Daughter of the Sea

by Mira Zamin

  * * *

  A village began to resolve before Pyp. Their trip here had been hasty for the driver had made only one brief stop in the woods. When he had returned, it seemed the horses moved swifter than they had before: the short rest had done them well. The village was tiny and Pyp briefly wondered how exactly Nuala had come into his Father’s service from here.

  The cart slowly rolled to a stop and the driver said not unkindly, “Here you are lad, Vinidium. Gods know why you want to come to this place but here you are.”

  “Thank you so much sir,” responded Pyp politely. “I have no way of repaying you but perhaps, if the woman I am searching for is here, she could give you some cena.”

  The man peered at the sinking sun that shot pink and gold streaks in the sky. “Well, it is getting dark and these horses could use some rest. Very well then lad, you have convinced me,” he added with a toothless but altogether sunny smile.

  Pyp peered unsurely around the small village with its ramshackle wooden buildings; it was a typical Gaulish village. The sight of it, poor as it was, filled him with an inordinate pride at being Roman. With the man behind him, Pyp slowly wandered around and when the man asked him where they were going Pyp had no answer. A man, a blacksmith by the look of his burly arms, came their way tugging two large horses.

  Trying to cover his Latin accent with thick Gaulish brogue, Pyp asked, “Do you know where Nuala is?”

  The man gave Pyp and his companion a curious one-over: newcomers were few and far between in this tucked away community. The man found the name unusual but after a few moments understood exactly what the boy meant. “The old witch-woman? Aye, her hut is in the woods that way, by the stream. You cannot miss it.”

  When the man had said ‘witch-woman,’ Pyp’s little heart had given the most frightened jump of his life. He very much doubted that Nuala was a witch of any kind though and thought the man was trying to scare him. A part of Pyp’s imagination though, a vastly untamed portion of it, created a brief image of Nuala cackling over a brew of poison, human heads swinging in the corners. He knew it was ludicrous though. The driver glared at Pyp dubiously.

  “She really isn’t a witch,” said Pyp comfortingly.

  The man, nonetheless, began to look skittish as they wound their way through the roughly trodden forest path. Rough vines and thorny branches tried to thwart their journey but with a little ducking and maneuvering they managed their way through virtually unscratched. Abruptly, a tidy cottage came into view. It was very homey and just the sort of place Pyp could see Nuala living. “Nuala!” he called with excitement. “Nuala, Nuala, Nuala!”

  A young man, whom Pyp did not recognize, opened the door. “What’s this caterwauling then?” he demanded.

  Pyp halted and for a moment was entranced by the man’s long, red mustache. Shaking his head, he explained, “I am searching for my nursemaid Nuala. I was told she lived here. Tell me, is she home now?”

  The man’s dark eyes softened with sadness and he hugged the brown and mustard checked cloak close over his tunic. “Come in, come in. I am your Nuala’s nephew. And let me guess: you are the indomitable Master Pyp.”

  “That’s right,” Pyp said spiritedly, walking into the house. Pyp turned around to invite the cart driver for supper, but he had disappeared without a sound. Shrugging, Pyp entered the cottage. It was small and dark and herbs hung from the rafters, but nothing more malicious than that. “Did Nuala tell you about me? When will she be back?” He peered around eagerly, looking for his nurse.

  The man showed him to a well-scrubbed table. “Have a seat Master Pyp. Would you like some mulberry tea? Cheese?”

  “Yes please,” Pyp answered happily, excitedly anticipating Nuala’s return. The man poured the tea into a clean bowl and offered the cheese with a knife to cut it. Rough bracelets of twisted metal clinked on his wrist with every movement.

  The red-haired man sat down in front of Pyp and watched him devour the cheese and down the tea with a sort of rueful amusement. “My name is Brennus and as I said, I am Nuala’s nephew, although I just met her a little more than three months ago after Avartius conquered Portus Tarrus. She spoke very fondly of you, your sister, and your family as well.”

  “Where is she?”

  Brennus ignored his question. “Your lord Avaritus had no need for her services. Someone must have moved him to mercy for he sent her away from Portus Tarrus with her freedom and life—and with the express order that if she returned, she would be fed to the lions.”

  A confused look crossed Pyp’s face. “Her freedom?”

  “She was a slave in your father’s house. An honored, loved and lucky slave but a slave nonetheless.” Brennus poured Pyp another serving of the sweet, dark tea. “I did not know much about her until she returned here. This home was hers before her mother, driven to the brink of poverty, had sold her into slavery into the home of your grandfather. You know that she was your father’s nurse from the time she was eighteen, and then your sister’s, and then yours?

  “When she came here, only I remained. Her mother, my grandmother was a poor witch-woman with more children than she could count. She was dead and Nuala’s siblings were dispersed to the winds. But for me, her nephew. I inherited the house from my father, her younger brother. She lived here with me for a while.”

  Pyp yawned politely.

  Brennus twitched the pitcher of nervously in his hand. “What I mean to say is…Nuala is dead. She died a month ago.”

  “I…what?” Pyp asked, feeling a rushing in his ears and a lightness to his head. He was reminded of the death of his father all over again. The hope he had for salvation in Nuala fell. He was alone and this whole trip had been foolish. He risked his mother’s safety, Flora’s safety, for this foolish trip where he accomplished nothing. And Nuala, poor Nuala, who had loved him and Caly…she was gone. He knew she was old—she had been his father’s nurse after all, but now…she was gone.

  “How—how did she die?” His throat felt hot and dry all of a sudden.

  Brennus smiled kindly. “Very quietly and peacefully. She missed you and your sister very much, but she was very, very tired.”

  “So she’s gone?” he croaked disbelievingly, tears blurring his vision.

  “With the gods. Would you like to see where I buried her?”

  Pyp nodded quietly, the movement showering tears onto his cheeks.

  After providing Pyp with another brightly hued cloak, Brennus showed him to the back of the cottage. Snugly hidden in the woods, the cottage was surrounded by dry, brown branches of trees bowing with the weight of their years and wild bushes and brambles that, although dormant now, would yield in abundance of blossoms and fruit come springtime. In the deep shadows, dirty remnants of the last snowfall hid.

  Stopping so suddenly that Pyp almost ran into his back, Brennus announced, “I buried her here myself. In the spring, this bush will be covered with feathery white blossoms. Would you like a moment?” Without waiting for his response, Brennus retired to the cottage.

  Before the dead bush, with its clawed branches of the dullest brown, Pyp stood and shivered. His tears fell onto the cold, hard mound of earth where one of its warmest residents rested for eternity.