Down.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Thud.
At the bottom of the ocean floor paradise awaits; a cessation of suffering.
Despite his resolve, he cannot will himself into those murky depths. He imagines Setebos’ mocking glare, shaming his cowardice. Imbued with rage at his reluctance, Caliban charges forth, pumping his arms and legs against the water, struggling against the ocean’s resistance. The water is up to his chin now, just moments away from death’s embrace, fleeing a world that never seemed to welcome his stay.
Caliban’s lungs were on fire, yet to his surprise, so was his heart. Suspended between life and death, he could no longer repress memories of love and hope hidden in parts of his psyche he devoted his life to forgetting. Suddenly helpless to prevent their onslaught, his head shook wildly above the waves, screaming
No.
No.
No.
As if his words could stop their tortuously bittersweet taste.
As if he could stop his heart from remembering what it felt like to love and be loved.
The waves forbade him from falling, as if held in Sycorax’s bosom, their gentle rhythm her nurturing voice whispering in his ears. Moments Caliban swore to forget flickered through his mind's eye, recalling Prospero’s hand outstretched in friendship, and the way he celebrated Caliban’s completion of his first novel as if a father reveling in his son’s earliest achievements. Nearing death had a way of belittling his fear of experiencing the intensity of feelings he hid away – loneliness, longing, and love – so he surrendered to them instead, burning the ironclad wall of hate in his heart.
The ocean which he once hoped would consume him now elicited tears of fear, for in that moment Caliban realized he desperately wished to believe in a God of goodness and love. Confronting emotions Caliban long forgot he was capable of had somehow threatened his faith in a God of ruthless indifference. His limbs, weary from treading, began to buckle. Sinking further into the water, the shore unreachable now, he for once allowed himself to pray to a God of love. Under any other circumstance, he would have deemed such vulnerability repulsive, yet in that moment Caliban longed for nothing more than compassion – something Setebos wouldn’t provide. He silently begged for a sign, those dark tired eyes searching the heavens for a glimpse of some merciful God he always scorned, but to no avail. The waves dragged him under, a reminder of God’s indifference, and Caliban chastised himself for being such a fool as to entertain such dreams.
His muscles grew slack, finally relenting. He told himself he was prepared to meet the darkness, that he had no qualms about his decisions, but old lies lost their strength. Caliban couldn’t escape visions of who he might have been; content and equanimous, at peace with nature and man. Slowly sinking further below the ocean’s surface, he knew there was no hope for a second chance. If God was a champion of love, he had all the more reason to despise the flesh of his own wretched creation.
Caliban willed his head above the ocean’s surface, drinking in his final glimpse of life. On the horizon where sun and ocean met, a bulky object began surging towards him at an impossible pace and direction, defying the current. He dismissed it as a mirage, a drowning induced hallucination. A few feet away, its blurred features came into focus; not predator nor ship, but a wide log floating amid an otherwise empty expanse. His grasping fingers clutched it tightly, eyes offering tears of gratitude, still expecting it to dissolve beneath his touch. Pressing his cheek against its cool surface, he lay there in stunned silence. To his surprise, a dreary face mocked him in the water; not a monster, but a man.
Perhaps I am a human being worth saving.
Analysis:
My rendition of Caliban was inspired by my favorite moment from The Tempest, lines 3.2.135-143. In expressing his love for the island, Caliban exhibits an eloquence wholly inconsistent with the play’s depiction of his character as a ruthless savage. As readers we glimpse a sensitive, thoughtful side of Caliban I aimed to develop through my story. These lines also suggest he prefers sleep to reality (“that when I waked / I cried to dream again”), a tragic confession that inspired my focus on Caliban’s depression. In the beginning of my story, Caliban reaches a point of such utter hopelessness, he perceives that nature – the only thing that seems to welcome him – has abandoned him. In The Tempest, Caliban’s kinship with the isle provides an escape from Prospero’s cruelty; having lost this connection, he arrives at a breaking point. I also draw upon Caliban’s relationship to Setebos developed throughout Browning’s poem. Browning portrays Setebos as indifferent towards his creations, amplifying Caliban’s sense of worthlessness and insignificance, thus encouraging his suicidal inclinations. Furthermore, the repetition of the word ‘down’ is a stylistic nod to Kamau Brathwaite’s poem “Caliban.” Just as in Brathwaite’s poem, the protagonist repeatedly falls farther under the limbo stick but in the end rises ‘up, up, up.’ Likewise, in my story Caliban gradually drowns below the ocean but ultimately triumphs over his mental struggles and rediscovers a will to live.
My story explores a battle in Caliban’s psyche between pessimistic/depraved elements of his character, hardened by many years enduring Prospero’s rule, and the sensitive/soft-hearted side Shakespeare hints at. Facing death compels Caliban to be shamelessly honest and emotionally vulnerable. He questions if the ruthless, inferior savage persona he internalized from Prospero is truly him. Caliban realizes he only worships Setebos and owns his ‘savageness’ as a defense mechanism, built in response to the death of Sycorax and Prospero’s betrayal. In lines 1.2.333-338 of The Tempest, Caliban reflects on a time when Prospero nurtured and loved him. Recalling these memories and Sycorax’s love reawakens his sense of compassion, and for once Caliban extends empathy to himself. Feeling such intense, previously repressed emotions is a uniquely human experience and reconnects Caliban with his humanity. The idea of a loveless God is, deep down, inconsistent with Caliban’s true nature. He realizes he believed in Setebos out of fear, thinking that no loving God would accept him. The floating log, appearing out of seemingly nowhere to save Caliban, is an emblem of hope that literally saves his life and also symbolizes a healing relationship with God and himself. Staring at his reflection, Caliban recognizes himself as “not a monster, but a man,” signifying his freedom from Prospero’s psychological abuse. In the story’s final line, he thinks of himself as a human being worth saving, also symbolizing a shift in his self perception.
Tag to Falling (a poem about Satan)