Free Rough Magic by Caryl Cude Mullin

palace,” she explained. “I’m used to such a simple life. Perhaps they will not think I am fit to be a queen.”
    He could see that she was troubled. “The people on this ship think you are,” he answered. “You will do well. Everyone will like you.”
    She smiled at him, then reached out and squeezed his hand. The shock of her touch jarred him. He stepped back from her.
    She looked embarrassed. “Thank you, Caliban,” she said, awkwardly.
    There were more footsteps behind them. He did not turn to see who it was. That confident stride could only be one person. Caliban slipped away, around the other side of the deck, while Miranda turned to greet her lover. He heard Ferdinand reprimanding her for speaking with him. “He is as loathesome as a toad,” the prince said. “His teeth are like scattered tombstones, falling over themselves in a neglected graveyard. I am sure he breathes a noxious vapour.”
    Such wit. He did not wait to hear her reply.
    Prospero was still sleeping, his breathing deep, a gentle whistle coming from his nose as he exhaled. Caliban stood over him, tracing every familiar feature of the man’s face with his eyes. He would never have dared to stand so close to his master on the island. But now there was no fairy to torment him. Now there were no spells to bind him.
    And it was then he realized that he might go free.
    The thought stilled his breath. He could slip away from Prospero. He could roam the world, see strange and wondrous places. He could be his own master.
    Prospero stirred, rolled to his side, and slept again. Caliban knelt and stared at the hand that clutched the quilt. It was thin, the veins rising in lumps beneath pale flesh. He remembered this hand stretching out and stilling a storm. He remembered it turning the pages of his book, carefully pressing each one down so that it would lie flat. He remembered it resting on his daughter’s shoulder as he taught her to read, tapping his fingers gently on her head when she mispronounced some word.
    He reached out his own hand and briefly touched the tips of his fingers to those of this terrifying man. There was no shock. He pulled his hand away and stood up, once more looking down on the sleeping figure.
    This once great wizard was going to lose his child, however happily. He was returning to a home that had rebelled against him. His power was gone, except for some small trifling magic that even a child might have.
    Prospero would need him. Would want him by his side. Did want him, or else he would have left him back on the island with no further thought. He had always acted in his own interests, after all.
    And it was good to be needed, to be wanted.
    Caliban took a deep breath. He would stay with his master. It was what he chose to do.
    â€œI will take care of you,” he whispered. Prospero snored in response. He looked slightly foolish, with his mouth open like that. “Just like I have always taken care of you,” Caliban added.
    He lay down on the mat that was his bed. The ship rocked him. He stared out the small window at the swaying sky. Time slipped away, and he slept as well.
    The next day they arrived in Naples. Before leaving the cabin Prospero clutched his arm. “Don’t get any silly ideas about running away, Caliban. This isn’t your island. You need my protection here, you understand?”
    â€œYes, master,” Caliban said. He spoke gently, because he did understand. Prospero was more afraid than he or Miranda.
    The former wizard looked relieved, then removed his hand and straightened his back. “Good then. Let’s go,” he said.
    Caliban admired his courage.

II.vi.
    Caliban stood to the left behind Prospero. His hood was drawn forward, masking his face with shadows. The other servants now called him “the monk.” Well, that was an improvement over their earlier names for him: fiend, hell-lump, beast-man.
    Ferdinand, now