Ariel watched Harry sleep. As a spirit of the air, Ariel didn’t need the season of all natures but he had developed a sort of semi-conscious state in which he zoned out of his surroundings and allowed his mind to wander. It was a technique he had perfected centuries ago, when he had been imprisoned in a pine tree for twelve years until his master - his glorious, kind and generous master! - had arrived on the island and released him. True, his master had freed him only to enslave him right away and make him do his master’s bidding, but he had, when all was said and done, freed him again. Ariel had been a free spirit for four hundred years and, if he was truthful would have to admit he had spent most of those centuries in that zoned out state, somewhat at a loss. He had idled away the time, as far as he could recall. It was all a blur, a fog devoid of detail and definition. With no one to serve, Ariel felt he had no purpose. But now, at last, he was reunited with his master - a rejuvenated, puzzling incarnation of his master with a disagreeable temperament and detachable facial hair, but his master all the same.
A flat oblong object beside the master’s bed burst into light and a cacophony of sound. Invisible minstrels drummed and squawked - an unholy choir, to Ariel’s ears. His master’s hand appeared from beneath the blankets and reached for the object. At once the terrible din ceased. Ariel was both amazed and gratified. Master had retained his command over the unseen entities that pervade the human world undetected by common mortals.
Clearing his throat with a grunt, Harry poked his head out from under the duvet, rubbed his eyes and checked his smart phone.
“Good morrow, Master!”
Harry froze. There was a strange, faintly glowing man standing at the foot of his bed. Harry shook the phone, thinking perhaps he might have activated the snooze function instead of switching off the alarm, and he had fallen back into a dream.
“I said, Good mor-”
“I heard you!” Harry snapped. He pushed back the duvet and sat up, registering mild surprise to see he was still in his clothes from the night before. He rested his head in his hands. He couldn’t remember drinking. There were no symptoms of a hangover but Harry had been fooled like that before only to be ambushed mid-afternoon by a raging headache and throat-scratching dehydration.
“Here, Master.” Ariel held out a glass of orange juice. Harry stared at it. “I took it from the cold cabinet in your kitchen. I took the liberty of having a tidy-round while I was there. I hope this was not too presumptuous.”
Harry reached for the glass. It was tangible enough and felt familiar in his hand. It was definitely one of the glasses from downstairs.
“When?”
“When what, Master?”
“When did you fetch the orange juice and clean the kitchen?”
“Just now.”
“When?”
“While you were in the processing of sitting up in bed, Master. You may recall I am a fast worker.”
“Oh.” Harry risked a sip. It was orange juice, all right.
“Is it not good, Master?”
“It is very good and just what I needed but I’m afraid it’s my housemate’s orange juice and he will not be best pleased.”
“I can enchant him, Master, and sew up his mouth with cobwebs. He won’t say a word!”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll just buy him another carton later. What am I saying? I’m planning to pop to the shops as if there isn’t a weirdo in my bedroom, claiming to be my supernatural servant and looking like he’s overdosed on Ready Brek.”
Ariel glanced around. “There is an intruder, Master?”
“Yes, and it’s you, you berk. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get a wash and changed and -“
Ariel grinned. Harry became aware his hair was damp and he smelled of soap and antiperspirant. His clothes had changed to a fresh shirt and trousers and, he didn’t check but he strongly suspected was the case, his underwear and socks were clean on too.
“What did you -“
“You’re welcome, Master; see how much time and effort I can save you.”
Harry reddened. “You washed and dressed me? You saw my -”
He clasped his hands over his crotch.
Ariel’s grin broadened. “I have altered my own appearance based on your own.” He indicated his own naked groin. “I only wish to fit in.”
“Oh, no! Oh, no! You’re not fitting that in anywhere! How about altering your appearance by putting some bloody clothes on? Or how about altering your appearance by vanishing out of sight and out of my life?”
“You would prefer me to be invisible, Master? Does my appearance displease you so very much?”
Ariel faded away with a disconsolate pout. His lips were the last to go, like the Cheshire Cat in its teenage years. Harry felt terrible.
“All right, all right; you can come back. But please, if you’re going to be seen with me in public - what the fuck am I saying? - you’re going to have to put something on. I can do without another little talk with the police. Last night was more than enough, thank you.”
“Fear not, Master; I can render myself invisible to all eyes but yours.” Ariel popped back into sight.
“And have people thinking I’m talking to myself? Not bloody likely.”
“Very well, Master.” The doors of Harry’s wardrobe swung open. Ariel searched through the hangers - manually, to Harry’s surprise.
“What’s the matter? You can dress me in the twinkling of an eye but you take more time and care to pick out your own outfit?”
Ariel held up a yellow shirt to his chest. He wrinkled his nose. The shirt turned blue. “That’s better. What do you think, Master?”
“Do you know, I wanted that shirt in blue but they hadn’t got my size.”
“There you are then. And I like to do things the way normal mortals do sometimes. It’s funny.” He struggled to put his arms into the sleeves both at once. Harry had to step forward to help him.
“You’ll tear it like that!” he wailed. Ariel’s long fingers fumbled with the buttons. Harry intervened and fastened them.
“You’ve changed, Master,” Ariel looked into his eyes. “And I do not mean your garments. I thought you would enjoy my naked form; you seem to appreciate those in the publication under your bed.”
Harry opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say.
“And what became of your daughter, Master? You were once a doting father.”
“Eh?” Harry was puzzled.
“Your daughter!” Ariel laughed. “You cannot have forgotten your daughter, Miranda. She married that prince.”
“Do I look old enough to have a married daughter?”
“No, Master, you don’t. It is miraculous how you have kept yourself so well-preserved for all this while.” Ariel took Harry by the chin and turned his face from left to right. Harry knocked Ariel’s hand away. Something occurred to him. He snatched up the dog-eared copy of The Tempest from the floor.
“Listen, mate; I don’t know who or what you are but you seem to think I’m old Whojimmyflop from this play.”
“The Duke of Milan!”
“Listen; the only Duke of Milan I know is a pub, and it’s not even called that, if I’m honest. We’ll go back to the river. Perhaps someone who knows you is looking for you there, or you’ll come to your senses, or I’ll come to mine and this - this - craziness will be done with.”
Ariel raised an arm, dramatically. “To the river!”
Harry grabbed it quickly. “We’ll walk, if you don’t mind. Like normal mortals do, okay?”
“Very well, Master.”
“Good,” Harry opened the bedroom door but stopped as he remembered something. “But please put some trousers on first.”
“Yes, Master.”
***
In the kitchen, Harry’s housemate Olly was bending and stretching, cooling down after his morning run. Olly was a working actor and obsessed with keeping his body as finely tuned as possible. Twisting at the waist and sweating profusely, he asked Harry what had happened to the orange juice.
“I’m going to do a big shop,” was Harry’s unsatisfactory response.
Olly nodded; he’d heard that one before. “Lot of noise coming from your room last night,” he raised his eyebrows. “Lot of shouting. What were you up to in there? No, don’t tell me; I don’t want to know.”
“Um..” Harry flushed with embarrassment.
Olly came to a standstill. “I know that look! What have I told you a million times? If you get a sniff, we share!”
“No, it’s not like that.” Harry stopped; it occurred to him he didn’t know what ‘it’ was like exactly.
“You rotter! You were preparing all bloody night. Come on! Where is it? What is it? A telly? An advert?”
“No! Olly, listen; it’s not an audition. You know I don’t even get to the audition stage these days.”
“Then what was making you shout so much?” Olly’s expression changed when he caught sight of a pale, thin man in a fetching blue shirt in the doorway. “Ah!” he grinned. “All becomes clear!” He gave his housemate a lascivious wink. Harry nearly flew into a panic.
“Nothing like that! This is ah - um...”
“Oh dear. Didn’t even get the poor twink’s name. Disgraceful.” He grinned at Ariel in a friendly manner and opened the fridge. “I suppose water will have to do. It’s better for the old gnashers anyhoo. Oh.”
To his surprise, Olly found his carton of orange juice exactly as it had been the night before, that is: considerably fuller than it had been when he had checked only ten minutes ago.
“Well, fuck me gently,” he laughed. “Head’s like a busted sieve. I’m sorry.”
“Lines not going in?” Harry pretended to take an interest in Olly’s professional life, although it pained him that his friend was working in an actual acting job rather than pulling pints and carrying plates in one of the town’s many, many eateries.
“Oh, they’re in all right,” Olly tapped the side of his head. “I just never get the bloody chance to get them out again.”
“Olly’s an understudy,” Harry explained to Ariel, motivated by politeness more than anything else. “Who is it you’re shadowing this time?”
Olly rolled his eyes. “It’s a waste of time. You should see the guy I’m covering. Nigel... Thingy. You know; he did the... with the ... This guy’s never going to go off sick. Brick shithouse on legs. I’ve been thinking of phoning him up and pretending to be his agent and call him down to London for an audition. That might at least give me a shot at a matinee.”
“What’s the part?”
“Does he always stare like that?” Olly jerked his head towards the thin guy in the doorway.
“Ignore him; he won’t be here long.”
“A one-night stand!” Olly marvelled. “You sly dog; things are looking up! They’ve given me the savage, love. I shall try my best to ennoble him while making him as creepy as possible. If I get the bastard chance to go on, that is. I could be the best damned Caliban that never trod the boards.”
“M- master?” Ariel gripped the door jamb. “What was that name again?”
“Nigel,” Olly said. “Do you know him?”
“Caliban,” said Harry.
“Master!” Ariel gasped and fainted.
“Oh dear,” Olly tutted, highly amused. “Getting him to call you Master. Didn’t think you were into all that. Lovely shirt, though. Haven’t you got one like that in yellow? And, I know what it can be like, getting dressed in a hurry and all that, but do you think he knows he’s got his trousers on back to front?”
Not for the first time that morning, Harry found he could not think of a reply.
***
Callie was up early. She walked from the hotel to the university without an umbrella, enjoying the drizzle on her face and the way it darkened the yellow stone of Oxford’s revered buildings.
What she sought was in private possession. What should have been on public display or at least accessible to interested parties had been snaffled up and stashed in a private vault, the combination to which was known only to one person every generation. Callie was on her way to meet that person. She would extract the combination one way or another. She would open the vault. She would secure the object. Mother would be pleased.
And that was Callie’s motivation. She wanted her mother’s love.
But first things first.
The object. The second piece of the staff.
Callie entered the Bodleian. The man she was looking for - her quarry, as Mother would call him - was dozing in a chair. Mother’s intelligence was never flawed, planted in Callie’s mind during their last conversation.
The quarry was exactly what she expected. A crumpled mass of Tweed and unruly hair. Half-moon glasses were askew across his nose. A trickle of drool ran from his mouth and down the sleeve of the arm that was supporting his jowly head.
Quite the crusty old don, Callie thought. And yet, there was something about him, his age perhaps and the impression he gave, even in repose, of learnedness and cosy authority, stirred something deep within her. A memory of a story she had heard long, long ago. An old man. A guide and teacher.
A master.
Callie winced as pain like a headache stabbed her mind. Mother did not like her thinking of that man from the past.
Callie recovered herself and stood patiently waiting for the don to stir, willing his eyelids to flicker.
Eventually, they did but whether this was from Callie’s intense staring she could not determine. Any influence she might have was her mother’s doing; Callie had no delusions about her own abilities.
The don saw her standing over him. He jerked upright, wiped his wet chin, blinked, righted his spectacles and blinked again.
“Good morning,” Callie smiled. “Callista Bains. I have an appointment.”
“Ah, yes!” the don got to his feet, like a bag of washing coming to life. “New cleaner, are you?”
“Um, I’m afraid not. I’m researching Richard Burbage for my PhD.”
A light went on in the don’s head. Callie thought she had said some magic words at last.
“Yes, yes; of course. We shall repair to my office. We can talk freely there.”
He shuffled towards the exit. Callie followed, already feeling sorry for what she was going to do to this sweet old man, so like that other - Ouch! Her scalp pinched her skull again.
Must not think of the old man - Ouch!
“Something wrong, my dear?” the don paused at the door to his office.
“Bit of a headache,” Callie tried to smile through her pain.
“We can postpone, if you like?”
“No!” Callie snapped. “I mean, I have deadlines. My supervising tutor...”
“If they give you any trouble, my dear, you just refer them to me!” The don patted her hand and unlocked the door. Callie followed him inside. Poor old soul.
His undergraduates were going to miss him.