Prospero Regained

by L. Jagi Lamplighter

  Eventually, Gregor and Erasmus manhandled him into a seat and climbed in themselves. The thought of setting out over these waters again filled me with dread. Without the star, the heat was oppressive, and the smell made me nauseous. I let Mab climb in ahead of me.

  As I prepared to join my brothers, Malagigi appeared behind us, beside the big rock at the top of the slope.

  “Miranda?” he called. “A word, s’il vous plait?”

  Eager for one more moment in the light of the silver star, I hurried back to the Frenchman. One or two of the decrepit shades came around the edge of the giant boulder, but Malagigi dismissed them with a gesture. He beckoned me close, as if he did not wish anyone else to overhear us.

  “Yes?” I inclined my ear toward him.

  “This is not a place for one such as you.” Malagigi whispered urgently. “You must go back to the surface! If you will not return to the world of the living, go back to the Gate of False Dreams and await your family there, in Limbo.”

  “That is sweet of you,” I began, touched by his chivalric concern. He cut me off with a curt shake of his head.

  “Sweet? Non! You do not attend!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I saw you with the star!” He held out the tiny silver spark. “It would not stay upon your palm. You had to work some enchantment to keep it from sinking through your hand.”

  “I just concentrated,” I objected.

  “You should not have had to do so,” Malagigi replied, his eyes searching my face, as if he were expecting to see the answer to what puzzled him there.

  “W-what does this mean?” I asked haltingly.

  “It means something is wrong with your soul.”

  An icy sensation crept down the back of my neck, despite the surrounding heat. I felt strange, as if I were floating, as if I had just awakened from an unpleasant dream and was not yet oriented as to my surroundings.

  “My soul!” My hands flew to my chest. “How could anything be wrong with it?”

  “I know not, but incomplete it is,” Malagigi replied. “Hell is a dangerous place for those blessed by Grace. For those who lack Grace’s gifts … there is no hope. They have not what is needed to resist the hazards that will face them. If my elemental friends, my sylphs and undines, came here, their pure nature would be tainted by the filth of this place, and they would become fallen, demonic. If you go forward, the person you think of as Miranda will not return. You will literally suffer a fate worse than death.”

  In my mind’s eye, I saw an elf with eyes the color of storms explaining to me what Hell was like for those who had no soul, and why I should slit his throat rather than allow him to suffer such a fate.

  “But … how could this be?” I cried. A terrible sensation gripped my heart, a dragging, sinking dread. The ground beneath my feet seemed to draw me downward. It amazed me that I was still standing.

  I tried to approach the matter rationally. “It must have some cause. My father … Theo thinks Father has me under a spell, a spell that impedes my free will. Could enchantment such as this cause … soul damage?”

  It made me cringe terribly to reveal such aspersions against my father to someone who was practically a stranger.

  Malagigi frowned thoughtfully, tracing his mustache with his finger. “I would have to ask my master to be sure, but I do not believe so. Slavery can cause a man many harms, but it cannot rob him of his humanity, no matter what his masters may believe. No, something much more dire is at work here.”

  “Erasmus believes my mother to be Sycorax, the witch.”

  Malagigi meditated upon this a time before answering. Meanwhile, the tiny star shone brightly, mocking me with its buoyant cheer. “I recall Sycorax, a slender girl with wide imploring eyes who served some Pagan god.” I blinked, startled at the contrast between our memories of Caliban’s mother. Malagigi must have met her when she was young. “Was she not a human witch?” he asked.

  “Part-ogre, I believe,” I offered quickly.

  “Possible.” Malagigi frowned dubiously. “But unlikely … A human mother would pass a human soul to her child. No, this strikes me as more serious. Your mother must have been truly supernatural, a sylph, or a mermaid—something altogether lacking in a soul.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  The Black Bog of the Sullen and Slothful

  “Operate that oversized marble, would you, Harebrain?” Mab asked as I climbed shakily into the skull-boat. “We can’t go any farther until we know where the rest of your family is. Luckily, the Sphere shows us the real version instead of the primrose version. Or unluckily, depending on how horrible the truth is.” He cocked his head and regarded me from beneath the brim of his fedora. “There wasn’t any other member of your family whose sin was lust, was there, Ma’am?”

  I shook my head. “We were each quite different.”

  “Okay.” Mephisto pulled out the crystal ball that had once belonged to the Elizabethan magician John Dee. He rolled the delicate sphere up and down his arm, which he undulated like a hula dancer. Mab and Erasmus flinched as they imagined the precious object rolling off his arm and sinking into the swamp. “Who do you want me to look for first?”

  “We could head for whomever is closest,” suggested Gregor.

  “We should go to whomever is most in need,” Erasmus countered.

  “Hey, Ball-io.” Mephisto caught the glass globe in his hand and looked into it. “Show me the member of my family who needs our help the most.”

  Mist swirled in the depth of the crystal ball, clearing to reveal a bank of hardened lava. Two burnt hulks of flesh were visible in the crystal. One lay on the ground, a breastplate and helmet of shining white Urim burnt into his black and bubbling flesh, the Staff of Devastation on the ground beside him. The second stood over him, brandishing a club, the wood of which was, surprisingly, untouched. Soot rained down upon them, sticking to their open blisters.

  The world swayed before my vision.

  Someone was screaming. The shrill, horror-filled voice was very close to my ear. It was only when my throat began to ache that I realized the voice yelling my brother’s name over and over was mine.

  “Theo! Theo! Theo!”

  Gregor’s strong hands gripped my shoulders. He peered into my face. When he saw that my eyes focused on him, he pulled me roughly against his chest in an embrace that was meant to be comforting, but did not leave much room to breathe. Perhaps, he had intended that because without air in my lungs, I could not scream anymore.

  Where was my life? The one I left a month ago? Where was the mother that Father had so loved? Where was my soul? Where was the brother who, above all the others, had made my life worth living?

  Where was my Lady?

  How could all these things have been taken away so quickly?

  The shock of Malagigi’s revelation had been bad. Once his parting words had sunk in, however, I had actually felt buoyed up. The possibility of having a mermaid or maybe even an Aerie One for a mother was preferable to being the daughter of the witch Sycorax. And while the information that something was not right with my soul terrified me, it also gave me hope. If I was not human, maybe Father was justified in enchanting me. Maybe I could earn a complete soul, as Mab had. Though if I had not earned one yet—after over five hundred years of living among men—I was not sure what else I could do to merit one.

  Discovering one’s soul was imperiled, however, was nothing compared to the horror of seeing the person one held most dear unrecognizably burnt and writhing in pain! At least, I was assuming that blackened hulk was Theo—from the breastplate, helmet, and staff. If this was someone else with Theo’s gear, and the real Theophrastus were around the corner, I could not have told the difference, so damaged was his body.

  As I pulled away from Gregor and looked at the ball again, all concern for myself left my mind; my only thoughts were of how to reach Theo.

  “Courage, Sister. He still lives.” Gregor squeezed my shoulder; his face was as pale
as the mist rising over the swamp.

  “Dear God!” Erasmus’s voice wavered, as if the ghosts of memories haunted him. He shivered unconsciously. “Burns … Those are horrible wounds.”

  “Ball, show us how to get there from here!” cried Mephisto. His hands were shaking so that he nearly dropped the crystal globe.

  Mist swirled in its depth, followed by images of the swamp, the Bridge Across the Styx, and the Wall of Flame.

  Panicked, I shook off Gregor and grabbed Mephisto’s shoulder. “If you turn back into your big form, you could fly us!”

  “No good, Ma’am.” Mab shook his head reluctantly. “I’m as eager to save Mr. Theophrastus as anyone—him being such a decent guy—but summoning up Lilith won’t help us. We’d just waste time fighting her again.”

  “But, Theo! He’s dying!”

  “He will not die today,” Gregor replied firmly. “Not a mere day or two after he took the Water of Life. He is suffering, surely, but I can see him moving. If he is alive now, and he receives no additional wounds, he will endure another day. Besides, it looks as if Caliban is with him.”

  “‘And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them,’” Erasmus quoted softly. He stood, his gaze unfocused, his hands chafing his own arms, as if he was cold.

  “Er, thanks, Professor Prospero.” Mab gave Erasmus a worried look. “I’m sure that is supposed to make us all feel better.”

  “But you must be able to do something?” I cried. My voice sounded unnaturally shrill. I could not understand how the others could be sitting so still. “We’ve got to do something! Gregor! Pole faster!”

  “I am moving us as quickly as I can, Sister, but I must know where to go.” Gregor spoke calmly, but his hoarse voice had a slight tremor to it.

  He poled our little craft forward quickly as he could push. No one spoke. I clutched the edge of the gondola and stared ahead, as if by dint of effort I could see straight through to where Theo lay. Simple objects loomed large in my sight. The dilapidated fig tree to our left had mottled peachy swirls amidst the gray of its bark. The rope tying the gondola to the skull had frayed in places, so that tiny beige hairs stood out from it, as if it had goose bumps. Beyond that, to me, nothing more existed.

  Eventually, Mephisto’s voice broke the spell. “I’m not afraid of old Lilly-poo, not when Theo’s at stake! And I can call up some of my friends to help!” he declared bravely. Then his proud shoulders slumped. “Only flying wouldn’t help. The Wall of Flame has no top. I couldn’t fly you over it. Do you all think you can get through it?”

  “What was the Wall again?” asked Mab.

  “A towering inferno of passions. You walk into it and get buffeted by all sorts of emotions: rage, lust, overeagerness. You have to be able to will yourself to be calm to pass through.” Mephisto squinted and scrunched up his face, as if to demonstrate the effort of will involved.

  Gregor and I insisted we could make it through, but Mab and Erasmus did not seem so confident.

  Erasmus glanced back at the Swamp of Uncleanness and said haltingly, “Perhaps, you had better go on without me.”

  “Don’t know what I can do now that I got this soul,” Mab muttered. He held his fedora in his hands, twisting the brim. “Could be I can. Could be I can’t.”

  “Come to think of it,” Mephisto piped up suddenly, “I’m not sure I can go through without … well, you know: whatever it is that I do that I don’t remember that you were just talking about that calls you-know-who.”

  “Is there another way?” asked Erasmus.

  “The Staff of Silence can stop the raging passions and part the flames,” Mephisto replied.

  “In that case,” Gregor said gruffly, “let us all pray that Titus and his staff are still on this side of the Wall.”

  * * *

  THE crystal ball, thank goodness, showed Titus to be on our side of the Wall of Flame. He lay asleep among the bogs on the far bank of the Styx. Luckily for us, he was not actually underneath the peat. Erasmus wanted to call up Mephisto’s winged beasts and fly directly to Titus, but Mephisto insisted we pass over the Bridge across the River Styx on foot. Crossing the Styx might rob some of his friends of flight, he explained, and we would not want to find this out halfway.

  We rapidly poled our way to the nearest solid island. Once there, Mephisto tapped his staff, and I began to imagine we were surrounded by great winged beasts. Then, they were among us: the handsome winged steed, Pegasus; a golden lion with shining mane and downy wings; a gryphon; and the gigantic magnificent roc. Mephisto leapt atop the winged lion. Gregor and I clambered onto Pegasus. Erasmus claimed the gryphon, leaving Mab to sit upon the giant talon of the enormous roc.

  Mounted on these creatures, we flew across the swamp. Normally, the joy of flight was my primary delight. Today, however, even the exhilaration of winging along on the back of Pegasus—the terrible swamp passing harmlessly below—eluded me. It could not drive away the image of my charred and scalded brother.

  No matter how hard I urged Pegasus on, he did not go fast enough.

  Reaching the bridge, we landed and dismounted. Then, we all held hands and ran, Mephisto’s friends padding noisily behind us. Gregor was on the right, his staff ready should the Hellwinds return. With my flute silent, however, all was still. We gained the far side without losing anything more than our breath.

  As my feet stepped onto the packed earth, I paused for a single instant to glance back at the bridge.

  Had it been only a day ago that we had tried to cross the first time? It seemed like another lifetime.

  How exuberant we had been after our victory over Abaddon. We had been laughing, singing even. It had been our first truly happy moment together since the Christmas of 1666.

  What could we have been thinking, trespassing upon the Inferno with lighthearted cheer? If only we had not been so hubristic! If we had shown proper respect for our surroundings, we might have succeeded. By now, we might have found Father and been safely back home.

  * * *

  ONCE on the far side of the Styx, we mounted our supernatural steeds again and flew over the marshy earth. We used John Dee’s crystal ball as our guide. No illusions dazzled the others here. The view I saw and that showed in the ball was the same view the others beheld.

  Each foot, each yard that flashed beneath us, I wished was a thousand more. We flew with the speed of eagles, but it was not fast enough to satisfy my sisterly heart.

  “These are the Black Bogs of the Styx,” Mephisto called to us from the back of the winged lion. “If you look down long enough, you’ll catch a glimpse of the bodies asleep beneath the surface.”

  “How can you see anything?” Mab shaded his eyes as he attempted to peer over the roc’s foot and into the water. “The water is black as pitch!”

  “They’re there, even if we can’t see ’em,” Mephisto called back. “Though wouldn’t it be eerier if we could? I’ve always thought sleeping beneath the water was eerie. What about you, Miranda?”

  “Please, Mephisto,” Erasmus objected, yawning. He was slipping slightly to the one side atop the gryphon. “This place is terrible enough without you telling ghost stories to make it creepier.”

  “It’s not a ghost story,” Mephisto insisted. He yawned as well, giving a big wide stretch. “They are actually down there.”

  “All the more reason not to dramatize it,” Erasmus called back.

  I had been nodding tiredly, my thoughts caught up in fearing for Theo, when suddenly a feeling of free fall in the pit of my stomach made me look up. The flying horse had lowered its head. Its eyes were closed, and it had stopped beating its wings.

  We were plummeting.

  “Pegasus!” I screamed, yanking on his mane.

  The winged steed pulled up and began flapping again, but he careened to the left. I felt as if I was flying on a drunken horse.

  Around me, the other winged beasts struggled as well. The roc listed si
deways. The winged lion yawned. The gryphon had fallen behind.

  “Mephisto,” I cried, “your friends are falling asleep!”

  Mephisto craned his head to see. “We have to land! I’ve got to send them away!”

  “You mean we have to walk through the bog?” Erasmus cried, aghast. “Don’t you have anything that can help us? I mean this is Theophrastus we’re talking about! The Old Man needs us!”

  “And Titus as well,” murmured Gregor.

  Mephisto shook his head sadly. “My friends are animals. They don’t have the kind of souls you need to resist the ravages of Hell!”

  “What about the angel?” Mab called. “Didn’t you brag about having one that would act like a valet?”

  “Angel in Hell … bad idea!” Mephisto squeaked back. “Let’s just say things would get worse, not better.”

  A frisson of fear went through me as I thought about Mephisto’s reasoning. I thought about Malagigi’s words: They have not what is needed to resist the hazards that will face them. If Mephisto’s creatures could not survive here, what of me? Would I be able to stay awake?

  Soul or no soul, I vowed silently, I would not fail Theo!

  * * *

  WE landed and dismounted, and Mephisto sent his friends home. The ground here was boggy and smelled of peat. Except for the boiling clouds of inky soot overhead and the weird multicolored flames, which ignited intermittently above the bogs before quickly burning out, this could almost be a place on Earth. My brothers and Mab did not report any troubling illusions here, so we no longer needed to hold hands.

  We ran, our feet sinking into the spongy earth with each step. It was slow going, and time after time, one of us stumbled. Here and there, pools dotted the landscape with bodies visible in the black water. Some floated face down; others stared at us open-eyed. One or two began to reach out toward us imploringly. Before they could sit up, however, their eyelids sank down, and they returned to sleep.

  “Who are they?” Mab panted. He reached for his notebook, but did not pull it out, as he was running.