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.”
It was a tartane, sharp-snouted and bowspritted, rigged with a jib and a lateen mainsail. That made it less handy than the Dutch jachts Rupert knew; but a boom would have crashed onto an outsize crate near the middle of the mostly open hull. Boxes and casks of supplies left scant room for two men to stretch their mattresses. This was a noon-tide of white-streaked violet waves beneath a thrumming breeze and overwhelming sun.
Will Fairweather had the helm. At the port rail, feet braced wide apart, Rupert wielded an astrolabe. A sudden yaw nearly threw him. Canvas banged. “The Devil snatch thee bald!” he roared. “Three days o’ this, and still thou canst not hold her steady as she goes whilst I take a sight?”
“She be navigated to start with,” Will answered sullenly, “aye, gaited liake tha drunkest navvy thou e’er didst meet. There be hone o’ thic black magic thou maekest in thy tools an’ charts an’ almanacs an’ scribblin’ o’ logarhymes—there be none of it goin’ to do moare’n show us where we war. No tellin’ where this slut’ll be. “
“The fault, brute steersman, lies not in her spars but in thyself.” Rupert sighed. “However, I admit to a less than masterly job of placing us. Was there no modern equipment anywhere in Tunis? Had I even a decent timepiece, let alone one of those new-invented sextants—”
“What? General, I doubt anybody’s invented aught new in thic line zince Zodom an’ Gomorrah.” Will wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Three days we been faerin’? Three liafetimes, moare like.”
“I’d spend them if necessary—and if we had them. As’tis, we can take perhaps a month casting about, nigh sure to be futile, before the fall storms force us ashore.”
“Aye, zo thou’st zaid. An’ than we return to fiaght, eh? From what tha English ambassador’s butler toald me, our King’s cause won’t zelebrate another Christmas. Which means nobody can. How be liafe in Holland?”
“They’re tolerant of religion, if not of whatever might stand in the way of their merchants’ profits.” Rupert spoke absently, while taking the sun’s altitude and recording it together with clock time and compass bearing. “On that account, I fear the machines will overwhelm their land within few years.”
“Well, I hear it be flat, open, an’ even wetter nor England. I listened once to zome Dutchmen talk. Why be it tha French be called frogs? I swear nobody can hoot, hawk, an’ gargle thic language what ha’n’t got a built-in coald in his throat. Thus, small loss, a countryzide what never held any magic.”
“But it did,” Rupert said low. “It does to this day. The sorcerers bear names like Frans Hals or Rembrandt van Rijn—”
“Hoy!” Will shouted. The instruments clattered from Rupert’s grasp.
A flash overhead had become a boy, tiny but perfect, who skimmed on butterfly wings and chimed forth laughter.
Will let go the helm and grabbed for his sword. Rupert waved him to stay seated. It blazed from the prince: “What apparition art thou, and from whence? No angel, surely—we’re not worthy that—but know, if demon, we are Christian men. Yet if a messenger from Faerie land”—he lifted his arms—“behold the ruined lodestar which I bear. I freely own my fault, and to thee, elf, plead for my King alone, not for myself.”
“Art thou indeed Prince Rupert of the Rhine?” the sprite teased. “She called thee taciturn, a warrior. So dost thou boom like this for want of cannon?”
Rupert let his hands drop, empty, and said wonderingly into the wind: “She?”
“Jennifer Alayne—” the figure seemed to enjoy seeing them thunderstruck, but went on in a brisk tone: “who asked I seek thee when thou wert safely far from other folk, and bring thee to the island where she is. I’m Ariel, who once served Prospero.”
“Her?” Rupert choked. “Jennifer?” The fullness of wonder was more quick to break upon Will. “Thy luck ha’ turned at last—turned zouthward, for she’s ever been thy luck.” He sprang to slap his master’s roughly-clad back. “Let’s uptails all—whate’er one does on boats, liake bilge tha strakes, belay tha mast, rake yards, bound mains, whate’er will maeke this damn thing move! If zuch a girl awaited me, I’d faere on bugle winds, wi’ sheets o’ flaeme for zails.”
“Aye,” said Rupert. “Oh, aye… But we must render thanks to God.”
“First set my course and get well under weigh,” Ariel advised. “I’ll reappear from time to time to guide thee, although the zephyr’s fair and will improve. Tomorrow late thou’lt come unto the isle and Jennifer.”
Pointedly: “Why dost thou never smile?”
“How came she here? I thought her safe, I swear!”