The brown blot of the ship vanishes over the horizon. Only the sails remain in sight from the island, white and proud on the lip of the world, a mouthful that takes a long time to swallow.
Caliban whimpers with excitement. He imagines the difference between day and night disappearing. He can see, smell and hear in both; when the ship is gone he will be free to sleep and prowl in either, unhindered. He will claim the mossy depths of caves, the humid air that trickles through the highest leaves, and all the in-betweens.
He will speak every language that exists, because he will be the only one who needs to understand. Every pleasure the island offers will be his, every delirious dream will be a personal dizziness. The spirits and little devils will scatter before him, the witch's spawn, fearful of his power. The name of Prospero's precious little offspring will fall from his lips and there will be no chastisement - he will take pleasure there, too, even though he remembers her laughing, hand in her husband's as she sails away.
The sail disappears, and Caliban roars a word that he knows means everything.
Time has ended.