Prospero in Hell (5 page)

How had it happened that we had grown so far apart? Why could we not always be the way we were in this portrait?

“And that fellow?” Mab pointed at my last brother, who smiled wryly through the long lank hair that fell over his eyes. He was the only one without sideburns.

“Oh. That…”—I could not keep the disgust from my voice—“is Erasmus.”

Mab squatted down and examined him more closely. “The professor, right? He’s the one you don’t like. Got it.”

“ ‘Don’t like’ is putting it mildly,” I murmured. I glanced at my brother again and quickly looked away. Just seeing Erasmus’s face again brought to mind a thousand offenses he had committed against me. I fought off the wave of loathing that assailed me.

“And that, of course, is Mr. Prospero.” Mab pointed at the imposing figure of my father, with his gray flowing hair and beard. The print had captured the wise yet humorous gleam that lit his eyes.

I paused, struck by a sudden pain in my heart. Father! How I missed
him. Until he retired three years ago, I had been his constant companion, helping him in everything he did. And now? If my Lady and our Ouija board séance were to be believed, he was a living prisoner in Hell, hardly a fate I would wish on an enemy, much less a loved one.

Behind me, Mab moved on. He prowled around on the far side of the cluttered chamber. Pausing be peered at an elaborate scene of maidens playing Ring Around the Rosy in a meadow near a pond that was surrounded by cattails.

Surreptitiously wiping my eyes, I joined him. The quality of the carving he was examining was exquisite. I trailed my finger along the curlicues of a complicated filigree.

Mab squinted at my hand, drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and ran it over the curves and narrow angles of the carving before us. Then he peered at his handkerchief and sniffed it.

“Weird. Everything’s spotless. You’d think a house kept by your loony brother and his menagerie would be dusty, if not filthy. Oh, and this is a door.”

“Huh?” I glanced around, confused.

Mab chuckled. “Look.”

He tapped the carving three times, then pushed hard on the nose of a laughing girl in a kerchief and dirndl. The whole panel opened, swinging away from us to reveal a descending spiral staircase. The wonderful aromas of pastry and bubbling stew wafted up to meet us.

Mab and I glanced at each other. Mab grinned. We headed down. The passageway led into a wide kitchen with shiny copper pots hanging from a rack overhead. The maenad stood before the stove, sautéing vegetables and stirring a big boiling pot. Nearby, in yet another pool, the mermaid peeled potatoes. She was wearing earphones and humming to herself, her tail tapping the water to the beat.

“Welcome to our humble kitchen,” she purred in her husky voice.

“Thought you and Harebrain were off…” Mab’s voice trailed off, and his face became somewhat red.

The maenad snorted, rolling her eyes dramatically. “The master’s all smoke and no fire. He was just trying to flatter me, so I’d agree to cook dinner for his guests.”

“Probably wise that he abstains, considering what happened to your last son,” Mab muttered. Realizing she had heard him, he flushed more deeply. “Er, sorry… Your Majesty.”

The maenad gave him a withering look but restrained her comments to, “The master’s out in the barn, seeing to the comfort of the wounded gryphon.”

“Are you really that Agave?” I asked. “Queen Agave of Thebes?”

“Once of Thebes, long ago. Later of Illyria and of other places. Yes.”

“But, weren’t you… mortal?”

“I was born mortal. I lost my humanity when my son and I offended Bacchus.” She scratched the slate tiles with the pinecone on top of her thyrsos, and a fountain of wine sprang up, filling the kitchen with the sweet scent of crushed grapes. Deftly sticking a bowl under the fountain, she caught some of the deep purple liquid and, measuring it out, poured two cups into the stew. The newly sprung fountain slowed to a dribble and then dried up, leaving a dark stain like old blood upon the floor. “Or maybe I lost it when I twisted off my son’s head. Either way, I belong to the Vine God now.”

“What about your immortal soul?” asked Mab.

“Don’t know.” The maenad tasted the stew from a long wooden spoon, washed it, and continued to stir. “We didn’t know about such things back then. If you ask me, souls are a new invention.”

“Humans have always had souls,” Mab countered. “They can be good or evil, but they can’t be lost, in the sense that you mean. Once a human, always a human, at least at some level. Not like me and the mermaid here.”

“Hey, don’t drag me into this,” objected Morveren, who had removed her headphones. “I might have a soul. My father was a Cornishman named Matthew.” She pouted thoughtfully, her girlish chin tilted upward, a finger twirling her red tresses. “What does a soul do for you, again?”

“It’s the part of a human that allows him to remain who he is. Even if his situation changes, he can always find his way back to his original self,” Mab said. “Unlike us supernatural creatures. If we change, our very natures transform. We have no essential self to fight off external influences.”

A chill ran up my spine. Did Father know this? I thought of the stacks and stacks of naked Italian bodies, lying like corpses in the caverns beneath my sister Logistilla’s house. If I was right, Father intended them for the Aerie Ones, so they would all have bodies like Mab’s and could develop human judgment and feelings, as Mab had. But what would be the point if the Aerie Ones would automatically revert to their old ways the moment they returned to their original airy forms?

Surely, Mab’s seeming humanity, his kindness, his gruff concern, was not just a side effect of his fleshy body?

Thinking of Father reminded me of another of his projects, his translation of Orpheus’s poetry in an attempt to decipher the Eleusinian Mysteries.

I turned to Agave. “You’re a maenad. Were you involved with the death of Orpheus?”

“I was there.”

“Why did the maenads kill him?”

“Why did he have to die?” She picked up the pan and gave her wrist a twist. The sautéing vegetables flew into the air and came down again. “He was a prude. He spoke out against our rites, always preaching temperance and moderation and other hogwash. Besides, he knew secrets the gods did not want men to know.”

“Like how to get reincarnated without losing one’s memories?” I asked.

“Yes, like that.” She gave me a sly, calculating look, and her hair began to rise up like a cat’s.

Mab quickly changed the subject. “These Post-It notes everywhere, what are they for?”

“To remind the master of things he may have forgotten.” Agave turned back to her cooking, her hair flattening.

“A bit of overkill, don’t you think? He’s goofy, I grant you, but his memory problems seem a bit exaggerated. Everyone talks about it, but I’ve seldom seen him actually forget something.”

“That’s because Miranda is here.”

“Huh?” Mab peered at me suspiciously. “How so?”

“Just seeing members of his family reminds our master of all sorts of things. He’s much worse when they’re not around, especially when he gets into one of his morose moods. Sometimes, he can’t remember a thing for days. Not even his name.” Under her breath, she murmured, “He could use a bit of Orpheus’s wisdom, if you asked me. One too many sips out of the Lethe.”

“What was that?” Mab snapped.

“Nothing.” She tossed the vegetables again.

Mab frowned thoughtfully but did not pursue the topic.

The mermaid tilted her head and sighed. “Phisty. He’s so dreamy! I’m so glad he’s home and has his staff back! I missed him!”

“Couldn’t he just have come back to this house and visited you?” Mab asked.

Morveren shook her head. “We don’t live here year round. We all have our own homes and haunts. We’re only here now because the master called
us all together for a big party—to celebrate finding us again!” She sighed again. “I’m so envious of Chimie for saving him and helping him get back the staff. I wish I could have saved the master!”

“Tush, tush,” commented Queen Agave, as she slid chopped leeks from her cutting board into the stew. “We all have our purposes. No reason to covet someone else’s role.”

Glancing around the kitchen, Mab chuckled. “So, Harebrain was telling the truth. He really does have a maenad or harpy cook him breakfast.”

“Harpy!” Queen Agave snorted. “That mean old bird has no hands. All she does is terrorize the poor
bwca
into doing the work for her. Harpy cooking breakfast indeed!” She paused, reaching for a cutting board marred with deep scratches. “Speaking of the
bwca
. . .”

Agave scratched her nails across the board. Creamy milk ran from the scratches. She caught the milk in a bowl, then scratched the board once more. This time golden honey dripped down the marred wood. She let a few drops fall into the bowl and swirled the milk around.

“Put this by the fireplace in the big empty room upstairs, would you?”

Mab took the bowl carefully and started up the stairs. On the second step, he paused.

“Eh… either of you ladies know anything about a big, black, bat-winged guy with sapphire eyes and claws?”

“Who, us?” Agave’s expressive face was unnaturally blank. “No. I have never seen anything like that.”

“Me, neither.” The mermaid put on her headphones and began bopping to the music, the water rippling about her.

Mab turned and ascended the staircase without a comment. Once at the top and through the arch, he murmured, “She’s lying.”

“Obviously,” I agreed.

He growled, scrunching up his face. I could tell that he would have punched his palm, except his hands were full with
bwca
milk. “Bet I could pummel the truth out of her!”

The chamber with the great hearth contained only a few neat piles of gear and numerous pastel squares of paper. There was no pool, only a hardwood floor that creaked beneath our feet.

“
Bwca,
eh?” Mab put the bowl down beside the brick of the fireplace. “Welsh relative of the brownie. No wonder the place is spotless. Those fellows’ll clean anything for a little honey-laced milk.”

I slipped my hand into the pocket of my cashmere cloak, which I carried over one arm, my fingers seeking the supple leather of the little book. Several rooms back, I had spied a big comfortable chair, albeit one that was pushed up next to two smaller chairs. Still, it was beside a window with plenty of light. If I walked back there now, I might be able to read the entire book before dinner.

“Are we done?”

Mab shook his head. “If we’re going to get to the bottom of what is up with the Harebrain, we’ve got to unravel the clues he’s left all around us.” He glanced at the mostly empty hall. “I’m convinced there’s some method to this madness, and I intend to find it!”

“We’re wasting our time, Mab,” I snapped. “These messages are just notes my brother leaves to remind himself of things he’s forgotten.”

Mab stalked over to a pile of yellowed fencing gear leaning against the far side of the hearth. Following him, I saw jackets, helmets, two foils, and an epee. The note stuck to the wall above read:
REMEMBER TO PRACTICE
.

“Condemning evidence, that,” I mused. “It’s all clear now.”

Mab gave me a long, level look. “You want me to work or not, Ma’am? It’s your call.”

I waved a hand. “Carry on.”

Beyond, two cardboard boxes holding ribbons, wrapping paper, and a few children’s toys stood to either side of an empty closet. Scraps of tape and brightly colored paper were scattered about the floor. The notes stuck to the wall above the two boxes read:
FOR E.D.
and
FOR T.C.

“This must be recent. The
bwca
hasn’t gotten to it yet.” Mab leaned over and sniffed the scraps of paper and tape. Straightening, he pulled out his notebook and copied down the messages. “Apparently, your brother was sending someone Christmas presents.”

Next to the closet sat a red trunk. Mab opened the lid and peered at the note attached to the inside.

“Creepy,” he muttered, jerking back. I leaned closer. The note stuck to the open lid read:
MEMENTOES OF DEAD FRIENDS.

“What is it?” I pushed the lid back farther and looked in.

The chest held hundreds of little wooden figurines with jeweled eyes, primarily animals. I reached in and lifted my hand: dogs, elephants, boars, birds, an alligator, and a cheetah spilled from my palm. They clinked, ringing like wood chimes, as they rained back upon their fellows, the multicolored gems of their eyes sparkling.

“These were part of his staff once,” I guessed.

“From the
Staff of Summoning
?” asked Mab. “How so?”

“You’ve seen his staff, how it looks like a long narrow totem pole, with dozens of little figurines, one on top of another?”

“Like the one he tried to make of me back on the boat? The one we were just talking about?”

“Exactly.” I nodded. “Each figurine represents a different creature Mephisto can summon, a creature he has befriended or made a compact with. Most of them are supernatural, like the gryphon, the maenad, and the harpy, but some are ordinary animals Mephisto has trained, like that swallow and the falcon.