But they still needed him.
So Prospero let him live, even though he had boasted, reckless in his shame, that he would use Miranda to fill the island with baby Calibans.
Yet here she was, seeking out his company. She behaved as though there had never been any darkness between them, as though he was still her friend and teacher. He supposed his face, however loathsome she might find, it, was at least familiar.
“Are you frightened of it, Caliban?” she asked quietly, staring at the land ahead. “I am,” she added, putting him at ease.
“Yes,” he replied, simply. He was not ashamed of fear, not like the men of the ship. They ridiculed fear in themselves and others. They were afraid of being afraid, Caliban thought, and the silliness of that thought made him smile.
She saw his smile and misunderstood. “You don't seem to be,” she said.
“I am, though,” he answered. “I miss my island. I don't think I should have left my home.”
“Father would never have left you there alone,” she said.
Caliban did not reply. He did not mind being alone. He was far more bothered by these strangers.
“I worry about how I will seem to them. The people in the palace,” she explained. “I'm used to such a simple life. Perhaps they will not think I am fit to be a queen.”
He could see that she was troubled. “The people on this ship think you are,” he answered. “You will do well. Everyone will like you.”
She smiled at him, then reached out and squeezed his hand. The shock of her touch jarred him. He stepped back from her.
She looked embarrassed. “Thank you, Caliban,” she said, awkwardly.
There were more footsteps behind them. He did not turn to see who it was. That confident stride could only be one person. Caliban slipped away, around the other side of the deck, while Miranda turned to greet her lover. He heard Ferdinand reprimanding her for speaking with him. “He is as loathesome as a toad,” the prince said. “His teeth are like scattered tombstones, falling over themselves in a neglected graveyard. I am sure he breathes a noxious vapour.”
Such wit. He did not wait to hear her reply.
Prospero was still sleeping, his breathing deep, a gentle whistle coming from his nose as he exhaled. Caliban stood over him, tracing every familiar feature of the man's face with his eyes. He would never have dared to stand so close to his master on the island. But now there was no fairy to torment him. Now there were no spells to bind him.
And it was then he realized that he might go free.
The thought stilled his breath. He could slip away from Prospero. He could roam the world, see strange and wondrous places. He could be his own master.
Prospero stirred, rolled to his side, and slept again. Caliban knelt and stared at the hand that clutched the quilt. It was thin, the veins rising in lumps beneath pale flesh. He remembered this hand stretching out and stilling a storm. He remembered it turning the pages of his book, carefully pressing each one down so that it would lie flat. He remembered it resting on his daughter's shoulder as he taught her to read, tapping his fingers gently on her head when she mispronounced some word.
He reached out his own hand and briefly touched the tips of his fingers to those of this terrifying man. There was no shock. He pulled his hand away and stood up, once more looking down on the sleeping figure.
This once great wizard was going to lose his child, however happily. He was returning to a home that had rebelled against him. His power was gone, except for some small trifling magic that even a child might have.
Prospero would need him. Would want him by his side. Did want him, or else he would have left him back on the island with no further thought. He had always acted in his own interests, after all.
And it was good to be needed, to be wanted.
Caliban took a deep breath. He would stay with his master. It was what he chose to do.
“I will take care of you,” he whispered. Prospero snored in response. He looked slightly foolish, with his mouth open like that. “Just like I have always taken care of you,” Caliban added.
He lay down on the mat that was his bed. The ship rocked him. He stared out the small window at the swaying sky. Time slipped away, and he slept as well.
The next day they arrived in Naples. Before leaving the cabin Prospero clutched his arm. “Don't get any silly ideas about running away, Caliban. This isn't your island. You need my protection here, you understand?”
“Yes, master,” Caliban said. He spoke gently, because he did understand. Prospero was more afraid than he or Miranda.
The former wizard looked relieved, then removed his hand and straightened his back. “Good then. Let's go,” he said.
Caliban admired his courage.
Caliban stood to the left behind Prospero. His hood was drawn forward, masking his face with shadows. The other servants now called him “the monk.” Well, that was an improvement over their earlier names for him: fiend, hell-lump, beast-man.
Ferdinand, now Prospero's son-in-law, was to take control of the dukedom. Prospero's dream of returning to civil life and taking up the reins of Milan's government had been a false vision. He was no better suited to mundane reality then he had ever been. Less so, after his long years on an island where he had lived by magic. Just seven months after his return, he began to disappear into his library for longer periods every day. At first it seemed that he tried to fight his own interests. But once he began the work of alchemy, he abdicated completely and sent for his son-in-law to replace him as duke.
The clatter of wheels on gravel grew louder. In another moment the carriage came around the corner of the drive and into view. There was a small escort of ten riders with it. That surprised Caliban. He'd been expecting a whole entourage.
The carriage drew up and servants sprang to work, opening the door and lowering the steps.
Ferdinand stepped down first, then turned to help his wife. Caliban felt his heart constrict. It had been nearly five years since he'd seen Miranda last, and in that time she had grown regal. No one but Caliban could imagine this tall, beautiful, stately person running barefoot and in patched clothes through the wilderness. But the smile and the warm greeting she offered her father were the same as ever.
Caliban lowered his gaze to avoid meeting hers. That was how he came to look straight into the pale, thin face of the three-year-old princess. Her hair hung in thick, lank braids on either side of her head. Her hazel eyes were large and fringed with impossibly thick lashes, making her appear not quite human. They stared at each other for a long moment. She was curious, fearless. And then she smiled at him, in her funny crooked way, a small dimple sinking into her left cheek.
No one had ever smiled at him on first sight. Caliban didn't move, afraid that he'd break the spell. The child was turned from him and introduced to her grandfather. “This is Chiara, of course,” Miranda said. The little girl dipped a curtsey, her smile replaced with a solemn expression. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Grandfather,” she said to Prospero. She sounded sincere, like the formal words were her own and not a rehearsed speech.
Prospero knelt down and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Let me look at you properly,” he said. The child waited, looking back at him calmly. “You'll do very well,” he said at last. “Will you come and visit me each day?”
Chiara looked to her mother, who nodded. “Yes, I will, Grandfather,” she said. “Will you read me stories?”
“Of course,” Prospero replied. Then he patted the child's head and stood up. Caliban could feel the impatience returning to Prospero. He had been reading about salamanders when he was summoned to meet his daughter and the new duke, and Caliban knew how anxious he was to get back to the library.
State affairs never happen quickly. It took days before matters were settled enough for Prospero to retire back to his studies. During that time Caliban was kept busy gathering supplies for the upcoming work. Caliban was not sorry to be outdoors. He didn't like the uproar of the palace. The entourage had arrived, and the whole place was crawling with servants, both new and old, scurrying about with their arms full of clothes and curtains and dishes and papers.
So Caliban dawdled with his errands. On the fourth day after the new duke's arrival he was sitting in his favorite sunny spot in the kitchen garden, surrounded by the heady smell of herbs. He needed to gather more fennel, but he was in no hurry. Prospero believed the herb heightened his ability to think, so Caliban was forever brewing teas with it, and strewing it around the workroom floor. He didn't mind. He liked the herb himself. For a while he'd been trying to make a liquor out of it, but he hadn't had much luck so far. He thought a fennel wine would be a lot more useful to the world than the Philosopher's Stone, even if the stone was capable of turning base metals to gold and promised eternal life. But he kept that opinion to himself.
“This is a nice place,” said a small voice. Caliban snapped his eyes open. There was the little princess, alone.
“Are you lost?” Caliban asked. His words came out like a bark, but the child did not flinch. “Where's your nurse?” he added, in what he hoped was a gentler tone.
“She was telling stories to someone,” the girl replied. “I wanted to look around, but she kept telling me to wait. She likes to talk,” she explained, “but I don't like to listen to her. She says mean things.”
“Ah,” said Caliban. He felt a bit helpless. Should he return the princess to her nurse? The woman would likely take one look at him and accuse him of kidnapping the child.
“Are you Caliban?” she asked him, breaking his unpleasant speculations.
“Yes,” he said. “I'm your grandfather's servant,” he added.
“Yes, I know,” the princess said, nodding. “You're from the island.”
“That's right,” he replied. A sudden choking wave of homesickness caught him. To conceal it, he bent down and pulled up three fennel plants.
“Those are funny,” the child said, touching the double bulb roots with her fingers. “What do you do with them?”
“I eat them,” Caliban said. “Would you like a taste?”
She nodded, her eyes wide. He snapped off a bit of stalk. “Pop it in your mouth,” he directed. She did so, trusting him completely. The flavor made her smile. “It's good,” she said.
“Your grandfather is very fond of it,” Caliban said. “I'll make this into tea, and thenâ”
A scramble of feet and a cry of “Princess Chiara!” shattered their discussion. In a moment the garden was filled with breathless, panicking women. Miranda herself was among them. She was embracing her daughter when her gaze fell on Caliban. She stood, flustered. “It's you!” she said, then blushed deeply. “Forgive me, Caliban,” she said, taking herself in hand. “This little scalawag likes to wander off. I'm glad she found you,” she added. Politely. He did not think she meant it. She had pushed the girl behind her, after all.
“Caliban let me have some of his plant,” the child said, pulling herself around her mother. “I liked it very much. Thank you,” she said. Then she curtseyed. Her mother gathered her up and the flock of females left. Caliban watched them go.
He hoped Chiara would escape again, sometime soon.
“Father was very cross,” Chiara said. “He yelled at me. He said, âA royal princess does not carry vermin in her pockets!'”
“He's right about that,” Caliban said. “I told you to let them go. You shouldn't make pets of wild things.”
She stuck the end of her braid in her mouth and chewed on it. It was a habit that drove her nurse and mother to near distraction. “I know you're right,” she said. “But I loved their sweet little paws and their black eyes. And they would sit up so prettily for a treat.”
“Rats carry disease. Your little sweet things might have given us all the plague.” He put down the mortar and pestle he was using and washed his hands carefully, as always, in the porcelain basin. Then he reached for the notebook. Prospero wanted everything recorded in detail. Caliban found the writing tedious, but enduring his master's lectures was far worse, so he gritted his teeth and did as he was told.
They were in his workroom, which was no more than a large closet connected to Prospero's study. Its order was set up and governed by Caliban alone. Prospero never came back here, nor did any other servant. Only Chiara ever joined him here. “My kingdom,” Caliban called it. He was master in this small space with its one high window that let in light, fresh air, and the distant sound of the sea. Often he would pause and listen to the slap and sigh of the surf, hearing it more with his memory than with his ears. For a moment it would take him back to his island home.
There were shelves on all the walls, holding glass and porcelain and earthenware vessels. All of them were neatly grouped and displayed on the smooth oak boards that he kept oiled and gleaming. There were bunches of drying herbs hanging upside down from the ceiling, and baskets of dried ones on the floor beneath the shelves. These mingled their various perfumes with the musty scents of cork and clay to mask the sharper odors of tinctures and decoctions. Only one of the shelves was dedicated to Caliban's medicines. These he worked on tirelessly in the spare moments of his life. The healing and easing of the body's ills seemed to him a far more meaningful pursuit than Prospero's search for eternal life. Or spiritual transformation. Or the Philosopher's Stone. It was a constant complaint of Caliban's that not even the alchemist himself seemed to be clear about what it was he was searching for.
“You seem grumpy today,” Chiara said. “Do you want me to write for you? I don't mind.”
“Why aren't you at your studies?” he asked. Her offer of help irked him. Writing was the one task that made all his fingers turn into thumbs. He was determined to master it.