Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (27 page)

“Beholding this little pocket of color in the bleakness, the Divine Infinite felt pity for the fallen angels and their dolls. He moved across the face of their garden and breathed the breath of Life into their homunculi. The flopping homunculi stood and thought and named themselves mankind.

“The fallen angels were both horrified and delighted with this new turn of events—horrified because now their charges had the ability to escape them, but delighted because they now had prisoners to torment. Fearing that mankind might escape the garden, they laid great enchantments to blind mankind and bind their will. Thus bound and blinded, mankind could not
perceive the nature of their fallen masters, nor could they perceive the walls that enclosed the garden. They lived much as they had before, bound and meek, obeying the fallen ones’ every whim.

“Far above, among the shining spires of High Heaven, a daughter of the Divine Infinite beheld the creatures within the walls of the garden prison. Moved by mankind’s plight, she left the Void, where she had danced, weaving worlds out of chaos, to travel down into the murk and darkness wherein the fallen ones’ world was hid.

“Eurynome came across the oceans of the Void, a bolt of brilliance through the eternal night. The hosts of the fallen streamed forth to bar her way, but none could stand before her brightness. Searing the air as she plummeted, she pierced the wall surrounding the garden. Where she struck the ground, a tree grew.

“The fallen angels took council among themselves. Mankind must be stopped from eating the fruit of this new tree, else the darkness might be lifted from their eyes and the bindings from their will. The fallen ones chose one from among their number, the dark and cunning Lilith, called the Queen of Air and Darkness, to misguide mankind. Lilith crept among them, whispering to them that if they should eat of this tree, they would surely die. Mankind dutifully abstained.”

As Father Christmas wove his tale, his voice grew more powerful and the gleam in his eye more keen, until I was amazed any shopper could mistake him for a costumed mortal. An aura of majesty surrounded him like a cloak, and the lights gleaming off his thistle-white hair shone like a halo. Folklore named him a saint, but I suspected he was something far older and more primordial. After all, saints were human. When Father Christmas spoke about High Heaven, I got the distinct impression he knew of it firsthand. When he spoke of Lilith and the demons, he seemed no more afraid than an adult might be of a child’s nightmare.

“Then, one day,” he continued, “as a woman sat beneath the blessed tree, a fruit fell into her hand, and she bit into it. Some say that it fell by its own volition, but others claim that Ophion, the Serpent of the Wind, Eurynome’s dance partner from the Void, moved through its branches, disturbing them. If so, this might explain why some other versions of this tale recall a snake within the branches.

“As she ate, Eurynome’s virtue went into the woman, and the mist cleared from her eyes. She became aware of her divine nature and beheld the imprisoning walls. Running to her mate, she shared the fruit with him, and he too
beheld the truth. Hand in hand, they scaled the walls and escaped from the garden, to make a new life upon the face of the Earth. They were free now to love, to give gifts, and to do all those things, both good and bad, that free will allows.”

While we sat spellbound, listening, the halls of the mall around us had slowly grown quiet and empty. Now a security guard approached, stepping over the low fence as he came toward us.

“I’m sorry folks, but the mall is closed; you’ll have to leave.”

Father Christmas stood, saying, “Come. I will escort you to your vehicle and ensure no dark powers approach you out of the night.”

OUTSIDE
, we found our rental car alone in the parking lot, bathed in a pool of garish lamplight. The magic of the story still encompassed us as we walked in silence, Father Christmas striding before us. When we reached our vehicle, Father Christmas raised his staff and uttered his benediction.

“Merry Christmas! And to all, a good night!” he boomed.

“Good night, Santa,” Mephisto said.

“Good evening, Sir,” said Mab.

“Good night, Father Christmas,” I said. “I hope to see you before another hundred and forty years have passed.”

“May your wish be granted!” Father Christmas bowed solemnly and strode off into the darkness.

“So, do you think this Ferdinand chap will show?” Mab looked at his watch.

“With any luck, no,” I replied.

We stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, gazing back toward Capitol Hill along the green avenue known as the Mall. The serpentine length of the Vietnam Memorial, the World War II Memorial, the rectangular reflecting pool, the towering white obelisk of the Washington Monument, and the handsome buildings of the Smithsonian museums lay between us and the dome of the Capitol. It was an impressive sight, as grand as the cathedrals of Europe.

The wind was bitingly cold. Few tourists were about. A young couple in matching plum parkas sat within the memorial eating their lunch, and a small tour group of elderly citizens stood together in a tight cluster, reading the inscriptions on the inside walls of the memorial itself. These made up the entirety of those present, except for the three Italian stonemasons who were doing some repair work on the farthest of the enormous columns that lined the front of the monument.

I would have preferred to spend the morning flying down to the Caribbean, but since we could not depart from Washington, D.C., until after our meeting with Ferdinand, we had spent it shopping instead, with periodic interruptions as I fielded calls from Prospero, Inc. It was a novelty to me, who normally divided all my time between Prospero’s Mansion and various branch offices, to spend a day as a tourist, visiting shopping malls and seeing sights. I found it surprisingly pleasant.

All three of us bought new outfits. Instead of my tattered white trench coat, I wore a heavy cape of creamy cashmere lined with scarlet satin, a knitted hat and matching muff trimmed with faux ermine. Mephisto had a new navy parka, black trousers, black boots, and, after some searching, a new
lute. The bottom ten inches of his royal blue surcoat stuck out from underneath his new coat.

Mab had at first refused to replace his old gray trench coat, despite the terrible rents it now bore. But when the clerk showed him how the new coat would have twice the pocket room of the old one, Mab was sold. Those new pockets were now bulging with all manner of arcane items: chalk, salt, rosemary, garlic, and dried rose petals, as well as his notebook and a selection of stubby pencils, all blue.

Thus attired, we set out for the Mall to search for the offices of
Smithsonian
magazine, wishing to inquire about their most recent address for my brother Erasmus, who occasionally wrote articles for them. Upon arriving, we learned that
Smithsonian
magazine was not published at the museum. Mab made a note of the proper address, and we spent the rest of our time wandering though the museums, gazing at all manner of wonders.

The Air and Space Museum was the most delightful, for everything there was new and amazing to us. The history of man’s desire to fly was laid out in loving detail. Just seeing the kites, balloons, and early planes brought a sense of exhilaration. Walking its halls, I could almost imagine there were other mortals who loved flight as much as I.

Among the photos on display near the Apollo moon-shot equipment, we found a picture of NASA administrative officers that included, toward the back, a man who was the spitting image of my brother Ulysses. The photograph was over twenty-five years old—not much of a trail there.

AS
the sun approached its zenith, Mab and I had walked slowly up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. It was just before noon, but neither of us felt inclined to hurry. Mephisto had abandoned us to sit on the first tier of the monument’s steps and tune his new lute. As he tuned the instrument, he spoke to it, telling it how, in the past, he had played for Bess of England, for King James I, for Louis XIV, and how once— on an occasion I myself well remembered— for the Queen of Elfland.

Mab halted partway up the steps. “Look, Miss Miranda, there’s something strange going on. I’ve done my share of supernatural investigations, and I can tell you something all the manifestations I have tracked down in the past had in common: They didn’t happen in plain view. And they most certainly did not happen at shopping malls, or in front of gas station attendants, or turn up in hotel lobbies!”

“What are you getting at, Mab?”

“That’s just it, Ma’am, I don’t know. The powers of Hell always prefer subtlety. No sane man makes a pact with the Devil with his eyes open. Demons have to hide their true nature if they wish to woo mankind into their fiery pits. So much overt action on their part is damned peculiar.”

“It’s not so different from past situations. What about the demon manifestations of the seventeenth century, the ones that resulted in so many innocent women being burned as witches? Or the incubi plague in Milan, about the time of Gregor’s and Logistilla’s birth, that Theo put an end to? Remember, no one but us saw the barghests last night. No adults, anyway, though a few customers will remember seeing a big dog. The shapechanger, I grant you, was unusual. But from what Theo says, he sounds like a special case.”

“The point is, Ma’am, you’ve got to be prepared to find this beau of yours caught thick in the middle of this.”

“He’s not my beau,” I objected.

Mab ignored my protestations. “His turning up now after a five-hundred-year absence is mighty peculiar.”

“Which is why I agreed to meet with him,” I agreed.

“Heck, he might even be the cause of our troubles,” said Mab. “How did he get along with Mr. Prospero?”

I thought back through the haze of years, but it was difficult to recall my youth. Or, rather, it was difficult to distinguish between Shakespeare’s version of events and the real events. I could recall the face of the young boy who played me the first time
The Tempest
was performed, and that of the buxom redhead who, many years later, had been the first woman to perform the role. I could even recall, in crisp detail, down to the smell of the greasepaint, a performance in Paris where I myself performed the role of Miranda. Not surprisingly, however, my memories of the real events, upon which the play had been based, were sketchy. The real events had happened only once.

Of us, only Cornelius had made a serious study of the Ancient Art of Memory— possibly because if he forgets the location of an object, he barks his shins. Erasmus originally learned this art from Giordano Bruno, back in the late sixteenth century, about the same time Father was winning the good graces of Queen Elizabeth by summoning a tempest to destroy the Spanish Armada. It was not until Cornelius lost his sight, however, that any of us took this art seriously.

Cornelius always believed Mephisto’s madness had its roots in faulty memory. Cornelius theorized Mephisto’s mind had become so overburdened
by memories that it affected his sanity— though why this would be true of him and not the rest of us, Cornelius had no idea. At Father’s urging, he spent the better part of the 1740s trying to teach Mephisto the Ancient Art of Memory. At first, Mephisto improved under his tutelage, but as with all attempts to cure Mephisto, the progress proved temporary. Cornelius eventually became irate and refused to waste more time on the project. To this day, he insists that Mephisto deliberately resisted his assistance.

To Mab, I said slowly, “Father was uncharacteristically cruel to Ferdinand when they first met on the island and then later claimed this behavior had been part of his plan.” I frowned and rubbed my temples. “At least, that’s what I think happened. Certainly, that’s the way Shakespeare tells it, and he heard it from Father. Ferdinand might feel he had cause to dislike Father, I suppose. But why now? Unless, he had to wait all this time to catch Father at a moment of weakness.”

“But Ferdinand doesn’t want Father.” Mephisto had come up behind us, lute in hand. “He wants Miranda!”

“You know, the harebrain may be right.” Mab squinted thoughtfully. “Maybe he showed up now because he knows Prospero’s not around to protect you.” Mab glanced around, eyeing the columns and the expanse of lawn and monuments beyond. “Perhaps we’d better fortify our position.”