He smiled into Chiara's golden eyes. They were as beautiful as the green had been, really. And she had needed him after all. “I have a dragon for a daughter,” he said.
The staff took root in the stump. The shock of it made them all cry out. Caliban, Chiara, Calypso, Sycorax; all became joined with the tree. Together they suffered, and loved, and hoped. Branches began to sprout from the wood of the staff. Its roots drew water. Buds appeared and burst forth into leaf and blossom. The island rejoiced.
And Caliban died.
He died laughing. “It is my birthright!” he shouted. The cormorant cape gleamed in the sun. His eyes blazed with joy. “I have come home,” he said.
The three women held him in their hearts until his last breath. His life passed out to the tree. Then Sycorax was gone, her memory also slipping back into the tree, healing the wound she had made so long ago.
The knife fell out of the tree, and from the joined hands of Calypso and Chiara. But it stayed in Caliban's flesh. It was part of him, forever piercing, forever held in his grasp. Chiara knelt and touched the blade, the wound. Both were still warm. “His strength was always in his hands,” she whispered. “And in his heart.”
She discovered that her new eyes could not weep. She placed her newly scarred hand against his face, tracing the pattern of birthmarks down his throat. She'd never touched them before, she realized, though she'd always wanted to. “You were beautiful, Caliban,” she whispered. Her eyes grew hotter, but still no soothing tears fell.
Calypso knelt beside her. Her hand was normal again, but scarred as well. “He was my uncle,” she said, wonderingly. “I say, heâ” she repeated in Italian.
“I understand,” Chiara said, interrupting her.
“You speak Greek,” Calypso said. She stared at Chiara, then dropped her gaze when their eyes met.
“Apparently,” Chiara replied. “I'm a dragon. I think I speak everything, now.”
Calypso forced herself to look into Chiara's eyes. “You saved me,” she said.
“Caliban saved you,” Chiara replied.
If Calypso had healed the staff properly, Caliban would still be alive. He would be the island king. They could have lived here together. They could have been content.
But Chiara's dragon wisdom brushed these foolish thoughts away. If the staff had only been mended, Sycorax's ghost would still have been uneasy. The island would have remained enslaved. The staff would have corrupted Caliban. Calypso would have been alone, child of a madman.
A circle had no end.
Chiara reached out and touched the tree. It was strong. Its roots were deep. She looked up. Its branches stretched out, giving shelter, giving praise. Caliban's soul was here. He was not dead. He was only changed. And she knew, as well, that he was truly happy, at last.
She smiled at Calypso. “Help me move his body.”
“Shouldn't we leave him here?” Calypso asked. “Isn't this where he belongs?”
“No,” said a voice behind them. They turned. Ariel was there, in rainbow glory. “This is where he lives, now. But the earth of him must go back to the earth of the island.”
“His cave,” explained Chiara. Calypso nodded in understanding.
Ariel raised his hand. “No,” Chiara said. “This is a mortal task.”The spirit frowned, then nodded. “Goodbye, brother,” he said. Then he disappeared.
Together, Chiara and Calypso lifted Caliban's body, heavy and awkward, and between them carried him down to his cave. It was an arduous job. The island no longer fought against them, but the way was still rugged and treacherous. Even when they fell, and they fell often, Chiara refused to use any magic to help. It was her way to honor him, to do this last human thing as he would have wanted it done. They spoke to one another only to plan their way through difficult spots. At last they reached the cave.
They carried him inside and laid him down on his bed of branches. Calypso pulled at a long straw that had become tangled in her hair during their struggle to get to the cave. Deftly she tied a knot in it, twisting it with her clever sailor's hands. “It's a bowline,” she said. “The king of knots. It always holds, but when it's time to leave, it slips free.”
Chiara took the straw and placed the loop of it around the knife embedded in Caliban's hand. “Come away, now,” she said to Calypso. They left the cave. It took only a word and a gesture to seal the entrance.
Calypso stood on the shore, her back to the cave's entrance. The ship was gone, of course. And now she had no power. It had been burned out of her in the sun-magic of the tree-making. She felt hollow and weak. She was alone on this island with no hope of escape and no way to survive, other than by her own wits. Her wits were sharp enough, but it was a lonely prospect nonetheless.
But she was not alone. She was alone with a dragon.
She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. The tingling in her right hand was almost gone. She supposed that it was finally remembering how to be flesh. She looked down at the scar that slivered the center of both the back and the palm. It was a thin, neat line. It looked ancient, like the vague memory of a childhood injury. She touched it with her left hand, half expecting it to be still hot. It was not, of course.
Calypso smiled nervously. “My magic is gone,” she said. “How will I protect myself?”
“I have enough magic for everyone,” Chiara said, flatly. Calypso stared at her.
What did she mean by that?
“You could come with me,” Chiara said, answering Calypso's thought.
Calypso felt both hope and fear. “Where are you going?” she asked.
Chiara shrugged. “I don't know,” she said. “Everywhere. Somewhere. I need to learn how to be a dragon. You need to learn how to be a mortal woman.”
“I think you have the easier job,” Calypso said, glumly.
Chiara laughed. “I think you're right,” she said. She held out her hand to Calypso. “Come on,” she said. “Let's seek out some brave new world together. We'll find a place where we can both learn to be free.”
Calypso took her hand. Their scars touched again. “Yes,” she said.
The End