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His hand was cold and hot at the same time in my hand, and his face seemed to have folded in on itself out of age. His breathing was rough and hard, and he was working hard to keep his eyes open. The bed creaked under him as he strained to move his old bones, and I shushed him to keep still. The chair underneath me was incredibly uncomfortable, but I didn't dare to move from it.
"I'm sorry, Mavum," he whispered.
"No, don't be," I said back, brushing the hair out of his eyes.
"I am dying," he breathed. "You are young, but there is something you must know. There isn't much time, so don't interrupt." Tears flooded my eyes, and I held them back with a choked sound. He fixed his eyes on me and I saw with a sinking heart that his eyes were glazing over slowly, and I nodded feebly.
"You are only eight summers old. So young... so very young. What you must know, Mavum, is that I love you. And even though I have loved you as my daughter, I am not your father. Nor is your mother dead from childbirth." I opened my mouth to protest, but he shook his head, and I remembered I wouldn't interrupt. "When you were very small, you were handed to me, and I was told you were an English Princess, daughter of Queen Elizabeth. I wasn't told who your father was. I was told to keep you safe, and I have, and I have loved you as my own. But you must discover your identity.
"You must travel south, to the Spanish ports, and they will take you to Europe, if you show them the back of your amulet." His breath was ragged now, and it brought tears to my eyes. I bit my lip, and absentmindedly touched my amulet. My amulet was something I had had since before I could remember. It was etched with a black, caricatured ocean and lightning bolt, with a faint outline of a rose going around it. It was cold an heavy in my hand just then, and I turned it over to see the ever so familiar rose printed in stunning detail on the back. A red rose around a white rose, with five green leaves coming out from between the red petals. I looked back up at him.
"I'm sorry, Mavum," he breathed again. I shook my head fiercely, and reached out and held his hand. "Even if I'm not your blood-father, know that I love you as my daughter. Be safe. Make your mark on the world. You're special, Mavum... I just know it. I love you... good bye." His old eyes were sad, and I choked back a sob. I held his hand ever so tightly, when his eyes closed and his hand went limp. Hesitantly, I loosened my fingers, and his hand fell to the bed with a dead, dull thump.
My chest felt like it was on fire. It was a sort of pain I can't describe, even now, hundreds of years later. I can't describe it as anything other than a breaking heart. The world around me looked broken through my tears, and I bit my lip to keep it from trembling. I couldn't get my shoulder's to stop shaking with silent sobs, and I slowly fell across the bed, watching the color drain from his dead face.
I don't know how long I stayed there, but when I finally stopped crying the dawn was rising outside. It hadn't yet been dark when he died. I didn't have any tears left, and was numb to an extent, but I had that sort of resillience small children had. So, I got up, I very quietly packed my things, and walked over to his desk. He had made it from his bare hands when I was three, I could still remember him stamping his feet as he got a splinter and saying the most absurd things to avoid cursing infront of the child – "Flying turtle dog dang it" being one of them – and it made me sad all over again. Spread out across the top of the desk was a map, with rough edges from getting splashed with salt water and slightly smeared ink. On the right of the map was a true European map, on the left was a sketch of a coastline he himself had drawn as we sailed up what is now modern day Florida all the way to New York.
I rolled it up, and added it to my collection of things. I then took a deep breath and left the cottage, heading down a deer path to an open clearing. A Poospatuck village spilled out before me, and I padded down the hill. I had learned their language, along with Spanish and French and English, at a very very young age from Papa. Papa... what should I call him, now? I decided then that he would still be Papa, no matter what information I had learned from 24 hours ago going on indefinitely.
A man met me that I recognized but couldn't place with a name, coming up to me. Roughly translated, he said, "White-Skin, what are you doing here so early?"
"Papa died," I said, looking up at him. I didn't bother to translate Papa, because they all knew that's how I addressed him. The Poospatuck man's face crumpled, and he rested a hand lightly on my shoulder.
"I am sorry, little one," he said. "He shall have an honored man's funeral." I nodded quietly.
"He's not my father," I said, when we were most of the way down the village. "And I must return to the land-over-seas, to find my mother and father."
"A quest of womanhood," the man said, bowing slightly. He nodded. "We will take care of his affairs, if you wish to leave soon." I nodded briskly, trying not to think about what I was doing.
"The boat we arrived in," I said, "I need it to head south. I cannot make it all the way down the coast on foot, and there are no horses here..."
The man's face was confused, but he knew horses just as well as I did. I had never seen one in person, only Papa's drawings.
The rest of the day till noon passed in a blur. The boat was readied, and I put my bag aboard. It looked so woefully small against the deck, but I didn't want to return and get more. Papa's funeral pyre went by at noon, with an honorary feast for the White Man, and before an hour had passed I was waving goodbye from the shore, heading out to see and to the south, and hoping that Papa's sailing lessons had been enough for me to get to the Spanish ports.