Poul Anderson - A Midsummer Tempest

Ariel’s medicines had already brought Jennifer close to full recovery. She followed an upward trail.

Cathedral coolness dwelt beneath the branches which vaulted it. Sunbeams dissolved into green and gold in those leaves, or reached the earth and minted coins among the shadows. The sprite flitted around and around her. Occasionally he zipped aside to startle a ladybird, play tag with a robin, or drain the dew lingering in an orchid cup.

“And have I died,” she asked at last in a sleep-walker’s voice, “to find this Paradise?”

“Nay, it is earthly, though thou well hast earned it.” Ariel descended to perch on her shoulder. “Is not the whole wide world itself an Eden, and man himself its snake and fiery guardian? The first and foremost miracle thou’lt find, here too as elsewhere, is thy living flesh. That it may get its due, I’m guiding thee toward the cell that Prospero had carved from out a bluff, to house him and his girl. We’ll quickly sweep and garnish it for thee, and heap sweet boughs and grasses for thy bed.”

He quivered his wings as he went eagerly on: “Thou’lt find the island fare we bring not simple. Each well we tap has its own icy tang, each honeycomb’s uniquely from one field, each grape’s most subtly blent of sun, earth, rain, while truffles taste of treasures buried deep and mushrumps have the smack of shade and damp, to emphasize the cunning of an herb or quench the acrid ardor of a leek as apple tartness is made soft by pears. That’s but to name a few of many plants. Our crabs and lobsters clack self-praise enough; the oysters rightly feel they need no boast. Soon hazelnuts and quinces will be ripe, and I could hymn what hymeneal things occur when they are introduced to trout. I think I shall—”

“A moment, pray, kind sir,” Jennifer interrupted.

She was coming out of her daze. “Thou speak’st of’we.’ Who else dwells hereabouts?”

Ariel arched his brows. “Who dost thou think?… And here he comes to meet me.”

Jennifer cried aloud in shock.

The being which shambled around a bend in the path seemed twice hideous against woods, birds, and elf.

He was roughly manlike, somewhat beneath her in height. That was partly due to the shortness of his bowlegs, partly to his hunched stance, for the shoulders were broad. Arms dangled past knees; like the splay feet, they ended in black-rimmed undipped nails. A matted white shock of hair disguised, at first, how small his head was. It had no brow or chin; the eyes crouched deep in great caverns of bone, the face was mostly muzzle, flat nose and gash of a mouth. His skin, sallow and brown-spotted, was covered by nothing save a filthy loincloth.

“Be not affrighted,” said Ariel: “neither one of ye.”

The creature’s jaw dropped, showing tushes which must once have been fearsome but were now a few yellow snags. “What is?” he asked hoarsely. “What fetch is this thou fetched—” Abruptly he bawled “ Miranda!” and cast himself forward and down.

Jennifer braced body and spirit. The monster groveled at her ankles. Through his head and his clasping arms she was shaken by his weeping.

“ ’Tis merely Caliban,” Ariel told her through the ragged sobs, “these many years quite harmless, or at least in check to me. I do confess his outburst’s a surprise.”

“Who’s Caliban?” Her nose wrinkled at the animal rankness rising about her.

“He’s a foul witch’s whelp, that Prospero did find when small, and taught to speak a tongue thou hear’st as English here—and raised to be a servant unto him. A nasty, surly, sneaky one he was, who at the end sought to betray his lord, but soon got tipsy, reeled through foolishness, and later ululated his regret. When Prospero released me and went home, he left this hulk behind as well. What use a Caliban in Italy, except to be such butt of japes and bait of dogs as to ignite his flimsy wits in rage, and make him pluck someone apart, and hang? So he’s grown old alone upon the isle, save now and then when I, in quest of sport or in an idle kindliness, pay calls and make mirages for his entertainment.”

“Miranda, oh, Miranda,” grated the monster, and lifted his wet visage toward Jennifer’s.

Ariel fluttered off to regard her. “Nay, thou’rt not,” he deemed. “Aside from clothes, cropped hair, and all the rest, thou’rt fairer than she was, more tall—Ah, well. She was the only maid he ever saw, and in the many years between, though begged, I never thought it proper to bring back the darling semblance in a show for him.” He pondered what appeared to be a new thought. “So ghosts do age and change in mortal wise?”

Shuddering still, Caliban got up. He flung arms widely and wildly, drummed his breast, broke off at every few words to give a bark of pain. “Thou art not a Miranda? But thou art! This must be a Miranda, Ariel.

Thou’rt clever in the tinting of the air, but never hast thou wrought a dream like this. Behold how sweetly curved, how finely carved! Thou hast no skill to melt and mold a moonbeam and taper it to make those hands of hers. Couldst thou invent that vein within her throat, as blue as shadow on a sunlit cloud? What melody of thine could sing her walk? And—oh, I’m sorry for thee, Ariel!—thou hast no nose like mine, to drink the breeze that she perfumes; thou knowest common roses, while I could drowse a million happy years within the summer meadow of her breath. Her cheeks are soft as sleep… Lie not to me! I’ve not forgotten what Mirandas are, and this Miranda’s real—is real—is real!”

He began to hop about, chattering, slavering, baring what was left of his teeth at the sprite. “Thou shalt not take away this new Miranda!” he screamed. “Thou squirrel, raven, thievish heart-less mocker, hast thou not hoarded up bright gauds enough that I may keep one realness of mine own? Come down, thou insect! See, my gape stands wide and bids thee enter—though’twill spit thee out to make a meal for blowflies!”

“Caliban,” said Ariel sternly, “thou’rt overheated as of yore.” To Jennifer, who had backed off in alarm: “I’ll quench him.”

A whine whirled over the path. Ariel became a tiny thunderhead through which leaped needles of toy lightning. Caliban yammered, raised arms for shield, and crouched. Rain and hail flogged him, bolts jagged into his skin. It was a harmless punishment, to judge by the lack of wounds, but painful, to judge by how he jerked and wailed.

“Don’t hurt him more,” Jennifer pleaded after a minute. “His hair’s too white for this.”

Ariel resumed his usual shape. Caliban lay snuffling. “Why, it was mild,” said the sprite. “I’ve felt much worse than it myself when riding on the rampant gales.” As Caliban dared look at him: “Methinks this is the first of any time thou hast been pitied, since thou wast a pup. Thou might give thanks for that.”

The creature crawled back to his feet. Jennifer saw how he winced, not at the chastisement he had taken, but at the ache of age within his bones. “I do, I do,” he rumbled abjectly. “Aye, sweetness goes with being a Miranda.” He tugged his fore-lock and attempted a bow in her direction. “Be not afraid.’Tis I’m afraid of thee. When I was young, and with the first Miranda, I own I terrified her tenderness, but none had taught me better how to be. The thoughts do drop and trickle very slow through this thick bone that sits atop my chine. Natheless I’ve had a deal of years to brood on how’tis best Mirandas be adored. I’ll clean thy place each day, and bring it flowers, and chop thee plenty firewood, scrub the pots, lie watchdog at thy feet, and if thou wilt, show thee a secret berry patch I have. Or anything, Miranda. Only tell.”

“Come,” said Ariel.

“Let us go prepare for her that cell.”