Read Online Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I by L. Jagi Lamplighter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: L. Jagi Lamplighter
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Marian and Margery,
But none of us cared for Kate;
For she has a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
She lov’d not the savor of tar nor of pitch,
Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch:
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.”
The song brought a smile to my lips, despite its lewd nature. Many years had passed since I last heard it, outside performances of
The Tempest
. By Shakespeare’s grace, it had outlasted many of its more deserving contemporaries. Yet, it seemed oddly charming to hear an old familiar tune, even a bawdy one, on the streets of modern Chicago. I walked back to listen.
The lutenist’s head rose. A slim pale hand pushed stringy black hair from large brown eyes that slowly grew round with fear.
“Miranda?” My brother Mephisto peered out from beneath the sombrero. “What are you doing here?”
“Why I . . . I’m looking for you!” I replied.
Mephistopheles was slight and lithe with warm brown eyes. He was also filthy. Dirt and oily grime coated his poncho. His matted stringy black hair had not been washed, or perhaps even combed, in months. His cheap sneakers were riddled with holes. Through one hole protruded the big toe of his left foot, the nail of which was rotten and caked with pus. And he stank, abominably.
He sat on the tomato crate gazing at me fearfully. Then, a glint of comprehension sparked behind the emptiness in his eyes. He leapt to his feet and flung out his arms to embrace me, whooping with joy. The lute he had been playing flew from his hands and crashed upon the cement sidewalk, shattering into several pieces.
“You found it!” Mephisto cried, oblivious of the lute. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “You found it!”
“Found what?” I threw up my hands to ward him away as he tried to kiss me. The stench was unbearable. Still, I was happy to see he was in oneof his cheerful periods. Mephisto stared at me in wonder, as if amazed anyone could be thinking of a subject other than what was on his mind.
My initial shock at encountering my long-lost brother on a random side street faded the instant I recalled that my Lady had prompted me to walk in this direction. That was how the Lady of Spiral Wisdom worked, subtly and indirectly, yet leading me always onward to my goal.
“My staff, Miranda! You found my staff?” His voice rose to end on a hopeful note.
“No.”
“Oh.”
Mephisto stepped back and hung his head. I brushed at the grime that now clung to my white coat with a handkerchief I found in my pocket. Several passers-by stopped to look at the shattered lute where it lay upon the concrete, a tangle of splinters and strings. Their attention drew my brother’s.
An unarticulated moan came from Mephisto’s lips. He rushed over and scooped up the broken lute, cradling the pieces in his arms and keening softly. He looked back despairingly toward me, his pathetic face streaked with tears.
“Not my lute! Not my lovely lute, too,” he cried. Laying his cheek against the broken neck of the instrument, he whispered, “Who did this, my lovely? Who did this to you?”
Big wet tears rolled slowly over his hollow cheeks. Watching the pathetic figure of my weeping brother, I contrasted him in my mind’s eye with the handsome statue of his youthful self.
Mab stepped up beside me and spoke in a low voice. “The poor sucker doesn’t even remember that he threw it.”
“It breaks my heart, Mab.”
“Didn’t know you had one, Ma’am.”
I stepped forward and put my hand on Mephisto’s grime-caked arm. “It’s all right, Mephisto. I’ll buy you another one.”
“I don’t want another lute. This was my lute,” he began.
“The next one will be yours too.”
“. . . I’ve had my lute almost my whole life.” A haunted look came into his eye. “It’s the one my mother gave me; my mother’s been dead over four hundred years. It’s the
But none of us cared for Kate;
For she has a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
She lov’d not the savor of tar nor of pitch,
Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch:
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.”
The song brought a smile to my lips, despite its lewd nature. Many years had passed since I last heard it, outside performances of
The Tempest
. By Shakespeare’s grace, it had outlasted many of its more deserving contemporaries. Yet, it seemed oddly charming to hear an old familiar tune, even a bawdy one, on the streets of modern Chicago. I walked back to listen.
The lutenist’s head rose. A slim pale hand pushed stringy black hair from large brown eyes that slowly grew round with fear.
“Miranda?” My brother Mephisto peered out from beneath the sombrero. “What are you doing here?”
“Why I . . . I’m looking for you!” I replied.
Mephistopheles was slight and lithe with warm brown eyes. He was also filthy. Dirt and oily grime coated his poncho. His matted stringy black hair had not been washed, or perhaps even combed, in months. His cheap sneakers were riddled with holes. Through one hole protruded the big toe of his left foot, the nail of which was rotten and caked with pus. And he stank, abominably.
He sat on the tomato crate gazing at me fearfully. Then, a glint of comprehension sparked behind the emptiness in his eyes. He leapt to his feet and flung out his arms to embrace me, whooping with joy. The lute he had been playing flew from his hands and crashed upon the cement sidewalk, shattering into several pieces.
“You found it!” Mephisto cried, oblivious of the lute. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “You found it!”
“Found what?” I threw up my hands to ward him away as he tried to kiss me. The stench was unbearable. Still, I was happy to see he was in oneof his cheerful periods. Mephisto stared at me in wonder, as if amazed anyone could be thinking of a subject other than what was on his mind.
My initial shock at encountering my long-lost brother on a random side street faded the instant I recalled that my Lady had prompted me to walk in this direction. That was how the Lady of Spiral Wisdom worked, subtly and indirectly, yet leading me always onward to my goal.
“My staff, Miranda! You found my staff?” His voice rose to end on a hopeful note.
“No.”
“Oh.”
Mephisto stepped back and hung his head. I brushed at the grime that now clung to my white coat with a handkerchief I found in my pocket. Several passers-by stopped to look at the shattered lute where it lay upon the concrete, a tangle of splinters and strings. Their attention drew my brother’s.
An unarticulated moan came from Mephisto’s lips. He rushed over and scooped up the broken lute, cradling the pieces in his arms and keening softly. He looked back despairingly toward me, his pathetic face streaked with tears.
“Not my lute! Not my lovely lute, too,” he cried. Laying his cheek against the broken neck of the instrument, he whispered, “Who did this, my lovely? Who did this to you?”
Big wet tears rolled slowly over his hollow cheeks. Watching the pathetic figure of my weeping brother, I contrasted him in my mind’s eye with the handsome statue of his youthful self.
Mab stepped up beside me and spoke in a low voice. “The poor sucker doesn’t even remember that he threw it.”
“It breaks my heart, Mab.”
“Didn’t know you had one, Ma’am.”
I stepped forward and put my hand on Mephisto’s grime-caked arm. “It’s all right, Mephisto. I’ll buy you another one.”
“I don’t want another lute. This was my lute,” he began.
“The next one will be yours too.”
“. . . I’ve had my lute almost my whole life.” A haunted look came into his eye. “It’s the one my mother gave me; my mother’s been dead over four hundred years. It’s the
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