Rough Magic Page 4

  It seemed so obvious, when she arrived, that the wild apple tree was what she had been looking for. It spread its boughs wide, hard little fruit littering the ground beneath it. It was food and shelter for many creatures. It was the life of the island.

  She placed her hands against its trunk, felt it sing with power and fear. The tree had known she would claim it, had hoped that she would die before she could. “I did not die,” she said to it, grinding her teeth spitefully.

  The night of the full moon was nine days away. She had plenty of time to ready herself for the rites. She turned and went back to the cave, deafening herself to the pleas she heard and felt all around. In nine days she would tear down the tree and bind its power for her own use. Then…well, then she would have the means to win her freedom.

  She sang as she walked.

  I.x.

  The moon was full, golden, swollen with power, and at the height of its strength. Caliban was sleeping peacefully when she left. She had woven a small charm so that he would not awake. The trees seemed to catch at her with their branches, trying to stop her. She brushed them away. Her need was greater than that of any tree. She could not be stopped.

  The apple tree seemed to glow in the watery light of the moon. She stood for a moment and observed it, admiring it. It was kin to her, somehow. And soon it would belong to her.

  Sycorax strode across the clearing, the knife gripped firmly in her right hand. All the great spells required blood for the casting. She took comfort that this spell would not require her to bleed alone.

  Silver light made everything stark. She drove the blade into the tree, past its thick skin and into the quick. Normally stone would not be equal to the task, but her words and the moon strengthened the knife. Resolutely, she pushed it down, carving the symbol of power deep into the tree’s heart. Sap oozed from the cut. Steadily she carved, until the sign was complete. She pulled the knife free.

  Her hand clenched, involuntarily. Sycorax forced it open and glared at it, as though it were a belligerent child that needed to be disciplined. In the colorless light she stared at her palm, her fate mapped in its creases.

  Panic rose in her throat, but she pushed it back. She would cut a new line, write a new fate in the flesh of her hand.

  The thought of Caliban steadied her. She would do anything to win him back his rightful place. He would not live here, like some lost wolf-child.

  She slit her palm, driving deep into the muscle. Then she placed her wound against the tree’s, blood to blood. The knife fell from her other hand and shattered. That was of no importance. It was no longer needed. She began to chant the words of the spell. Her voice was rough, hoarse. It was hard to think, harder still to speak, through the red mist of pain. Waves of nausea battered her. Grimly she fought on. She would not fail.

  The magic of the tree’s veins flowed into her own. Her hair began to crackle as though it was burning, but she felt herself growing cold. In spite of her shivering, she did not move her hand, she did not let the song falter. It was a battle for control she was waging, and she was determined to win. But the roots of the tree ran into the heart of the island, and its power was more than she’d ever imagined. Everything that lived and breathed and grew and died upon the island was attached to the tree. All its life surged in rebellion against her.

  The owls were the first to attack. She felt them coming and leaned into the tree to protect her face from their buffeting wings and razor claws. They tore at her hair, her back, and shoulders. She beat them off with the magic of the tree, but the power was divided. They came on again. She tucked her head under her arm. Her voice was only a whisper now, but she did not stop the spell.

  It was when she sensed the vipers coming that her heart nearly failed. Sycorax had never lost her childhood fear of snakes. The tree knew this, and brought them on more swiftly.

  She would lose, and die. Caliban would also die, alone, never waking from his magical sleep. It was not fair that an innocent child should have to pay such a high price for her failure.

  Fury came to her aid. It blasted every fear from her mind. The bitter gall of her guilt and suffering and humiliation flooded her. She would not lose her son. In a blaze of hatred she ripped the power from the island’s very roots.

  The tree burned, engulfed in icy flames that ate their own heat. She remained unharmed. The moonfire continued to rage, forcing back the owls and the serpents. The power of the tree was drawn inward, until at last the fire died and she was left holding a blackened staff. It didn’t look like much of a royal scepter, but it was the channel her magic now flowed through.

  Sycorax staggered back toward the cave, leaning on the staff for support. Her new power threatened to overwhelm her. She was aware of every heartbeat, every stone-crack on the island. And all of it waited, breath suspended, to see what life would be like, now that it was in thrall to the island queen.

  Somehow she made it home. Sycorax collapsed on the bough bed, drawing Caliban to her. Once the staff was out of her grasp, the call of the island grew fainter. She slept.

  As soon as she awoke the island cacophony was there again. She had not bargained on this, on having the mind of every creature hammer at her own thoughts. She would have to find a way to make them quiet, or she would go mad.

  Caliban was still sleeping. He would not wake until she willed it. Sycorax brushed her guilt away. Let him sleep a little longer. Now she had power to test. With the staff in her hand, she left the cave.

  She felt her way through all the small lives on the island, peering at each one and gauging its usefulness before moving on to the next. At last she made a great discovery. A smile curled her lips.

  “Come,” she said.

  A creature of air and fire appeared before her. “Ariel,” she said, pulling his name from him.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “You are my servant now,” she said. It was unnecessary, but she enjoyed hearing the words come from her mouth.

  “Yes,” he said again. It seemed to her that his fire burned lower, and grew pale. Well and good. He should know better than to test her authority.

  “Bring me food,” she ordered. “Bread, and fruit, and properly cooked meat; lamb, I think. And wine, rich red wine. Have it here within the hour.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And a crown,” she said. “A golden one, with jewels. I don’t care where you get it from.” She smiled and waved her hand to dismiss him.

  In an instant he was gone. She did a little dance of joy on the shore.

  I.xi.

  Wherever Sycorax walked a pall of silence fell, as though everything were holding its breath, waiting for her to pass by. She was poison, stench, plague, and swarm to the island. She was the heart of every tempest. Her power, born of anger and won by hatred, could find no peace in its expression. The creatures of the island despised her. The mermaids howled abuses at her from the safety of the sea, always staying beyond the reach of her control. Once, Sycorax had picked up a rock, marveling at its perfect shape, and knew at once that it longed to crush her. How could a stone hold such hate?

  But she could not leave. She had fused her very soul to this island. She had planned to drain it of its strength and use its force to wreak a glorious revenge. Instead, she had bound herself to it. If she left she would die, and what would happen to Caliban then? In seeking to win her freedom, she had built herself a cage.

  Disappointed and thwarted hopes made a bitter brew to swallow, and she had to drink it every day. It made her savage and cruel. She could not tame herself; she did not remember how to feel mercy. Only this morning she had imprisoned Ariel in a pine tree. He had not been as swift on an errand as she desired. His groans and howls would wring pity from the stoniest heart. But Sycorax felt nothing but blind rage. It drove all other thoughts from her mind. She knew that she would not let Ariel out, no matter how much she suffered from the loss of his service. She scorned her own stupidity, but could not stop herself. It was as if her mind and he
r will had been cleaved apart, never to be rejoined. Every day Sycorax died a little more, and there was only a mad monster left to rule this small world.

  She flung curses at the sea, sending out another storm to toss a ship ashore. Sycorax filled her days by combing the shore for lost treasures caught by the waves. Her cave was now hung with rich fabrics, though all of them were water-stained and moldering. She ate off fine china once more. Thin, delicate plates, every one of which was cracked or chipped. The elegant clothes she scavenged and wore were ill-fitting and torn. At least the gold she found still shone. It was a comfort to her. She hoarded it, burying it safe in a deep hole. “I’ve become a dragon,” she would say to herself, and then she’d look down at her hands, expecting to see scales and claws in their place. The gold had grown to a considerable pile. One day it would be Caliban’s, his birthright. He was a king’s son, after all.

  The only gentle moments for her now were those with her small son, speaking with him in the language of her home. She would not talk to him in his father’s tongue. It was foolish of her. If Caliban was to be his father’s heir, he must be able to speak with his people. But the syllables twisted in her mouth and refused to fall from her lips. The words choked her, just as her husband’s land had choked her power.

  She could not even tell Caliban the truth of his parentage. Instead, she had spun him a story to please them both, that he was the child of a god. Setebos, was the name she gave him, this glorious father who lived in the sky and looked down upon them.

  “I want him,” Caliban would say.

  “Gods always leave their earthly children,” she told him. “They have heavenly matters to tend to. They leave their small mortal sons to grow strong and brave, to be heroes.”

  She told him, in whispers, that he was like Heracles, like Perseus.

  He stared at her with his wide pale eyes, understanding very little but sensing the wonder in what she said. He would run along the shore pointing at the sun, crying out, “Tetebof! Tetebof!” She would laugh, then. She would feel nearly happy. “Wild boy,” she would call him. He’d grin at her, his thick fleshy lips stretching to split his face, his birthmarks purple in the bright light of day. “Catch me a fish,” she’d say.

  And he would. He could catch anything. He was clever and swift. He was fearless, throwing himself into the waves, leaping across rocks, climbing up cliff faces to steal bird’s eggs, to fetch her flowers.

  The smile fell from her face. He was not really fearless. Not anymore. He had begun to grow afraid of her when her anger was strongest. His little eyes stared up at her when she raged about the cave. He would sit on their bed like an animal watching a predator, silent and still. On nights when the moon was full he would hide himself away in another smaller cave. She knew where he was, of course. She knew, all the time, where everything was on the island. But she let him feel safe.

  She only hoped that he was safe.

  The thought made her fall to the ground. She lay there, her knees pulled up to her chest, her hands clutching her ankles. This was something she had discovered by accident several months ago. When she rolled herself up the power looped through her, needing no other target to vent itself upon. It left her bent and weakened, but it protected everything else.

  Sycorax knew that someday she would not unbend, that she would die this way, twisted in on herself. It was the only true kindness she had left.

  A raven flapped toward her and thumped down on a rock. It croaked and bobbed its head. She had loved these birds, once. In her own country they were revered. They were prophetic and wise. When she was twelve, she’d had one as a pet. Vrok, she’d named it. She fed it bits of meat, and it preened its feathers from its perch on her shoulder. She cried for three days when it left in the spring, seeking a mate.

  But this was an island bird. It would never rub its bill playfully against her cheek as Vrok had done. Even in the midst of her pain she could feel its curious eyes upon her. It wondered if she was dead. It hoped she was. She’d make a delightful feast for him and his brothers. She let go of her legs and jumped to her feet, wielding the staff before her. The black bird squawked and tried to lift itself to safety. It was too slow. Lightening shot from the staff and destroyed it, leaving nothing but a stain of ash on the rocks.

  Sycorax felt momentary triumph, then contempt. She had killed a bird. A cat could do so much. She made her way back to the cave.

  Act Two

  Sulfur Sun, Mercury Moon

  II.i.

  His mother was lying on the bed when he returned from fishing, twisted in on herself. The staff had fallen from the bed and lay on the ground. Caliban knew better than to bother her when she was like that. He crept about quietly, making his food for the day. But she began to whimper, in the manner of all small, sick things, which she’d never done before. “Never show pain, Caliban,” she always said. “Never let anyone think that you’re weak.” Her mewling cries frightened him, but he did not run away like he usually did when she scared him. Instead, he sat down beside her and stroked her hair, kicking the staff away as he did so.

  He didn’t like it. “Mean stick,” he called it. But not in front of his mother. Once he’d asked her why she didn’t throw it into the waves, throw it where it couldn’t hurt her anymore. “I can’t,” she said. And then she laughed in such a horrible way, for such a long time. It was worse than crying, that laughter. He never spoke about the mean stick again.

  His patting didn’t help her. He felt her skin beneath his hand, but he couldn’t seem to touch her. She was leaving him. He tried to sing her the songs she once sang to him. Only he couldn’t remember all the words, and his voice was rough, not smooth and gentle like hers could be. If his voice was sweeter, maybe he could have saved her. But she did not want to be saved.

  He knew the instant she died. She’d been quiet for a while, so it wasn’t her silence that told him. She was there with him one moment, and gone the next. Her body did not droop. He stayed beside her, uncertain what to do. He wondered if she’d come back. She was so powerful. He could not imagine her dead the way fish were dead. He wondered if he should eat her. He did not want to. He was not a crow.

  Finally she grew hard and stiff, like wood. Caliban did not like to see her face. Her eyes were empty. He dragged her body out into the open, down to the shore, hoping she would not snap like kindling. He was strong. She always told him he was strong. He knew that she wouldn’t want to be left there, in the dark. She never liked the cave, not the way he did. She called it shelter. He called it home.

  He watched from his rock as the tide came up and the waves gently slipped around her. Soon they pulled her out and carried her away. It had grown gray and cold, but Caliban did not leave. He stayed until he could no longer see the dark ring of withered flesh that was all the magic had left of his mother. Rain began to fall. He supposed that Setebos was hiding his face now. He must be sad, too.

  But no matter how long Caliban sat with his arms wrapped around his chest, the aching would not go away. His throat was tight and air didn’t seem to fit into his lungs any more. He gasped a bit, like a fish floundering out of water. He stood on the rock and called to his mother. “Come back!” he said. “Come back! You’ve gone too far!”

  But she didn’t come back. He knew she wouldn’t. And he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was used to spending his days alone, but she’d always been somewhere nearby. He’d see her on the beach, dancing and yelling. Or he’d find her in the woods, arguing with some unlucky tree. She’d wake him up at night, when she came in after one of her moonlit walks, to give his back a quick rub before lying down beside him to sleep. Now she was gone, and his island suddenly felt very big. He felt hollow inside.

  After a while he left and went back home, where he sat and ate the fish stew he had made earlier. He would only eat the food that came from the island. He had never liked the magical food his mother had her servants bring them. She would smile as she ate it. It made her happy. She’d tell stories
of life in her royal court. It was her pretending, he guessed, just as he would pretend to be a shark when he splashed in the shallows. Caliban couldn’t understand why she liked her imaginary place so much. She never did anything there but eat and work magic, just like she did here. And it was full of odd and useless people. “They respected me!” she would say. “They feared me.” Then he knew it was time to leave. She always got angry after the stories.

  It had never nourished her, the magical food. He had watched her grow frail and thin, refusing to eat the good island food he made. “You must,” he had said. She had smiled, and ruffled his hair. She had not wanted to live.

  Caliban knew why. It lay there, in the corner. The mean stick. It had begun calling to him. It wanted a master.

  He looked down at the staff. He knew that it held the island’s life. It had held his own. Now it was looking for someone to wield it. “You are the island king,” it said. That was one of his mother’s pretend words. King and queen. She always said them together. “Setebos is king,” he told the mean stick. “He doesn’t need you.” The mean stick tried to catch him, but he was free of it, freed by his mother’s death. He would not be caught by it as she had been. He would not die twisted into a hoop.

  At first he tried tossing it into the sea. But his mother was right; it would not float away. No matter how hard and how far he flung it, it would not follow his mother out into the deeps. Time after time it washed up again on the shore. Its voice bothered him. It bothered all the creatures. Birds began to flap about aimlessly in disordered flocks. Pigeons flew with ravens, seagulls swooped by with starlings.

  He could burn it in his fire, cook his supper over its coals. But the very idea seemed to make the island shudder. Finally he brought it back into the cave. He scraped together the earth of the floor and buried it, in the corner of the cave. Then he brought in rocks to cover the small mound. Its call was muffled, now. He could ignore it. He would forget it.