Prospero in Hell (40 page)

“I am sorry,” replied Caliban.

“Tell me, Stepbrother,” Erasmus spoke lightly, but there was an intensity in his voice, a tension that betrayed a heightened emotion. “Do you have any idea why Father instructed Mephisto to give you a portion of Water of Life?”

“Um-Um,” grunted Caliban.

“You see, the finer points of who is allowed Water and who is not is a bit of a sore spot in our family. As you might have guessed, having heard what Titus said about his children. Miranda is extraordinarily tightfisted. She won’t even give it to us to share with our w-wi…” He stuttered, paused, and then took a deep breath, continuing more calmly. “Our wives and children. I’ve never heard of Father going behind her back before. But, go behind her back, he must have, because we all knew how she hated you—no offense.”

Me? Tightfisted? But I only ever did as Father asked. Erasmus must know that. Why would he tell Caliban such lies about me?

“None taken,” Caliban replied.

“So, do you have any notion why Father did it? Why you?”

“As Master Mephisto suggested, the master may have made some promise to my dam.”

“That could be, I suppose. If so, she must have had some extraordinary hold over him. Wish I knew what it was.”

“It grows dark.” Caliban stepped away from the pillar. “Won’t the others be starting the spell soon?”

“Good point. Always a bad idea to be caught without a light at night in unknown territory.” Erasmus turned and began walking back toward the mouth of the ravine.

Caliban followed him, laughing. “No fear there. We would only need to call the feylings together until they formed a ball big enough to light our path. Besides, I know this island so well, I could crisscross it with my eyes shut. It’s not unknown territory to me. No, sir!”

As they disappeared into the forest, Erasmus’s voice drifted back, amused. “So, you quote Shakespeare, do you, Stepbrother? Have you read ‘Caliban upon Setebos’?”

Caliban’s voice was louder than Erasmus’s and carried better, as did his chuckle. “Robert Browning was a friend of Master Mephisto’s. We had many a chat. He held that I must curse the parents who named me after such ungainly a character. I was not yet called Calvin then.”

The circle of trees known as the Grove of Books grew near the top of the bluffs that faced northeast, back toward the Continent. The night was clear. A three-quarter moon hung low in the sky amidst a field of a thousand thousand stars. The stars were mirrored below, both by the calm black reflective ocean waters, and by the twinkling of a myriad of feylings, whose tiny lights danced among the dark silhouettes of the surrounding forest. If one tilted one’s head just right, it appeared as if the stars were everywhere: overhead, amidst the forest, and below in the dark velvety waters.

Just beyond the grove, the bluff fell away to the ocean, whose waves could be heard crashing against the rocks below like some Cyclops’s relentless hammer. The breakers sent a spray high into the air. Mingling with the perfume of the orchids it formed a scent both salty and sweet.

We stood midst this faeriescape in our rumpled party clothes, watching Mephisto put the final touches on the preparations for the upcoming spell. By unspoken agreement, we had each gravitated to the tree from which our own staff had been cut.

I sat at the north end of the grove on the stump of the split pine that had once served as a prison for Ariel, the pine from which my flute, the
Staff of Winds,
had been made. To my right, Cornelius waited beneath the boughs of a gnarled apple, said to be a scion of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. His cane was wrapped in black cloth, and a black ribbon circled the trunk of the apple tree. Apparently, this was some kind of ward meant to keep the demon in his staff, the
Staff of Persuasion,
from interfering with our efforts.

To the west, Theo rested against the trunk of the great oak whose wood formed the core of the
Staff of Devastation.
Oak, the tree most often struck
by lightning, was sacred to Zeus, and thus a good choice to house a weapon of such power. After him, Titus, still weak from his wounds, relaxed beneath the feathery branches of a cedar, whose wood warded off spirits the same way it repelled moths. Titus had asked the airy servants to bring him a chair. Now he reclined, garbed in one of Father’s scarlet velvet smoking jackets, reading, by the light of a flashlight he had found in the pantry, a six-month-old paper he had discovered in Father’s study.

Due south, Erasmus half sat against the ash—the tree of death, from which spears used to be fashioned—that had supplied the core of the
Staff of Decay
. He had pulled his straight black hair back into a short queue. This had been his regular hairstyle during the eighteenth century. Apparently, I was not the only one for whom fashions changed too quickly.

The next tree was an ebony, the darkest of woods. It had supplied the
Staff of Darkness,
which was currently carried by Seir of the Shadows. Caliban stood there, arms crossed, in the place that should have been Gregor’s.

The eastern tree was a great weeping willow. I did not know the significance of willow and could not speculate as to why Father had picked it for the
Staff of Transmogrification.
Logistilla peered disgruntledly through the drooping branches, unable to decide if she should stand by the trunk or in front of the veil of leaves. Her gown of spun night had not been designed to hold up for twenty-four hours of wear. She had discarded it in favor of the only blue garment she could find, a pair of Father’s silk pajamas.

The next tree was the tall teak from which the
Staff of Transportation
had been fashioned, the staff Ulysses now carried. Father associated teak with traveling. For years, he had stored his books in a teak chest that he had lugged with him wherever we went.

The final tree, which stood quite close to me, had so many different varieties of branches grafted on to the same trunk that I could not say what kind of tree it had once been. This arboreal chimera had engendered Mephisto’s staff, the
Staff of Summoning.
Mab stood before it now to fill out the circle, since Mephisto was officiating the ritual.

I glanced speculatively around the Grove of Books. Teak did not ordinarily grow this far north, nor could any natural process have produced Mephisto’s tree, with species as diverse as birch and cherry and mahogany all growing together. Father must maintain this grove with the same magic that kept the orchids always in bloom.

Not trusting the alchemical salts Father had on hand, Theo and Mab eventually decided to construct the wards in the Atlantean manner. Thin
channels had been cut into the earth, lined with metal roof flashing, which Titus found in the cellar, and filled with dragon’s blood, a barrel of which Erasmus had discovered in Father’s
sanctum arcanum
.

When they were done, three tiers of wards guarded us from wandering or malicious spirits. The outermost circle encompassed the entire grove. The middle one separated the trees from the center area, and the inner one circled the pentagram at the very center, which had been drawn with its top pointed at the teak tree. Within the inner circle, four triangles had been arranged about the central pentagram, one in each of the four cardinal directions. Individual wards had also been inscribed about each tree, protecting us individually. Short straight channels connected all these wards, so that the flaming dragon’s blood could flow freely throughout the entire design.

In the center of the grove, facing the pentagram, stood Mephisto. Unlike the rest of us, he wore a fresh suit of clothes, no doubt fetched for him by one of the entities upon his staff: a voluminous-sleeved shirt of purest indigo silk with a black satin waistcoat and matching indigo pantaloons that spilled over the top of wide-brimmed black boots. The outfit resembled many he had worn during the 1600s. It had been made for him by Logistilla and was an enchanted garment as durable as my tea gown—which I really regretted having left at Erasmus’s. The indigo silk perfectly matched the blue panache atop the hat Father Christmas had given him, which he carried in his right hand. In his other hand, he held his six-foot totem pole of carven figurines, the
Staff of Summoning.
I saw no evidence of the handcuffs he had been using to secure his staff to his arm. He must have removed them for this august occasion.

Mephisto stood in his own small circle. To his north, south, east, and west, framing the pentagram, were the invocation triangles. Father’s best guardian talismans had been placed in their appropriate triangles. The eastern triangle held a wide goblet of blue crystal. Upon the bowl of the cup, dolphins leapt surrounded by spray. To the south, a pentacle of beaten gold was set with precious and semiprecious stones. To the west lay a parchment scroll wrapped about a sandalwood rod, while the northern triangle held a golden-handled sacred knife, silver runes shimmering like liquid moonlight along its black blade. In the last triangle of the pentagram itself stood a fifth talisman, a slim winged slipper of silver cloth. At Mephisto’s insistence, I put a drop of the Water of Life on each talisman.

Theo bent and lit the wards. With a flash, fire spread along the dragon’s blood until the entire pattern was burning. In addition to its other properties,
dragon’s blood had the virtue that it ignited quickly but was consumed slowly.

Mephisto stood amidst the glowing wards, his face lit by the steady ruby light of the burning blood. He raised both his hands and chanted.

“Holy guardians of the four directions, I conjure thee and call thee to your posts. Guard us from all who mean us harm. Raphael, guardian of the east, healer, warden of the Water of Life, come, drink of this cup and protect us. Michael, guardian of the south, Warrior of God, whose strength is greater even than the titan Atlas, come, stand upon this precious Earth and protect us. Uriel, guardian of the west, Regent of the Sun, whose wings are hotter than the fiery inferno, come, consume this holy fuel and protect us. Gabriel, guardian of the north, Trumpeter of Heaven, whose breath will usher in the Last Days, come, take up this blade and protect us.”

A silence fell across the grove, and though I saw nothing, I knew the angels had come. Their presence was unmistakable, like the soft touch of a feather against one’s cheek.

Mephisto now gestured at the winged silver slipper, calling. “Psychopomp, lord of messengers, he who conveys the souls of the dead, I call you by your secret name. Hermes Tristmegistes, hear my command. Seek out the
Staff of Transportation,
whose essence is contained within this teak tree, and bear it to me upon this spot. Bring it unharmed and harming none. For your efforts, ye may drink of the nectar within this homage to your fleet-footedness. Go now. I compel ye, according to my authority as a Prince of the Sixth Circle. Recognize me and obey.”

Merciful Mother of God! So, this was why only Mephisto could perform the spell. He was calling upon his authority as a Prince of Hell! No ordinary magician could compel the gods. No wonder Mab was nervous!

We waited. The rosy light from the burning wards illuminated the faces of my relatives, revealing expressions of intense concentration. Seconds crawled into minutes. Then, just as Erasmus stepped to the edge of his ward, about to call off the effort, there was a flash of blinding white light. Curving about, the light formed a surprised-looking Ulysses clutching his teak staff for dear life.

Ulysses took one look at our gathered company and in a second burst of white light, teleported away.

Groaning, Mephisto cast the spell a second time, though he seemed less confident. Beside me, in front of the orange tree, Mab stirred in agitation. I
understood the cause of their distress. The guardians of the four directions were still present; however, fleet-footed Hermes would have to be summoned again. Only, Mephisto could not reach the slipper to renew the supply of Water of Life without breaking the sanctity of the wards. Resanctifying the wards would require snuffing out the whole design and beginning again, and Theo had already used nearly all of Father’s supply of dragon’s blood. So, what was Mephisto to offer the psychopomp in return for his services? On principle, it was not a good idea to shortchange the god of thieves.

On the other hand, a drop of Water of Life was more than even the gods were usually paid for a task as simple as this one. Perhaps, the Swift One would be willing to perform a second task for that same price. Ever optimistic, Mephisto charged ahead with the spell, repeating his previous words exactly.