BEYOND THE TEMPEST

Part I

One fair breezy morning in the time of good Queen Bess, a ship called the "Dover" made its way towards land after nearly being shipwrecked on a desert island. The sun warmed the sailors’ bare backs as they hauled on the ropes and raised the sails, singing lustily. A party of well-heeled passengers strolled along the deck and exclaimed at the wide expanse of clear blue sky and glassy water.

Among their number was a former magician and his soon-to-be-wed daughter, a king and his son, and other assorted nobles. Prospero, the magician, had once been the Duke of Milan until his brother Antonio overthrew him and set him adrift at sea with his baby daughter, Miranda. A storm had blown them onto a desert island, where they lived for twelve years.

Now Prospero was returning to their homeland with the promise of being restored to his rightful title and lands. He had wangled a betrothal for Miranda, now a beautiful young woman, to the King of Naples' son, Prince Ferdinand.

*****************************

Alas, Miranda didn't care for the handsome prince. He could talk for hours about gambits (whatever they were) and fewmets (whatever they were.) She didn’t bother to ask, but he told her anyway.

”Gambits’ are strategies of chess, my most favored game. ‘Fewmets’ are the droppings of the beasts we hunt. They lead us to our prey.” He rubbed his hands together with delight.

Miranda dodged his company whenever possible. She preferred reading the classics from her father's library, memorizing the properties of plants and herbs for healing, and swimming in the warm turquoise ocean.

As they sailed towards Naples, Ferdinand assured her that there would be no more immodest swimming or time for reading. She was to bear his heir to the royal throne.

"I'm not a brood mare!" she raged.

On their last day at sea, a fierce storm blew up, this one of nature, not Prospero's magic. The passengers fled below, screaming in terror for Prospero to stop the storm. Alas, he had renounced his magic before leaving his island, and could only shrug as they scrambled for their bunks.

Sick of being confined in her cabin, Miranda slipped out to explore the hold. The barrels were lashed to the beams, but suddenly one of them toppled over. She jumped back and gasped as the lid burst open.

Out rolled Caliban, the now-grown son of Sycorax. Her father had called him a monster, half-human and half-devil, But Miranda had never been frightened by his looks. She had been friends with Caliban when they were children. She taught him her language and how to read. He showed her the beauties of the island, where to find ripe berries and fresh mussels.

Then one day he had pulled her onto the grass and tried to take her. She fought him off and ran to her father. Prospero raged at him and enslaved him, torturing him with magic if he disobeyed.

Years passed, and Caliban seethed with anger at his master, who forced him to carry loads of heavy firewood and buckets of water, doing their cooking, fishing and digging for clams. He even had to bury the pots of night soil in the gullies of his beloved island.

Appalled at her father’s treatment of him, Miranda forgave Caliban, but Prospero continued to torment him. Outraged, she tried to plead for mercy. "Papa, don't be so cruel to him.”

"Be quiet, lass!" Prospero had thundered. "He'll have no second chance to bespoil your honor."

Now Miranda stared in disbelief as Caliban sprawled before her on the floor of the ship.

"Caliban! How came you here? I thought we left you behind!"

He sat up and growled. "I am not so easily thrown aside, milady. Your father stole my freedom for twelve long years. That island was mine, from my mother. I have sworn vengeance on him with my dying breath."

She sat down and gripped his muscular arm. "Enough of vengeance and dying! That's all you men want. Put aside your grievances. Help me find a brave new world where I'll not be chattel and you'll not be slave to any man."

Caliban gave a bitter laugh. “That place does not exist, Miranda. Go back to your fancy prince, who will set you over wild ones like me.”

“Never!” cried Miranda. “He is a bumbling cad. I will never allow him to enslave you as my father did.” She shook his arm. “Caliban, you must help me. We will both seek to escape the stifling fate we are facing.”

The small strange man glanced at her, then shut his eyes, dazzled by her beauty. She had inherited her mother's sea-green eyes and red-gold curls, and a strong will that matched his own. If he could trust her as she asked, mayhap they could make their own destiny. Finally he opened his eyes and met her steady gaze. He nodded, and she reached for his rough hand, gripping it tightly to seal the deal.

Part II

The day flew by, and soon the ship came into the busy harbor of Naples. Seagulls wheeled overhead, squawking and diving for crumbs. The passengers of the Dover disembarked, holding up their elaborate cloaks as they stumbled down the gangplank. Miranda, her face hidden by the hood of her cloak, seemed to be having the most difficulty. She clutched at her gown, muttering under her breath. Ferdinand reached to help her and she slapped his hand away.

"Why daughter, what ails you?" demanded her ever-vigilant father. She did not answer.

As the party stepped off the gangplank, Miranda suddenly sank to the muddy ground. Instantly the men crowded around her, gabbling worried questions.

Prospero bellowed, "Give her air! Let her breathe!"

In the commotion, no one saw a wine barrel tumble to the dock and burst open. A creature dressed in a loose baggy shirt and tattered burlap trousers rolled out. Prospero turned and saw the wild black hair and familiar hunched figure run past. He dropped his staff, forgetting his own daughter's distress.

"After that meddlesome brute who plotted on my life! He'll have no second chance!"

But Caliban was too quick for them, and melted away into the crowd. Miranda made a miraculous recovery and stood up, brushing the dirt from her blue gown.

"Are you well, milady?" Ferdinand asked anxiously.

She smiled at him with grim satisfaction. "Never better."

**************************

Caliban ran through the streets, dodging wagons and carriages pulled by huge beasts that snorted and nearly crushed him with their giant hoofs. He had never seen such creatures. He was jostled by humans of every size and color, some pale and others with dark skin like his. On his island he had grown up with only his mother, running free and wild in the fresh air, collecting sweet berries and catching trout in the cold brooks. The sun would shine through the trees, warming his back as he climbed the rocks to look out the sea. This place was terrifying and suffocating.

 "Meet me at the palace at nightfall," Miranda had said back on the ship. But what was a “palace?” His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten for nearly two days. He passed a wagon piled with tempting red fruit, and seized one. As he crunched into it, a succulent sweet juice filled his mouth.  Ahh heaven. He grabbed another one and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Stop, thief!" a small round woman shrieked. Thanks to Miranda's tutoring, Caliban understood her. He spun around and pushed his way back into the crowd. At that moment he only wanted to go back to his peaceful island, and Prospero be damned.

*****************************

From the royal carriage, Miranda gazed down on the same crowded streets, her heart pounding with terror. Like Caliban, she had grown up on the island, but she did have vague memories of being tended to by women with gentle voices.

"Are you feeling better, milady?" inquired Prince Ferdinand. "You are still quite pale."

"Where do all these people come from?" she asked instead.

The prince smiled proudly. 'They are my father's subjects, from countries far and wide. Just think, milady, you shall be Queen over all of them."

Queen, like one of his chess pieces. Miranda was tired of being a piece of any sort in her father's games. Outwardly she smiled and talked and allowed the King of Naples to fuss over her. She waved to the people eager to catch a glimpse of their new princess. She even partook of the rich goods held that night, hiding some fruit, bread, and portions of beef in her cloak for Caliban. She fervently hoped he would find the palace that night.

 *********************************

Night fell and Caliban found himself in a dark street where small animals with sharp teeth scurried about his feet. The crowds of people had dispersed, but this place felt ominous.

Two shadows approached. “What ho! What have we here?"

Caliban remembered the two ruffians from the ship whom he'd plotted to kill Prospero. They had turned out to be drunken fools who ruined his plans. These two seemed far more dangerous. He fled but the men caught him and slammed him to the bricks.

"Tis a man! Nay, a monster."

"Search its pockets, it may be a rich monster."

Miranda had filled his pockets with pearls, rubies, and pieces of gold. They had been naught but pretty stones to him, but she said wisely, "These are of great value. Guard them safely so that we may buy passage to the New World."

Now the attackers tore at Caliban's pockets, grabbing handfuls of treasure. He fought back, but he was no match for them. Miranda had taught him language, and he had profited from it. "A red plague take you and all your kin!" he snarled.

"It speaks!" They laughed. "I'll silence that foul tongue of yours," said the taller one, and dealt him a fierce blow to the head. The world went black and he knew no more.

********************************

Miranda waited for Caliban by the gate that night and the next, but he did not appear. At last she could think of no more pretexts to go for fresh air. Her ladies thought it passing strange that she liked to look at the stars. She was odd to them in every way, undisciplined and restless. She cared nothing for the fine gowns they brought her, nor the exquisite cosmetics that made her delicate features blossom into beguiling colors. She only wanted to be left alone to read the tomes she found in the palace library. Her dreams of escape died within her.

Prince Ferdinand grew impatient for her affections. As they sat at dinner, week after week, listening to endless toasts, Ferdinand leaned close. "Am I that repulsive to you, Miranda? Would you rather marry that misshapen wild man who plotted against your very own father's life?"

Miranda's throat ached at the mention of Caliban, but she answered. "In truth, I'd rather not marry at all."

"But why not? Is it such a loathsome prospect to live in comfort, your every need attended, your every wish indulged?"

"Oh milord, I would be a fool to say no! But not if I cannot breathe without asking your permission, or live confined within these walls with only chattering magpies around me for the rest of my days, Not if I must bear children in blood and pain as nothing more than a vessel. My own mother died in childbirth. Would you have me do the same?"

“Well…no."

Miranda finally spoke. "I have one request ere I consent to be your wife."

"Anything," Ferdinand said eagerly. She had him now.

"For all his faults, my father does believe in educating me in the great classics, the sciences and the arts. I should like to do the same for the children of your realm, for the betterment of their lives. Would you help me do that, Ferdinand?"

It was the first time she had called him by name. He smiled. "I will."

Part III

Caliban awoke to a violent ache in his head and a blinding light in his eyes. He was no longer lying on hard bricks but on a soft pallet of grass that reminded him of his island bed. Surely this was a dream or that place Miranda had spoken of, called "heaven." He struggled to sit up but a hand gently pushed him down.

"Lie still, good sir," said a deep rumbling voice. "You are yet unwell. Although I do see color in your face." The voice chuckled. "Indeed, that is my feature too."

The light softened and Caliban found himself gazing at a man with skin that shone like burnished wood, darker than his own, and short tightly curled hair. He wore a soft floppy blue cap and a wine-colored robe.

"Who are you?" Caliban managed to croak, and the man's eyes widened.

"You speak this language! Whence do you hail?"

Caliban told him about his island home . His rescuer listened intently. "You have arrived at a most auspicious time, sir. I am in need of an assistant."

Caliban sprang up to flee, then sank down as his legs gave way. "Not a slave?"

The man answered gravely, "Nay, nay. I was once a slave myself. My people in Nubia were conquered many times. I managed to escape, so I know that freedom comes at great cost. If you are willing to work hard, I shall never hold you confined."

He inclined his head. "I am a doctor of the healing arts. My name is Apollo." He smiled. "But I am no god. Merely a man who works with his hands and his heart. What is your name?"

"Caliban."

"A most unusual name, sir. Well, signore Caliban, I would give you sanctuary here in exchange for your help. Are we agreed?"

Caliban thought of Miranda in her great palace, and how they had planned to take ship together and flee to the New World. No doubt she had forgotten him by now. He might as well let that dream go. "Yes, Doctor."

Weeks passed, months turned to years. Caliban proved to be a quick learner as the doctor's helper. Their patients were the poorest and sickest in the back alleys and crowded warrens of the city. You had to have a strong stomach for the smells and sights, but it was a worthwhile profession. Without the two men's care, many would have died. Some did anyway, and that was heartbreaking, but it was part of life.

With time and experience, Caliban became a skilled physician as well. People grew used to the sight of the two black men with their cases of instruments and potions, one tall and stately, the other short and bowed. With clean clothes and neatly trimmed locks, Caliban almost resembled an Italian gentleman-- save for his dark skin.

Part IV

As the years passed, Queen Miranda became known as a wise and beloved sovereign who often left the palace walls. She built schools of learning and skilled trades for her subjects so that they might rise out of poverty. Her son, young Ferdinand, came along with her and made many friends. He was a fun-loving, compassionate lad who would make a fine King someday. But she never stopped yearning for her friend Caliban, wondering what their fate together might have been. She wished him well, wherever he had gone.

Caliban remained in Naples, thriving in his profession. With time, he even found love. Apollo's sister Kira, a young widow, came from her home in Tunisia and joined them as a midwife. Kira was as short as her brother was tall, with a rippling laugh like silver, and warm nurturing hands. She did not scorn Caliban or think he was a monster.

They fell deeply in love and were soon wed. They traveled throughout Africa, all the way down to Ethiopia, and served the ill in villages there for ten years. Alas, his beloved Kira died of malaria, and Caliban returned to Naples, grief-stricken. He worked with Apollo until his old friend died as well.

Alone and growing feeble, Caliban yearned for his island, where the turquoise waves lapped the sparkling sand and the clean wind scoured the high rocks, where fresh springs ran cold and he could snare the marmoset; where mussels and sweet berries grew ripe for the picking and the night was full of a thousand twangling instruments that filled his dreams.

With his last ducats, he purchased a small barque. Following the stars through the clear night, he sailed home with no need of a tempest to take him there.

THE END