I had not known exactly what was to come, but Father had told me many wonderful stories of the White Lady of Spiral Wisdom and her brother, who so loved the world He incarnated among us so as to save mankind from the Wrath of Heaven. So, I knew whatever was to come would be something overtly good!
Of course, when we returned to Milan, I learned a rather different version of the salvation of man. Later on, in England, I can recall overhearing a lively discussion between my father and that notable churchman, Sir Thomas More, during which Sir Thomas pointed out that the Bible clearly stated Jesus was the only begotten son of God. To which my father replied, “True, but it was silent on the matter of whether God has other sons who have never been begotten, much less upon the matter of daughters.”
I myself took a less heretical view than Father. I made no attempt to affix Eurynome’s place in the hierarchy of Heaven. It was enough for me to know She was numbered among the Forces of Light.
Father had placed me on the altar stone and departed, so that I was alone in the grove. For a time, all was quiet and still, then I heard a sound in the distance so beautiful that I thought I would die from the beauty of it. In retrospect, I now realized it must have been Father playing to summon a storm, but at the time I had never heard my flute’s music and did not know what it could be.
A storm rose. Black clouds warred overhead, and thunder rolled through the ravine like cannon fire. Rain came down in sheets, drenching me where I stood in my pretty little dress. My hair stuck to me like a slick black shawl. But I was used to the rain, and it was not cold, so I did not mind. Dutifully, I sang the song my father had painstakingly taught me.
Then, lightning struck.
The searing white-hot bolt fell from the heavens, striking the imprint of a deerlike hoof in the center of the spiral carved into the altar stone beneath my feet. Sparks of blue-white fire leapt everywhere, crawling over my body like a shocking caress. I screamed, both in fear and joy, for although I could not move my limbs, I felt no pain.
The electricity snaked about, curling and leaping. Gathering together before me, it formed a figure of white living fire, a slim deerlike horse with eyes the color of lilac petals and a curling horn of lightning upon Her brow. She tilted Her head, regarding me. I spread my arms and sang Her song as loudly as my little lungs could bear.
And then She stepped into me.
I can think of no other way of explaining what happened. First, I saw Her standing before me, then She came toward me, and then She was gone. For an instant, however, between when She stepped toward me and when She vanished, She and I became one being, and I knew all there was to know about love, the universe, and God. Then, I was myself again. The great wisdom was gone, save for a few traces. Yet She had stayed with me, a soft comforting presence, deep within. As I stood in the vine-covered shrine today, over fifty-three decades later, I could still feel her presence.
Later, after the storm ended, Father came to collect me. As we walked home that day, I recalled expressing gratitude that we had been so lucky as to land on this island where Eurynome had once stepped. Striding beside me, his long legs slowing for my benefit, Father smiled mysteriously and murmured, “Luck had nothing to do with it.”
Back in the present, my blood ran cold. How had we come to live on an island sacred to Eurynome? Might it have been because my Father’s patron, Queen Maeve of Fairyland, wafted us here? Could my consecration have been part of her plan to destroy Eurynome all along? But if so, why wait so long? Why had she not acted back when I was a child? Of course, Father might not know Maeve was Lilith. Perhaps, he was useful to her in other ways—he was after all a dread and powerful magician—and the Elf Queen bided her time so as not to alienate him.
I leaned against one of the granite pillars, frowning. The rock was damp beneath my head and smelled of wet lichen. Father duped by the Queen of Demons? I found that difficult to believe. Father seldom remained anyone’s fool for long, much less for centuries. The very concept of someone duping Father struck me as far-fetched.
Of course, if my realization on Erasmus’s roof was correct, and my judgment was suspect, then my faith in my father’s cunning told me nothing.
A murmur of voices alerted me that I was no longer alone. Not wishing to speak to anyone, I searched for a place to hide. Just behind the shrine, the mountain grape had smothered some laurel bushes. I ducked under the vines and tucked myself out of sight between two of the nearly dead bushes.
Around the corner came the unlikely pair of Erasmus and Caliban. I could not see their faces, but I recognized Erasmus by his green velvet pants and Caliban because he was the only one on the island wearing jeans. Instantly, a feeling of rage welled up within me. Erasmus had no doubt brought Caliban out here to pump him for tidbits he could use later to abuse me!
Forcibly reminding myself that there was no point in wasting anger on the inevitable, I leaned forward to hear what they were saying to each other.
“Interesting. Sounds like a busy schedule. Must have been quite a shock after all those years of solitary existence.” Erasmus paused. “What was life like, here on the island, before Father came?”
“Don’t know.” Caliban kicked a stone with the side of his foot, as one might kick a soccer ball. It flew across the leaves and bounced off the bole of a dead oak. “I don’t remember life before the master and Miranda. I suppose I lived here, but I have no memories of that period. ‘Lost to the mists of time,’ as the master would say.”
“And you have no idea . . . Hallo, what’s this?” Erasmus’s feet stopped before the granite pillar I had uncovered when I first arrived.
“The Shrine of the Unicorn,” Caliban replied reverently.
“Ah, the place where Father sacrificed his infant daughter to the lightning bolt.”
“I beg your pardon?” Caliban growled darkly.
“Nothing, just a little family joke.” The vines rustled as Erasmus drew them back. He knelt down and brushed some of the leaves and debris from the altar stone. “Interesting. Did you and your mother build this?”
“No, my dam kept it up, though. She used to wash and polish it, fancying herself the priestess.”
“How did you come to be living here? Were you shipwrecked like my father?”
“My dam came seeking the White Lady.” Caliban knelt and pushed the dirt and debris away from the center of the altar stone, until he had uncovered the slim cloven hoofprint. It was all there. “She told me this footprint is the first place on Earth the Unicorn ever stepped.”
“What did Sycorax want from Eurynome?”
“Her lost beauty. She had great beauty once, but it faded when her former master cast her aside. She hoped the Unicorn could return it to her.”
“I gather not everything went as planned.”
Caliban shook his head and stood, so that I could only see his calves and feet again. “My dam did not understand the Unicorn. When She did not come to her, my dam tried to capture the Serpent of the Winds, hoping to use him as a hostage. Only all she managed to capture was the South East wind.”
“Ariel?” asked Erasmus.
“Ariel.”
“Which explains why she shut him up in that pine,” Erasmus said. “Apparently, he was very happy to get out. Happy enough to vow a thousand years of service to our family.”
“My dam was not very nice to him.” Caliban paused. “She was not nice to anyone.”
“Rather like our dear sister Miranda,” snickered Erasmus.
Here it comes, I thought.
“Miranda? I could not think of any two creatures less alike,” Caliban objected. Then, he chuckled. “To quote the words the Bard wrote for my mouth: Miranda ‘as far surpasses Sycorax as greatest does least.’ ”
“What was our dear sister like?” asked Erasmus. “And apparently she is ‘our’ sister. A cross we must bear in common.”
“Miranda,” Caliban breathed my name as if it were a prayer. “What a creature she was! Guileless and considerate of all livin
g things. I remember her standing in a field of orchids in a green gown, her dark hair blowing in the wind like a banner, her face shining as she sung to a broken orchid, hoping her song would help its stem heal. She was so innocent, so pure—like an angel walking upon the earth.” He paused. “I’ve gotten around quite a bit in the years since Mephisto tamed me and gave me the . . . and took me off the island. I have seen many women. I have known many women. I’ve watched children growing and young women laughing with their friends. And none of them . . . none come close to my Miranda. If she can truly forgive me, if she can see me as more than a monster, then this old carcass is worth something yet.”
Touched, I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth. How beautiful Caliban’s memories of me were. How unkind I had been to remember only his crudity and not his good heart. Had I sung to an orchid, hoping to make it grow? I tried to recall what I had been like before Ferdinand failed to show up for our wedding, before those cold lonely days in Milan. I had been different, that much I knew, but had I really been . . . sweet?
It was hard to believe. And yet, being here, inhaling the island air caused a vague stirring, deep within me, as if something that slumbered turned in its sleep, yawning.
A tremor of fear shot through me. What if the Miranda Caliban remembered—the one whom I just recalled as being so docile even before Father brought me to be consecrated—was the result of Father’s magic, like the ever-blooming orchids, and the original me, the one that was waking, were more like Sycorax?
Over by the shrine, Erasmus replied to Caliban. His voice sounded muffled and strained. I expect this was caused by the effort he was making not to laugh. “Not exactly what I would have said, but nice to know you feel that way.”
“You don’t like her,” Caliban leaned against one of the stone pillars and crossed his feet. So, he had noticed. This new Caliban was definitely more perceptive than the old one.
“Not even a smidgeon,” Erasmus replied mildly. “She took something from me once, something terribly precious.”
I was so surprised that I nearly stood up and objected. What precious thing could I possibly have taken from Erasmus? Most likely, he was inventing this story on the spot to gain sympathy from Caliban. But he did not sound as if he were making it up. He sounded . . . melancholy.
“I am sorry,” replied Caliban.
“Tell me, Stepbrother,” Erasmus spoke lightly, but there was an intensity in his voice, a tension that betrayed a heightened emotion. “Do you have any idea why Father instructed Mephisto to give you a portion of Water of Life?”
“Um-Um,” grunted Caliban.
“You see, the finer points of who is allowed Water and who is not is a bit of a sore spot in our family. As you might have guessed, having heard what Titus said about his children. Miranda is extraordinarily tightfisted. She won’t even give it to us to share with our w-wi . . .” He stuttered, paused, and then took a deep breath, continuing more calmly. “Our wives and children. I’ve never heard of Father going behind her back before. But, go behind her back, he must have, because we all knew how she hated you—no offense.”
Me? Tightfisted? But I only ever did as Father asked. Erasmus must know that. Why would he tell Caliban such lies about me?
“None taken,” Caliban replied.
“So, do you have any notion why Father did it? Why you?”
“As Master Mephisto suggested, the master may have made some promise to my dam.”
“That could be, I suppose. If so, she must have had some extraordinary hold over him. Wish I knew what it was.”
“It grows dark.” Caliban stepped away from the pillar. “Won’t the others be starting the spell soon?”
“Good point. Always a bad idea to be caught without a light at night in unknown territory.” Erasmus turned and began walking back toward the mouth of the ravine.
Caliban followed him, laughing. “No fear there. We would only need to call the feylings together until they formed a ball big enough to light our path. Besides, I know this island so well, I could crisscross it with my eyes shut. It’s not unknown territory to me. No, sir!”
As they disappeared into the forest, Erasmus’s voice drifted back, amused. “So, you quote Shakespeare, do you, Stepbrother? Have you read ‘Caliban upon Setebos’?”
Caliban’s voice was louder than Erasmus’s and carried better, as did his chuckle. “Robert Browning was a friend of Master Mephisto’s. We had many a chat. He held that I must curse the parents who named me after such ungainly a character. I was not yet called Calvin then.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Gregor
The circle of trees known as the Grove of Books grew near the top of the bluffs that faced northeast, back toward the Continent. The night was clear. A three-quarter moon hung low in the sky amidst a field of a thousand thousand stars. The stars were mirrored below, both by the calm black reflective ocean waters, and by the twinkling of a myriad of feylings, whose tiny lights danced among the dark silhouettes of the surrounding forest. If one tilted one’s head just right, it appeared as if the stars were everywhere: overhead, amidst the forest, and below in the dark velvety waters.
Just beyond the grove, the bluff fell away to the ocean, whose waves could be heard crashing against the rocks below like some Cyclops’s relentless hammer. The breakers sent a spray high into the air. Mingling with the perfume of the orchids it formed a scent both salty and sweet.
We stood midst this faeriescape in our rumpled party clothes, watching Mephisto put the final touches on the preparations for the upcoming spell. By unspoken agreement, we had each gravitated to the tree from which our own staff had been cut.
I sat at the north end of the grove on the stump of the split pine that had once served as a prison for Ariel, the pine from which my flute, the Staff of Winds, had been made. To my right, Cornelius waited beneath the boughs of a gnarled apple, said to be a scion of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. His cane was wrapped in black cloth, and a black ribbon circled the trunk of the apple tree. Apparently, this was some kind of ward meant to keep the demon in his staff, the Staff of Persuasion, from interfering with our efforts.
To the west, Theo rested against the trunk of the great oak whose wood formed the core of the Staff of Devastation. Oak, the tree most often struck by lightning, was sacred to Zeus, and thus a good choice to house a weapon of such power. After him, Titus, still weak from his wounds, relaxed beneath the feathery branches of a cedar, whose wood warded off spirits the same way it repelled moths. Titus had asked the airy servants to bring him a chair. Now he reclined, garbed in one of Father’s scarlet velvet smoking jackets, reading, by the light of a flashlight he had found in the pantry, a six-month-old paper he had discovered in Father’s study.
Due south, Erasmus half sat against the ash—the tree of death, from which spears used to be fashioned—that had supplied the core of the Staff of Decay. He had pulled his straight black hair back into a short queue. This had been his regular hairstyle during the eighteenth century. Apparently, I was not the only one for whom fashions changed too quickly.
The next tree was an ebony, the darkest of woods. It had supplied the Staff of Darkness, which was currently carried by Seir of the Shadows. Caliban stood there, arms crossed, in the place that should have been Gregor’s.
The eastern tree was a great weeping willow. I did not know the significance of willow and could not speculate as to why Father had picked it for the Staff of Transmogrification. Logistilla peered disgruntledly through the drooping branches, unable to decide if she should stand by the trunk or in front of the veil of leaves. Her gown of spun night had not been designed to hold up for twenty-four hours of wear. She had discarded it in favor of the only blue garment she could find, a pair of Father’s silk pajamas.
The next tree was the tall teak from which the Staff of Transportation had been fashioned, the staff Ulysses now carried. Father associated teak with traveling. For years, he had stored his books in a teak chest that he h
ad lugged with him wherever we went.
The final tree, which stood quite close to me, had so many different varieties of branches grafted on to the same trunk that I could not say what kind of tree it had once been. This arboreal chimera had engendered Mephisto’s staff, the Staff of Summoning. Mab stood before it now to fill out the circle, since Mephisto was officiating the ritual.
I glanced speculatively around the Grove of Books. Teak did not ordinarily grow this far north, nor could any natural process have produced Mephisto’s tree, with species as diverse as birch and cherry and mahogany all growing together. Father must maintain this grove with the same magic that kept the orchids always in bloom.
Not trusting the alchemical salts Father had on hand, Theo and Mab eventually decided to construct the wards in the Atlantean manner. Thin channels had been cut into the earth, lined with metal roof flashing, which Titus found in the cellar, and filled with dragon’s blood, a barrel of which Erasmus had discovered in Father’s sanctum arcanum.
When they were done, three tiers of wards guarded us from wandering or malicious spirits. The outermost circle encompassed the entire grove. The middle one separated the trees from the center area, and the inner one circled the pentagram at the very center, which had been drawn with its top pointed at the teak tree. Within the inner circle, four triangles had been arranged about the central pentagram, one in each of the four cardinal directions. Individual wards had also been inscribed about each tree, protecting us individually. Short straight channels connected all these wards, so that the flaming dragon’s blood could flow freely throughout the entire design.
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