“No, my dam kept it up, though. She used to wash and polish it, fancying herself the priestess.”

“How did you come to be living here? Were you shipwrecked like my father?”

“My dam came seeking the White Lady.” Caliban knelt and pushed the dirt and debris away from the center of the altar stone, until he had uncovered the slim cloven hoofprint. It was all there. “She told me this footprint is the first place on Earth the Unicorn ever stepped.”

“What did Sycorax want from Eurynome?”

“Her lost beauty. She had great beauty once, but it faded when her former master cast her aside. She hoped the Unicorn could return it to her.”

“I gather not everything went as planned.”

Caliban shook his head and stood, so that I could only see his calves and feet again. “My dam did not understand the Unicorn. When She did not
come to her, my dam tried to capture the Serpent of the Winds, hoping to use him as a hostage. Only all she managed to capture was the South East wind.”

“Ariel?” asked Erasmus.

“Ariel.”

“Which explains why she shut him up in that pine,” Erasmus said. “Apparently, he was very happy to get out. Happy enough to vow a thousand years of service to our family.”

“My dam was not very nice to him.” Caliban paused. “She was not nice to anyone.”

“Rather like our dear sister Miranda,” snickered Erasmus.

Here it comes, I thought.

“Miranda? I could not think of any two creatures less alike,” Caliban objected. Then, he chuckled. “To quote the words the Bard wrote for my mouth: Miranda ‘as far surpasses Sycorax as greatest does least.’ ”

“What was our dear sister like?” asked Erasmus. “And apparently she is ‘our’ sister. A cross we must bear in common.”

“Miranda,” Caliban breathed my name as if it were a prayer. “What a creature she was! Guileless and considerate of all living things. I remember her standing in a field of orchids in a green gown, her dark hair blowing in the wind like a banner, her face shining as she sung to a broken orchid, hoping her song would help its stem heal. She was so innocent, so pure—like an angel walking upon the earth.” He paused. “I’ve gotten around quite a bit in the years since Mephisto tamed me and gave me the… and took me off the island. I have seen many women. I have known many women. I’ve watched children growing and young women laughing with their friends. And none of them… none come close to my Miranda. If she can truly forgive me, if she can see me as more than a monster, then this old carcass is worth something yet.”

Touched, I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth. How beautiful Caliban’s memories of me were. How unkind I had been to remember only his crudity and not his good heart. Had I sung to an orchid, hoping to make it grow? I tried to recall what I had been like before Ferdinand failed to show up for our wedding, before those cold lonely days in Milan. I had been different, that much I knew, but had I really been… sweet?

It was hard to believe. And yet, being here, inhaling the island air caused a vague stirring, deep within me, as if something that slumbered turned in its sleep, yawning.

A tremor of fear shot through me. What if the Miranda Caliban remembered—the one whom I just recalled as being so docile even before Father brought me to be consecrated—was the result of Father’s magic, like the ever-blooming orchids, and the original me, the one that was waking, were more like Sycorax?

Over by the shrine, Erasmus replied to Caliban. His voice sounded muffled and strained. I expect this was caused by the effort he was making not to laugh. “Not exactly what I would have said, but nice to know you feel that way.”

“You don’t like her,” Caliban leaned against one of the stone pillars and crossed his feet. So, he had noticed. This new Caliban was definitely more perceptive than the old one.

“Not even a smidgeon,” Erasmus replied mildly. “She took something from me once, something terribly precious.”

I was so surprised that I nearly stood up and objected. What precious thing could I possibly have taken from Erasmus? Most likely, he was inventing this story on the spot to gain sympathy from Caliban. But he did not sound as if he were making it up. He sounded… melancholy.