Rough Magic (12 page)

“Liar,” she said. Her mouth filled with a metallic taste. She forced herself to swallow. “Are you going to cast the spell now?” she asked.

He reached into his pocket and grasped the handkerchief. “We haven't been able to talk much this past week,” he began.

“My life has been one long dress fitting.” She rolled onto her side, wincing at her stomach's sudden protest. “I had to stand there and watch those poor women be bullied. They made me twelve new gowns. Twelve! And for nothing. At least I managed to get a good pair of boots out of it all. I told my father that Spanish women are wild about riding horses.”

“They are?” he asked.

She kept chattering, pushing against the pillow that seemed to be filling her head in the place of her brain. “I don't know. I just wanted to get a good pair of boots. I don't suppose court slippers will be much use on the island.” She looked at him anxiously.

“Chiara,” he began. He stopped, as though he didn't know how to continue.

“I know,” she said. She sat up gingerly and tucked her feet in under the skirt of her gown. Her wretched lavender silk gown, the not-mourning gown. She'd have to switch to her regular green dress, just as soon as the world stood still again. “I know that you're worried about how we'll manage on the island. I mean, how I'll manage. I am scared, Caliban. But I know that no matter how hard it is, it'll be better than being married in Spain.”

He looked at his hands, and she followed his gaze. “You're strong, Caliban,” she whispered. “And I am too. We'll be fine.”

“We'll have to be,” he said. “Chiara, are you sure? We'll have to build a house. We'll have to cut trees and split them into boards. It will take a while, and until it's done we'll live roughly. Even when it is done, we'll live roughly. We'll have to hunt for food, and if we don't find it, we'll go hungry.”

A bitter smell pinched her nostrils. “I know all this, Caliban,” she snapped. “I have thought about everything. I'm not a hothouse princess.”

“I'll die, Chiara. Someday. Then you'll be alone.”

An acrid taste furred the surface of her tongue. “I like being alone,” she said. She wished with all her being that she was alone right now.

Caliban looked only partly relieved. “The stars…the stars told me something.” He stopped.

“What did they tell you?” She lay down again wishing, praying even, that the ship would stop moving.

“They told me that you'll face a challenge. That you will be tested.”

She glanced up at the round cabin windows. They looked as though they were sealed. She'd give a good deal for some fresh air. Caliban was making no sense. Her mind was full of babble. “Of course I'll be tested. This bloody ship is a test.” She breathed to steady herself and forced a wan smile. “We'll be fine.” She swallowed, then swallowed again. Her throat was strangely tight.

“My brothers weren't speaking about loneliness or hunger. The island holds some particular danger for you.”

Beads of perspiration were prickling her forehead. One of them slid down into her left eye. She blinked it away. “Caliban, what are you talking about? You aren't making any sense.”

He squinted at her. “Are you ill?”

“I'm fine. I'm just warm, that's all. What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that perhaps we should go to Spain.”

She stared at him blankly for a moment. Then she leaned over and vomited on the cabin floor.

III.viii.

Caliban was a natural nurse. He wiped her face with a soft cloth, unbuttoned the now-ruined lavender gown, got her nightgown from her travel trunk, and then slipped out of the cabin for water and a mop. He supposed they had such things on a ship. Weren't sailors always “swabbing” the deck? He ran into a boy, no more than twelve years old, and explained what he needed. The fellow was puzzled. Caliban realized that he didn't speak Italian very well, so he tried again with simple words and gestures. Then the boy seemed to understand. He grinned and ran off. In a moment he was back with a bucket and bundle of rags. Caliban thanked him and went back to the cabin.

Chiara was in bed, huddled miserably under the rough blanket. The lavender gown had been tossed down on the floor, covering the mess of sick. She lifted her head briefly when he came in, making sure that it was him and not someone else.

“I'll get this tidied away in no time,” he said, reassuringly. “As for the gown…”

“Throw it overboard. Really. I never want to see it again.” She buried her face in the pillow and groaned.

He shrugged and used the gown to mop up the worst of the mess. Then he scrubbed the floor clean. “I'll be right back,” he said, and disappeared out of the cabin once more. He propped the door open slightly so that some fresh air would blow in and chase the foulness away.

He dumped the scrub water and the gown overboard. The sight of Chiara's dress sinking beneath the waves made his heart clutch.
It's nothing,
he told himself.
It's just a useless dress tossed away
. But his mind kept returning to the vision of Chiara tumbling down into the sea.

She was afraid of water. She had been ever since she was a small child, screaming her way through every bath, no matter how her nurse coaxed and coerced her. Caliban had taught her to swim, thinking that would help. It had, but only to some degree.

Now he wanted to take her to his island, where the sea would surround her and hold her captive.

He went back to the cabin and set the bucket down beside her bed. “Just in case you need it,” he said.

“In case?” she groaned. She flipped over and stared up at him. He smiled and stroked her forehead, letting his water-chilled hand cool her. She reached up and grabbed it with her own. “I don't care about your star brothers' danger, Caliban. I've made my choice.”

She let go of his hand and rolled onto her side. She retched once again. When she was finished she gave Caliban a pale smile and passed him the bucket. “I'm sorry, Caliban,” she said.

“It's nothing,” he said. “Even sailors get seasick when they first leave port.” He took the bucket outside and emptied it overboard. Then he found the boy again and managed to make him understand that he wanted a flask of drinking water. The fellow laughed out loud this time, but fetched a leather flagon as quickly as if he'd had wings on his feet. “Thank you, Hermes,” Caliban said. The nickname surprised the boy and seemed to please him. He grinned again and was gone.

Chiara took the drink gratefully. “I wish my head would stop spinning long enough to let me think,” she complained.

“In a few hours you'll be used to the pitch of the ship.”

“A few hours!” she groaned. She buried her head in the pillow again.

“It will pass,” he said. “For now, rest. Perhaps tonight I can talk to the stars once more and see if there's anything new to learn.”

She threw up again. He sighed and patted her arm. There wasn't much else he could do.

Finally she slept. He went outside. The sky was beginning to darken. He lay down on the deck beside the cabin, out of the wind. The ship rode the gentle swells. The stars began to show themselves, but the movement of the sea made them seem to sway and veer from their course. He found it hard to concentrate. Without his window, the heavens were too distant and unruly for him to attract his brothers' attention. Added to that, the sailor on watch kept shuffling by, staring at him curiously. He finally gave up and went back inside the cabin.

Chiara was sitting up in bed, eating some dry bread he'd left for her. She looked almost cheerful, despite her wild hair and rumpled nightgown. “Any news?” she asked.

He shook his head and sat down with a snort of disgust. “I can't get my bearings on this ship. The stars shift about and are too busy with each other.”

“Oh well.” She was open about her lack of faith in his brothers.

“You're the only alchemist in the world who doesn't see the importance of the heavens,” he said.

“Agreed,” she admitted. She seemed herself again. “Spain is real, Caliban. The danger—”

“Is real. And deadly. Whatever Spain may be, it isn't that.”

She began to chew her fingernails. “You never know,” she argued. “Some royal wives get their heads cut off. Look at England.”

“That's cheery,” Caliban said. But an icy fist had closed itself around his heart. Perhaps there was no safe place for Chiara.

She sighed and took her fingers out of her mouth. “I'm just being realistic, Caliban. Your stars said I will be tested. They're right. Whatever I do, they're right. I'm not afraid. We'll go to the island.”

Caliban stood. “You are convinced?”

“Yes. Do it.” She picked up her bread and began to munch on it again.

Caliban went outside and pulled the handkerchief from his pocket. It seemed like such a ridiculous little wisp of cloth to put their hopes into. He held it for a moment. Magic. He hated magic. “This will be the last spell,” he promised himself. Then, swiftly and deftly, he untied it. There was a faint sigh. Prospero's breath, Prospero's wish.

Caliban retied the knot tightly and pocketed the handkerchief. In a dark corner of his mind he felt it might still have some power. Power that he might need again.

The sky blackened and the stars were erased. It was as though an immense curtain had been drawn across it. Wind screamed around the masts and clawed at his cloak. Sailors yelled, but their voices were ripped and tossed to the sea. He staggered toward the cabin, wishing that he could calm the terror around him. It was always like this with Prospero's storms. They frightened the wits from every man and never harmed even a single soul. “All bluster, even to the very end,” he muttered. And then, suddenly, his heart broke as fiercely as the storm. Prospero was dead. His father was gone. Blindly he made his way to the cabin door and managed to shut himself in, just as the first lashings of rain hit the deck. He lay down on the floor and howled his grief.

Chiara stared at him. The wild pitching of the ship made her cling to the sides of her bed. A huge wave swept across the deck and threw itself against the wall of their cabin. It threatened to send them to the deeps. Caliban was sure that it was trying to take Chiara away from the safe, regular world; take her away from him.

“Caliban?” she said. He could hear that now she was afraid. “Caliban, now isn't a good time for you to go mad.”

“I'm all right,” he answered. But that was a lie. Though he managed to stifle his raving, it did not take long before he also succumbed to seasickness. Chiara had already lost every bit of the bread she'd eaten when Caliban began to retch as well. He crawled over to her, and they both took turns clinging to the small bucket. Life seemed very grim.

After a time he grew numb, and he began to spend his time between each bout of illness remembering the fresh breeze that constantly blew over the stones and through the trees of the island. He thought of the small groves that were home to rare birds. He thought of the cold stream that ran thick with fine pink-fleshed fish returning from the ocean to the place of their birth. Then he was wrenched again by another bout of sickness, and he thought only of living to the next moment.

The storm raged for three full days. Fear and fatigue numbed everyone on board. When they slept it was shallow and punctuated by strange violent dreams. Every soul on the ship made ready for death.

And then it was over, suddenly and completely. The ship drifted into a harbor. The anchor was dropped. Sleep, healing and magical, fell upon the entire crew. Many simply lay down and slept on the deck, in the very spot where they had been standing.

“Will they be all right?” Chiara asked. She stood beside Caliban, surveying the fairy-tale scene around them.

“They will be fine,” he said. “The magic had a kindness in it.”

“But after they awake, Caliban…they'll know where we've gone, won't they?” She chewed her lip. “Won't they just come after us?”

“No.” He gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “The enchantment carries a false memory within it. They will all dream that we were lost at sea. Together they will vouch that you were swept overboard in a sudden wave, and that I dove in after to save you.” Chiara smiled wryly. “You come off as quite the hero.”

He grinned. “Noble in death,” he replied.

They looked around. Fog obscured their view of the island, but they could hear the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. “We're very close to land,” Chiara said softly. The combination of the spell and the mist made the world an eerie place.

“Yes,” he said. He could smell it, taste it in the air: the land of his birth. But there was a strangeness, too. Somehow he felt that he was not welcome, that the island itself was angry and had turned its back on him.

He whistled, a lonely, thin sound like the distant cry of a seabird. The wind stirred around them, drawing away the mist.

And they saw the island.

Act Four
The Night Sea Journey

IV.i.

It looked like it had been burned and broken by some careless giant. Where there had once been groves of trees, there were now charred skeletal spears jabbing at the pale sky. The ground was blackened, the rocks split and cracked. The only sign of life was a dismal raven sitting on a twisted branch. It croaked when it saw them and flapped away, disappearing with dull wing claps into the mist. The air that wafted from the shore was sour.

“We've come to the wrong place,” Chiara said. She looked at Caliban anxiously. This was clearly not the island of sweet airy breezes her mother and Caliban had always spoken of.

Caliban looked as tortured as the land. “It's the right place,” he said, dully. “It's just all wrong.”

“What could have happened, Caliban? A fire of some sort?”