Rough Magic by Caryl Cude Mullin Read Free Book Online

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.
    â€œI want him,” Caliban would say.
    â€œGods 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.

II.i.
    His mother was lying on the bed when he returned from fishing, twisted in on herself. The staff had fallen from the