Poul Anderson - A Midsummer Tempest

“Well, not a mildew-spotted calabash,” drawled the Englishman. “I think I know thee from my measter’s taele. Now come an’ sniff mine own.”

Caliban edged toward him, stiff-legged and bristling. “Be careful, cur. I’ll haul thy bowels forth to make thy leash.”

“What kiand o’ hospitality be this?” Will complained to Ariel. “I need zome help in shiftin’ stuff ashoare”—he winked—“liake, zay, a brandy cask we got along.”

“What? Brandy?” Caliban stopped and gaped. “Uh… a fiery juice like sack? I do recall—Stephano—Trinculo—My welcome, welcome friend, of course I’ll help!” Hugging Will: “My tongue is rough, till brandy wash the sand off. Forgive my jest about thy splendid nose.’Tis lovely, like a mountain peak, a sunset!”

Ariel sighed. “Well, do your singing here upon the beach,” he ordered, “that only whales and screech owls need to flee.” He cast a glance at Rupert and Jennifer, who were starting hand in hand on the upward trail.

“I wonder if those two would ever notice.”

Clay lamps in fanciful shapes stood on shelves to illuminate rough-hewn, crystal-sparkling walls behind them, floor strewn with rushes, a few plain wooden utensils and articles of furniture, a pair of beds made from juniper branches and hay. A bast curtain hung in the entrance conserved warmth. Rupert’s voice drifted through: “Aye, we have well-nigh talked the night away. King Charles’s Wain goes wheeling tow’rd the morn.”

“I hope that is a sign,” Jennifer answered. “Although the chill—”

“Both come about this hour. Let’s back inside. The time is overpast for thee to sleep.”

“Oh, I’ve been whirling in ecstatic dreams. Must I already waken into slumber?”

They passed by the curtain, which rustled. Rupert had to stoop beneath the ceiling. Jennifer led him to a spot where more green branches had been stacked for a backrest. They sat down, she leaning against him.

He laid an arm around her, but instead of sharing her smile, he stared somberly before him.

“Unknowing hast thou flicked a whip of truth,” he said. “What holds thee is mere sin-corrupted flesh.

Dream-Rupert rises from thyself alone like dawn-mists off an alpine lake.”

She caressed him. “Do hush! How often must I say that Ariel has found a magic potion worked on thee?”

“But there were hankerings that worked with it.”

“And what of that? Thou’rt no mere piece of sculpture. A statue does not fall, but never strides, nor yearns, nor plucks a springtime bunch of may to give a girl that it may care about.” Hastily: “Wound me no longer with this wound of thine. If thou hast any debt at all to me, repay it now by speaking of tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow—well—” He squared his shoulders and forced crispness into his tone. “Thou’st shown the broken staff of Prospero, which Caliban dug up, at Ariel’s direction and thy wish, from the deep grave where he had rooted it. Know’st thou how it may be made whole again?”

He did not see how she must swallow disappointment before replying: “The trick of that may lie within his book, says Ariel, who’s told me where it rests. When faring as a lantern-gaudy fish, he’s seen it open on the offshore sand, and cold green currents idly turn the leaves that the incurious octopus might read. It is too heavy for his strength to raise, the grains beneath too diamond-cutting sharp for him to burrow through and pass a rope, the depth too thick for Caliban to dive.”

Rupert nodded.”’ And deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book,’ the wizard vowed, and did. I’ve memorized most of that chronicle. And pondering, I may have hit on means whereby we can recover the lost word.”

“Thou’rt thinking solely of thy duty now?” Jennifer’s tone was wistful. “Teach me to love it as I love thyself.”

“As I love thee—” His attention plunged back to her. “Dear Jennifer, I do.”

“God, God, I dared not hope!” she whispered, fists crammed against breast as if to keep the heart from breaking out. “When thou didst say thou… hast regard for me… and called me darling—the whole world turned to waves and roared around.

And yet I thought,’Belike he’s being kind. He’s friendly to me, brotherly, no more.’ ”

“I did not really know it till today,” his words plodded; “or else I did, but shrank from owning to it because my spirit is less brave than thine.” He held her close. “If thou wilt wed me—morganatic, maybe—” Flinging his head up: “Nay, before heaven! Thou shalt mother kings!”

“What matter, if the children just be ours?” she answered through tears.

The kiss went on. Lamp-flames guttered, dusks drew close, a breeze twittered in the doorway.

Rising at last with her, he said, shaken by delight: “Now best we sleep, to strengthen us for day, though every day beyond when thou art by will strengthen me. Goodnight, my morning star.” She blinked her eyes.

“Why, where’d’st thou go?”

“Outside—”

“Thy bed is here.” She pointed. Fiery-cheeked, he backed off. She regarded him seriously and tenderly for a while before saying, “I’m thine forever, any time thou wilt.”

He shook his head. “It is my nearest hope that from this hour I may do naught but right by Jennifer. I’ll often fail; but never willingly.”

Her lips brushed his, her fingers ruffled his hair. Laughing a little, she told him: “Oh, very well, I’ll spare thy modesty. We can blow out the lights ere we disrobe, and here are blankets left from Prospero beneath which we may sleep and later dress. And there’s a yard between our beds, thou seest—a mile, a league, a polar continent—Still, I can reach across to clasp thy hand.”

After a space he nodded, having likewise begun to smile. “I yield me on those honorable terms.”

She let him go and moved around the chamber. One by one the flames vanished. “I do confess I suddenly am tired,” she said, “as tired as death… a happy, happy death which, undeserving, knows what heaven waits.”

Rupert’s eyes followed her about. “ ‘Our revels now are ended,’ ” he murmured: “ ‘these our actors — as I foretold you—were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air; and like the baseless fabric of this vision the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve and like this insubstantial pageant faded leave not a rack behind: we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our life is rounded with a sleep.’ ”

She had stopped, amazed. “What words are those?”

“Old Prospero’s.”

“So grave, so beautiful. Their kind has never chimed upon mine ears.”

“Nor ever will, save when thou hearest read the chronicles of the Historian. We’re born into a sad and lowly age, whose very language limps; we can but croak like crows on lark-forsaken winter fields.” Rupert hesitated. “I only speak of me. Thou art a hawk, as once I thought, who writes her eloquence upon the wind. I worship thy fleet shadow.”

“If thou’rt swart-feathered, Rupert, so am I!”

His moodiness broke first in a chuckle, afterward in an honest yawn. “Ah, well, beloved, let’s to our repose. The world and time have also need for crows.”

The day lay totally quiet. The island was emerald upon glass and silver, set against lapis lazuli. The single liveliness was Ariel’s, where he zoomed about on his wings. The others worked, but were slow in their care. Sweat made their skins shiny.

The tartane lay at rest, sails furled, no anchor needed. A stout pole had been secured to the bottom of the mast. Ropes ran from its free end to a block and tackle at the peak; thence lines led down-ward for hauling and control, to make the whole a cargo boom. From it hung a curious object: a huge barrel, bottomless and heavily tarred, hooks inside the lower edge holding bags of sand. That weight canted the boat far over.