A Midsummer Tempest

XIX

The room was Moorish, ogive windows full of night, gilt arabesque friezes dimly picked out of shadow by the flames in a single candelabrum. Everywhere loomed shelves piled high with scrolls and codices. Dust was upon them, cobwebs joined them, rats went scuttering behind. The robe and white beard of the caretaker who dozed on a stool in a corner seemed nearly as overlaid by time’s grime.

The light came from a table where Rupert sat. Works lay stacked and strewn across it. He wore slippers, hose, a shirt with sleeves rolled up and open halfway down his chest because of the heat.

Sweat muddied the scholarly dirt which had rubbed off on him; he reeked of it. Unshaven, uncombed, eyes red and sunken, he skimmed book after musty book, shoved one aside and started the next. An occasional line arrested him; he would trace each word, mutter the sentences, most often shake his head and swear.

Will Fairweather shuffled in. His lankiness was also skimpily clad in European style, save for cavalry boots and saber. He bore a tray of meat, soft flat bread, carafes of wine and water, two goblets. “General,” he said. “General, it be me.”

Rupert remained unaware till the man’s great nose virtually thrust itself between him and his text. At that he blinked, leaned back, and said in a vague tone, “Oh. Will. What’s this?”

“This,” was the firm reply as the tray came down on Ovid’s Metamorphoses, “be food. In case tha general ha’ forgotten, food be good to eat. Tha’ zay it be a meal in itzelf. Eat, zir, an’ drink. Thic be an order.”

Rupert shook his head. “I have no hunger.” He bridled. “And who’rt thou to give me orders?”

Will folded himself into a chair across the table, laid shank over thigh, and flapped an expansive gesture.

“Zir, God an’ tha laws o’ war ha’ commanded zartin rights an’ zartin duties for overloard an’ underlin’ boath.

I knows my plaece. It be not for me to speak o’ strategy—nor tactics, though o’ coua’se, in carryin’ out of a command, a plain man-at-arms may fiand it wisest if’a doan’t bespeak small changes made for, hm, practical reasons what wouldn’t interest a general. Zo, if my measter will stay buried in this heare li-berry o’ tha duke’s, bloody-be-damn ever zince we landed this mornin’, an’ snarl at tha duchess when she come bid him taeke zome rest, till she went off in tears… why,’a could court-martial me did I protest.”

He launched into his peroration. “But grub, now, grub, zir, thic’s by God’s grant tha common zoldier’s lawful conzern; nor man nor angel may zircumspect his riaght of free speech where’t regards his belly; I make no doubt Joshua’s troops entered tha Promised Land complainin’ o’ tha bad milk an’ worse honey what war issued them. Thus, I can zay what I liake on feedin’, an’ what I zay be that if tha general doan’t taeke this heare charge an’ ram it down his muzzle, a’s false to them what ha’ need o’ his fiere.”

A reluctant smile twitched Rupert’s lips.”’Tis late indeed.”

“Past midnight. Should’a heard tha butler when I kicked him out o’ bed! Not that I followed his speech, but’a opened tha spigot for sure. I’splained what I wanted in zign language, includin’ tha flat o’ my blaede’cross his hindquarters, an’… here it be, measter. For everybody’s zake, eat,” Will pleaded.

Rupert rubbed his eyes. “A sound idea, no doubt. Lord knows thou makest abundant sound about it.”

“An’ afterward go to sleep.”

“Nay. Although my search is proving so barren I might almost as well.”

“What dost thou zeek?” Will filled a goblet with wine and water and thrust it into Rupert’s grasp.

The prince drank, scarcely noticing. “Our goal: since in my folly I cast away the compass given by a hand which trusted me.” His voice was rough and stiff.

Will nodded at the ring and its ordinary-looking jewel. “I thought as much. Last night—tha duchess, ha?—aye, tha zigns war plain on her today. An’ what’s wrong in thic, pray tell?”

Rupert stared into darkness. “I told myself at the time,” rattled from him, “insofar’s I thought in any wise through that sudden torrent of lust… I told myself my pledge of faith to Jennifer Alayne was meaningless, no proper betrothal, no Christian oath; rather, the whole thing could be a snare of hell, and I skirting damnation. But when at last, near dawn, Belinda slunk from me, back to my befriender I’d cuckolded—”

He covered his face. “I saw this darkness in the stone, and my soul had become a stone as dead.”

“Oh, General! Talk zense, I beg thee!” Will leaned over the table to clasp a bowed shoulder. “Maybe thou didst maeke a mistaeke. Well, art thou zo unchristianly proud as to think human stumbles o’ thine be few an’ terrible enough that heaven quaekes? Bezides,’twould not surprise me if tha duchess used a love potion to o’ercome thee in the end; I’ve heard o’ zuch things in theezam parts. Though as for parts… why, thou’rt young an’ full-blooded. Thou’d’st been a monk for I know not how long ere we zet north, whereafter thou wert zoon an’ always kept aware o’ mine own artillery at work, click o’ tha cockin’, snap o’ tha hammer-fall, thump an’ bang o’ tha flyin’ balls. No moare magic than this miaght’ve been needful, an’ small wonder if at last thou didst fall, though’t might be better I bespeak a girt wonder which did ariase.

Liake I heard a learned man zay once, abstinence maekes tha font grow harder.”

“Spare me,” Rupert said. “Leave me alone to do what little I can toward repairing the disaster.”

“If thou’lt stoake thyzelf.”

Rupert nodded, rolled bread around a slab of meat, and chewed. “Thic’s better,” Will said. “Uh, if we’ve lost use of our guide, can we carry on?”

Rupert winced. “I can try… to seek my goal—Prospero’s isle—by mortal means. The odds are less than poor for finding it and, should I find it, gaining aught thereby. Yet what else can I do?”

“We, my loard.”

“Thanks for fidelity too deep to need thanks.” Whether because of nourishment or encouragement, the prince’s manner regained some of its iron: “My reasoning goes thus. Six decades ago, Duke Prospero of Milan and his infant daughter were made captive by his usurping brother. He had them taken secretly to sea—‘some leagues,’ says the Historian—and there put into a derelict,’a rotten carcass of a butt, not rigged, nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats instinctively have quit it.’ Now this must have been a ship, not large, but not a boat either. We have the description, as well’s the fact there was stowage for the arcane books and other goods which kindly Gonzalo managed to give the duke along. Nonetheless, it must have drifted at mercy of wind and wave, slowly sinking. What minor magics Prospero could wield at that time no doubt aided him to strand safely. However, considering the starting point and the condition of the vessel, the island he found must lie somewhere between Italy and Spain.”

“H’m.” Will rubbed his bristles, which made a scratchy noise across the snores of the old librarian. “Thou’st skimped talk o’ this to me. But than, we’d thin time for talk till we boarded for our own v’yage; an’ thic—Ne’ miand. What happened laeter?”

“Oh, Prospero and Miranda dwelt there till he had by his studies become a mighty wizard and she was a young lady. At last his false brother chanced nigh. He’d been with the party which married Claribel, the daughter of his overlord the King of Naples, to the King of Tunis—she who’s dowager queen here. By his arts and the aid of a servant spirit, Prospero caused the ship to be driven to his shore, and played such tricks as taught repentance. Finally, when all could be forgiven, he returned to rule again in Milan, while his daughter married the crown prince of Naples—aye, they’re the same King Ferdinand and Queen Miranda who reign there still. Prospero practiced no more sorceries for the rest of his life, being mainly concerned with preparing himself for the next one. In fact, he’d abandoned his magical articles on the island.” Rupert paused before finishing: “Oberon’s thought was that we might recover and use them.”

Will shivered despite the heat. “An uncanny quest forzooth. Well, I’ve aye found All Hallows Eve good for rangin’, sine gaemekeepers stay indoors throughout thic night. Know’st thou where this plaece may be?”

“Hardly closer than I’ve said. Islands are not plentiful in the western Mediterranean Sea. However, Oberon’s people failed to find it. Therefore I think it has a magic of its own, including a girdle of invisibility. Mariners espy naught save empty waves, unless by sheer chance they come within a certain close distance. That may well have happened from time to time, men may actually have made landings, though they could never quite find it again, given their primitive navigation in earlier ages. I wonder if it may once have been Caiypso’s isle, or Circe’s—” Rupert’s words trailed off.

“An’ thou’rt ranzackin’ tha records for mentions what might pw’int tow’rd it?” Will asked. (Rupert nodded.) “Winnin’ scant booty, zeems liake. How much longer’ll thou taeke?”

“A week should exhaust this library.”

“An’ thee,’speci’lly if thou’lt not eat. Chomp, measter! What’s thy scheame afterward?”

“I’ll buy a boat.” Rupert’s fingernails whitened where he clutched the table edge. “Belinda’s money; my penance.” Decisive again: “A small craft, which two can man. We’ll need no more, in this sea and season.

Why add risk of betrayal, when word of my coming here must soon reach agents of our enemies? We’ll crisscross the area of possibility, starting at the likeliest parts, until—” He bit savagely into the food.

“Till tha year grows too oald; or King Charles be beaten; or zomething drags us under,” Will said. “An’ liake thou toald, our odds be none I caere to waeger a clipped farthin’ on. Well, Oberon an’ Titania loaded tha dice in our faevor, last time. Maybe now tha’ can hit on a way for shufflin’ tha spots around. If not—” He shrugged. “There be no other gaeme, hey?”

It rocked to a slow swell beneath a cloudless sky. Apart from that motion, the water might have been green and blue glass. Westward heaven stood gray-violet around a sinking moon, eastward whitened by a sun not yet risen. The air was cool, but barely gave steerage way; the sail hung more slack than taut, often flapping as the yard slatted about.

Jennifer half sat, half sprawled in the sternsheets. Her hands were raw on tiller and cordage, the lips in her burnt face had cracked open to the dry blood, eyes smoldered emptily beneath swollen lids.

A night at sea, a day, another night, she thought, and here’s another dawn. Will I see dusk? How long till thirst will free me from itself? Her neck let go. As chin struck chest she gasped back to consciousness. / must not sleep! Impossible at best to tack along that course the ring once pointed… through shifty winds or none, and unknown currents, by sun, moon, stars unlike the stars of home, observed through haze of weariness and scorch… impossible surely if I fall asleep.

She cleated the line she held and scratched in salt-stiffened hair. My skull’s quite hollow—Nay, there is much sand within the shriveled kernel of my brain. Have I gone mad? Am I indeed possessed? This scow’s not even very good at tacking. I know no longer where I am, or why. I ought to make for shore, where’er’tis nearest—whichever way that is, unless too late—not plod eternally to seek a Dutchman whose own witch-pilot somehow must have’ died.

She raised her head, though it went slowly. Why, there’s my reason! How could I forget for e’en a minute? If the spell has failed, he too may be bewildered and beset. With God all things are possible, they say, although, of course, the most of them unlikely; thus it may be I’ll find him—help him—find him—If not, I died in trying, like a soldier.

She turned the helm a trifle, seeking the most use out of what breeze she had.

A swirl in the water drew her look. Why,’tis a dolphin, she realized. Aloud, a croak forced from leathery mouth and tongue: “Greeting, Master Dolphin! Good morrow to thee. Come, I bid thee welcome. The antics of thy kind beside this hull, the liquid lightning beauty of their pace, have helped me keep my reason and my life. God loves the world; He gave it dolphins—Oh!”

That was a parched scream. For the swimmer had drawn alongside, arced up in a cataract of spray, caught the first sunbeams on spear-bright flanks, and shimmered into something else.

Jennifer shrank back. The one who perched on the middle thwart laughed. The sound was like bells, heard far away across summer meadows through dawn-dreams when she was a child; and he sang more than spoke: “I thank thee for thine invitation, lady, and do accept with pleasure. Pardon me if I surprised thee when I doffed my cloak. I have no few of them—as this—”

Abruptly a dragonfly hovered, the absoluteness of blue. “Or this,” it said, and a dove preened an iridescent breast. “Or this”—a young man, brown, golden-curled, in a brief white tunic, strumming a lyre, wings on his cap and sandals—“or this”—a vortex of radiance, not unlike what had come from the ring before it faded, but whirling, whirling—“or this,” the being said, and returned to the first shape taken aboard, “or many more.”

“What sending art thou,” Jennifer’s words dragged, “and from where, and why?”

“Am I so terrifying in thy sight?” he teased. “I can become a gorgon if thou’d’st liefer.”

Her breathing began to slow. Certainly his aspect could in itself only charm: a boy of seven or eight years, slenderness clad in breechclout and a lily garland across the fair locks, eyes big and cornflower-colored in a countenance dusted with freckles—but less than a foot tall, and winged like a butterfly which had been patterned on a tiger in a field of gillyvor.

No matter his minuteness, she could easily hear him, and read the concern which crossed his features: “Wait. Thou hast sailed too near the edge, I see. No babe has drained thee, but a red-hot vampire, and thou art more a mummy than a mother. Abide a moment.”

He was gone. She stared, opened and closed her mouth, could get forth no noise. Untended, the rudder waggled idle, the yardarm rattled, and the sail spilled its wind.

A footman appeared before her. “Milady, tea is served,” he intoned, set a tray on the after thwart, and became the boy-sprite, perched gleeful in the bows.

She gaped. A pot of China ware steamed upon the brass, next to an eggshell-thin cup; there were plates of cheese, raisins, cakes; beside a pitcher of milk stood one of water, both bedewed from their coldness, and an honest clay mug to pour full.

“Quaff slowly, nibble, till thou’rt wont to life,” he warned.

“I know,” she answered, “but know not how to thank thee… Oh, thou’st naught against a prayer?”

“Nay, I’ll join.”

Reassured, she knelt for minute, as he did in the foresheets. Meanwhile the sun had come wholly in flight and the sea lay a-flash.

With wondering care, Jennifer started to drink and eat. Her rescuer found a comfortable position against the gunwale, kicked his heels, and said: “No doubt thou’rt curious about this business. Well, I am Ariel, the airy spirit who once served Prospero upon that isle which thou’st been dogging, till he slipped me free.” Her stupefaction sent him into a gale of mirth. “I read thy mind. Fear not.’Tis very pure.” He grew solemn. “And thus I learn how Faerie’s faring ill. I’ve kept myself too long in isolation—lost track of time, mine island is so pleasant. Now must I help thy cause and Oberon’s. Else might erelong the foe bestride my holm, his iron passionlessly ravish her, then flense the daisies from her dying flesh and on her bones erect a countinghouse.”

“As has been happening in England,” she said between cautious, marveling sips. “Rupert—”

“What’s in a name?” Ariel scoffed. “Well, names can be important. They should have made him Ernest. Ah, no matter. He clumps well-meaning, if on heavy hoofs. Myself, I like thee better, Jennifer.”

“Speak never ill of him!” she flared.

“That’s what I like,” nodded Ariel.

“But… he’s alive and hale?”

“Aye.”

“God be praised.” Were she not desiccated, she would have wept.

After a while, during which he conjured a sparkling ball into existence, bounced it on his fingertips, and dismissed it, Ariel went on: “Thou know’st our Faerie powers are but slight—illusions, apparitions, some few tricks, forecastings which the stream of time may drown, a whisper of ambiguous advice. Outside mine eyot, I’m a spy, no more. Not only would I not have known of thee, I could not aid thee as I’m doing now hadst thou not by thyself come near my home. Nor can I resurrect those mighty things whereby Duke Prospero first saved, then bound me. I can but show thee where he sank them down, and mortal muscles which may help thee—”

“Rupert?”

Ariel grimaced. “Nay, he sits deep inside” a shell of books. I have no strength to winkle him from them, for that whole palace has an iron frame to fence off magic, which its builders feared.” Seeing her crestfallen: “However, by himself he’ll soon creep forth. Meanwhile, I know how it has fretted thee about the lad who cut thy chains in twain and thus did leave his sword unscabbarded. Well, he is in no danger. His companions agree thou didst bewitch his innocence, and anyway, have too much else to think of.” He grinned. “The owner of this boat demands its price of them—a sum left float to bloat, I’m sure—since watchmen state a Puritan did steal it, and furthermore insists on partial rental, although’tis clear they’ll never use his ship. He threatens lawsuit; whilst they speak no French!” He beat the thwart and whooped.

“How dost thou know these things?” Jennifer wondered.

“The span of time I took to fetch you rations, was enough to follow up the clues within thy mind.” Ariel began to sing: “Where the eaves drop, there drop I—” but broke off in apology. “Ah, nay, I pray thy delicacy pardon each single second sere and useless here within this furnace hole of movelessness. I’ll bring an oil which heals all burns at once.” His words rose to a cry. “Now from the deeps for thee let whirl a wind, lass!”

He flung an arm aloft. The air brawled to life, the waters beneath it. Sail suddenly filled, the boat sprang forward.