Rough Magic (9 page)

“Grandfather fell asleep,” she explained. “I didn't want to wake him up to ask him for help.”

The tip of the quill bent, sending a glob of ink across his words. Caliban stifled an oath. He got out his knife and went to work sharpening the nib once again.

“He was up late last night,” Caliban explained. “Waiting for the furnace to cool.”

“And?” she prompted. Caliban was certain he could see her ears perk up like a dogs. Alchemy had begun to fascinate her as well.

“And I just ground the result here with this pestle,” he said.

She stared glumly at the charred powder in the mortar's bowl. “That doesn't look much like gold,” she said.

“What a surprise,” Caliban replied. He went back to his writing. Prospero would complain bitterly about that ink stain. Caliban could hear the old man's voice in his head. “Perfection, Caliban,” he would say. “We must never accept less of ourselves than the very best. Otherwise the work will fail.”

Caliban finished his notes and put away the notebook. “I need some air,” he said. “Do you want to come to the grove with me?”

The grove was a small wood that grew by the castle. Three years ago, when Ferdinand had become King of Naples, Prospero had chosen to move in with his daughter. From the day of their arrival in Naples, Caliban had found refuge in the trees. Chiara often did the same.

“I'd better not,” she answered with a sigh. “I'm trying to act like a lady right now, so that Father won't despair of me.”

“I see,” said Caliban. He knew – the whole castle knew – that the queen had suffered another miscarriage. Every time it happened the royal noose tightened around Chiara. At ten years of age she was still the only child. King Ferdinand could not afford to have a wild daughter.

“I wish Mother would have a son,” Chiara said, speaking to Caliban's thoughts. She often did that.

“That is what we all wish for,” Caliban said. “But in the meantime—”

“—I have to practice my sewing and my French,” she sighed. “I'd rather catch toads.”

“You could always kiss them and pretend you're looking for a prince to marry,” Caliban suggested. He pulled on his boots. It had rained lately and the ground outside was muddy, even under the trees in the grove.

“You're so helpful,” Chiara said. She grinned at him and tweaked his right ear.

They left together, walking silently past the snoring wizard propped in his armchair. In the hallway they parted. She went off to her drudgery of courtly manners, and he to his forest hideaway.

Outside the servant's door he looked back. She was watching him from her window. She waved to him, wistfully. He waved and disappeared into the wood.

Act Three
The Alchemist's Furnace

III.i.

His knees hurt in the morning, making loud popping noises as he bent down to stir up the fire for the day's work. Pausing for a moment, Caliban let the heat of the quietly crackling flames soften the movement of his hands. These he spread out before him, regarding them in the morning light. The flesh was pale, mottled with the purple marks that he had been born with, marks that spread like spilled wine over his shoulders and down his arms, with more splashes freckling his neck and face. These marks he barely saw anymore. What he did see was the skin thinning over the knotted bones of his long, deft fingers. He was growing old. Gently, he rubbed his hands together, reassuring himself that the muscles still held their skill. His hands had always been clever. Prospero had seen that from the very beginning.

“Caliban? Have you got that fire going?”

The old wizard Prospero appeared in the doorway, pulling his beard out from under the neck of his heavy silk robe and squinting at him with age-bleary eyes. Those eyes hid the sharpness of the mind behind them.

“Yes,” Caliban replied shortly. It was the same greeting they had been giving one another every morning for twenty-eight years.

“Hmm. That's fine, then,” the old man rumbled. He sat down, slowly and creakily, into the chair by the fire, adjusting his robe carefully. Then he put out his hand, palm up, as though begging. Caliban placed the leather-bound journal on it, then waited while the old wizard rifled through the pages of spidery writing. Finally he came to the last entry, which he glared at and mulled over for several minutes. Caliban waited further, standing as still and silent as a statue. It had become a game of his, this becoming stone. He counted it a victory every time people forgot he was in the room.

The old man looked up and said, “Right. We'll need to remake the cinnabar. There must be some impurities in the previous sample. Fetch the white queen from the back – and mind your hands are clean.”

Caliban nodded and left, letting the reminder slide off him in the same way that mercury slipped across the surface of the table when it was spilled. The silvery liquid metal was always the “white queen” to Prospero, just as it was to all alchemists. Everyone who strove to discover the secret of immortality spoke in riddles.

“Fools in a fool's game,” Caliban would often say to Chiara.

“The names have to be symbolic because the work is symbolic,” Chiara would reply, always in the patient voice one used with a stubborn child. “The real change is supposed to take place within the alchemist, not the metal. You know that.” Then she would grimace. Alchemy was the one subject they could never agree upon.

“Bah,” he would say. “It's quicksilver to me. Names should be descriptive.”

“Fine then, Sir Grumbleboots,” she'd laugh. They would both laugh.

He went to his work room and performed the requisite hand washing. In the far right corner a low basket stirred and a cat stepped out and rubbed itself in calico splendor against Caliban's leg. He smiled, a rare and transforming expression of contentment crossing his face. “Good morning, Penelope,” he said, giving the cat a quick and affectionate stroke on the head. “Was the hunting good last night?”

The cat purred in response. She stretched her front legs luxuriantly and extended her claws, then pulled forward and let the stretch glide over her shoulders and down her back, ending in a quick flicker of her tail's tip.

“Excellently done,” Caliban said, giving her head another quick rub as he set her dish of water on the floor before her. She took a cautious sniff before she began to drink, as she always did. He was not offended by this lack of trust. It was the way of all cats, of all things wild, and he approved of it.

He straightened his back suddenly and frowned, sensing a new presence in Prospero's chamber. No one disturbed the old wizard at this hour, except perhaps—

“How goes the work?” The voice was quiet, deep. It always surprised people when they first heard Princess Chiara speak.

His smile returned, though it was tainted with some concern. To Penelope he said, “Our girl is back. She was not due till tomorrow.” He picked up the flask of mercury and followed the cat back into the sitting room.

Chiara looked up and grinned at him in her funny lopsided manner, her wide mouth stretching up higher on the left side. Her face was all points and angles, framed by masses of heavy, dark hair. She looked as unroyal as ever.

Prospero broke off his querulous analysis of their recent failure and looked up at him as well. “Put that back,” he barked, then turned to his granddaughter. “Never mind the work for now,” he said. “Tell me about Milan.”

“Milan seems changed,” Chiara replied. “It's smaller, and stranger, than I remember it.” She looked down at her hands, seemed about to say something more, then began to bite her fingernails. It was a habit she'd had from childhood. It meant that she was troubled.

Not just troubled. Caliban knew at once that there was something terribly wrong. But he did not speak. In Prospero's presence he was always a shadow. Instead, he waited. He knew the old man would not be long in asking the question.

“What's the matter?” Prospero stared at his granddaughter until she lowered her hand with a self-conscious laugh.

“My father…” She paused, searching carefully for the right words. “My father completed some negotiations with Spain.”

Silence. “And?” said Prospero.

“And so I am to be married to a Spanish prince, in order that my father secure his position. Spain will be his ally.” She turned her face away and looked into the fire.

“Spain!” yelled Prospero. “The Spaniards are lascivious mothers of dogs!”

Chiara laughed, her deep rumbling chuckle dissolving the sting of the words. “Now I know why father wanted to be far away from you during the negotiations.”

Prospero's brow grew even more thunderous.

“It's not so horrible,” she added quickly. “He is from a good family, Grandfather. I'm told they are very kind, very loving.”

“Bah!” snorted Prospero. “Let them love each other and leave us to ourselves. Spain wants to eat us alive. Why would he make such an alliance?”

“He feels that if he makes Spain his ally then we will be spared from foreign rule. He says that in matters of state it is best to keep your enemies close. He says that I will be able to make many journeys home, in time. He says that it is a good match, and that I should count myself fortunate.” She looked away into the fire again. “Regardless, it is done. I sail for Spain in a fortnight.”

“A fortnight!” bellowed the old wizard. He half rose from his seat, then sat down again, his face slackening in shock. Caliban moved to his side, pressing his fingers upon the ancient, fragile wrist to find the pulse. The old man revived. “Off me!” he barked. Caliban stepped back and away. He knew his place.

“This shall not be,” Prospero said, anger rasping the edges of his voice. “I have sway yet. I will not let you be sent so far from your home to an uncertain life in a foreign land. No, by God, I shall not.”

Chiara's face twisted strangely. “Father is adamant, Grandfather. He knew you'd object, and told me not to look to you for help.”

Prospero stared at her for a long minute. “So you have already asked to be spared from this marriage.”

“My life is here with you. So is my work. Of course I asked to be spared.” She glanced at Caliban, then gave a choking laugh and scooped Penelope into her arms. She buried her face in the cat's fur and seemed to draw strength from her. When she looked up again, her expression was calm. “I am a king's daughter,” she said evenly. “My life is not always my own.”

Prospero stared back at her, both of them shielding their emotions. Caliban watched them impassively, his own anguish pushed down and away. This was the way civilized people always behaved. They felt one thing and showed another. They wove fishnets of courteous lies and gasped out their days in traps of their own making. He realized, standing there, that he had become a master of the craft.

“Caliban,” said the old wizard, “I believe the day is a fine one for collecting herbs. We'll see to the cinnabar later.”

Prospero meant, “Get out.” Caliban nodded and turned to go. Just before he left the room, however, he stole a glance at the princess's right hand. The fingers were crossed. He coughed once, softly, to show that he'd seen the signal. He would talk with her later, in the stillness of the night.

He shut the door behind him and hurried toward the servants' stairs, grateful for this chance to escape outside. It had been a long time since he had been this upset. He must find a way to free Chiara from the Spanish prince.

III.ii.

Chiara watched her grandfather.
He's so old. Too old,
she thought. Aloud she said, “I'm glad now that my Spanish tutor was so good. If he'd been as terrible as my Latin one, I'd be in serious trouble.” She forced a cheerful smile.

He saw through her. “Bah,” he said again. “Your father is a fool.”

She hugged the cat close to her chest, ruffling the fur around its neck. Penelope purred loudly, filling the room with comfort. “It is done, Grandfather,” Chiara said wearily.

“Have you exchanged vows?” Prospero snapped.

“You know I have not.”

“Then it is not done.” He drummed his fingers furiously on the arm of his chair.

“It must be done, Grandfather,” Chiara replied. “Father needs this. I can only be what I am and do my duty. Pity the poor prince,” she added, her odd smile twisting her face once more. “What will he make of me, I wonder?”

“He'll make himself to be the luckiest fellow on earth,” her grandfather retorted. But his words rang hollow. Chiara saw the truth written on her grandfather's face. The Spanish court would eat her alive.

She shook her head. “Let's ignore it,” she said. “It's a stupid fate, so we'll pretend it doesn't exist. Tell me about the work. You were saying that there were impurities in the cinnabar. May I see your notes?”

“I'm so close to finding the agent of transformation,” he said. “Once I have that, then I'll be able to help you, Chiara. I won't be so feeble. My powers will come back to me, I know it. I'll be able to do something for you, just as if I were on the island again. You'll see, Chiara. There must be something wrong with the white queen; everything else I am sure of: the black lead, the sulfur, the urine of an innocent boy… I have it all. But the white queen, there is something amiss with it. I've told Caliban many times, but still he brings me this inferior stuff. It has no potency, I am convinced. I think Caliban may be trying to spoil the work.”

“No, Grandfather, he isn't. You can trust Caliban. You know that.” She held his hand and stroked it, trying to calm him. He was often agitated now when he spoke of the work.

He seemed to read her thoughts. He was skilled at doing that, after all these years of shared secrets. “I'm growing desperate, Chiara,” he admitted. “Time is running out for me. I don't mind so much for myself, but I can't fail you, Chiara. And now with this news...” Prospero ground his teeth in vexation. “I will find a way to save you,” he promised.