Kingdom By the Sea

When little, I lived in a small house of orphaned girls. We were under the rule of a fearful woman named Mabitha. She demanded that we call her Mother, and we did. Why would we not? If you were to have met her, you would have called her anything if she demanded and demanded she did. To her face, we called her this, but at night. In our room, we whispered the smallest of whispers, a breeze of words, "Mab-Witch." Giggles would erupt at the name, followed by firm pressed hands on our lips. Our own hands involuntarily shutting us up in fear of her. 

Every day at the table, we would sit. The ogres would feed us our gruel, which was barely edible. We would bless the goddess, which would start our day. Scrubbing floors with tiny brushes, cleaning the heath smeared with ash, animal fat, or anything that bubbled over in the old pots. Ah, yes, and the pots stained from overuse were to be clean and brand new. New was different from the word I would use at any part of this place. But in her eyes, it was her kingdom. As the sun would fall, given into the moon goddess that begged to return to her children, we were to draw water from the spring. Fear would creep over us as we knew of the river creatures that roamed. The songs that could enchant children would be lost forever. No one would come looking for us, which was the most frightening for me. Mab-Witch would place the bucket in our hands. She yelled from the old house, "On to an adventure you go." A laugh that certainly matches the name of the old witch. We would always go alone. A single girl. A single pail. A single fear.

I can still hear the crunch of the grass beneath my feet. Softening as I neared the river. The sun would fall so quickly that now I walked in darkness. Eyes began to appear in the darkness. Disappearing then reappearing, transfixed on me. There was the river. So perfect. So calm. A stream of silver that slithered within the folds of grass and mud. My shoes, tattered and worn, fought with the mud. That forced my soles to return to the earth, but the soles of my shoes would not give up so easily. Closer now, so close that I was at the edge and pulled my bucket from my side and broke the stillness of the water. I felt the strength of an undercurrent that was not visible to the eye, nearly taking the bucket in my hand. I plunged the bucket in deeper, grabbing as much water as possible. The weight was immense as I brought the bucket towards me. Every muscle in my body strained. With my last strength, I placed the full bucket next to me and sat down momentarily. I should have started home. Mab-Witch hated it when we were late. I should have left, but the river's beauty was something I couldn't resist. What would be my punishment, fewer chores? The forbiddance of grabbing water, but I would miss this. The illusionary sense of freedom.

I pulled my shoes off and tipped my toes in the water. The warmth of the water was surprising. The temperature was soothing as it caressed my aching feet. I couldn't remember the last time I felt this. Peace. Before I knew it, tears began filling my eyes, and I hurried them away. I don't even know why I was crying. I wasn't sad. Sadness was a privilege. My life was full of endurance, and I have endured many. I sloshed my feet more, creating tiny waves about my toes. There are few memories I remember. The ones given by my Mother. She loved the water. We would come to the ocean that felt right at the footstep of our door. She would dip her feet in the cool water and show me how to do the same. She would hold me close and tell me tales that are dreams now. "Someday, I will return home."

"But you are home, Mommy?" I say in the childish manner expected of children. She caresses my cheek, shaken from the trance she remembers me in, and takes me in her arms. Then tears fall, and I apologize. 

"Don't apologize, my love, " she would say. Mommy is just tired." That was many nights when Father wasn't home. Going by the water, dipping our toes in, Mother would cry. 

The night she left was very similar to any night before then. We got up, did our chores, ate, and went by the water before bed. However, Mother wanted to go alone this night—out by the sea. "But I want to go with you." 

"I know, my love, but where I am going, you cannot go." 

"But why not?" 

She stopped and then looked at me. The five-year-old girl is awash in tears. She grabbed me one last time, holding me in her arms to soothe me. I left bed quickly the following day, realizing I had fallen asleep. I went to my Mom's room and saw my Father there. "Dad. Dad. Mom is gone." My Father slowly wiped away the sleep, "Dad."

"I heard you. Now, what is this about?" A toddler's frantic and afraid words are hard to decipher. My Dad, realizing this was more than a needy child's tantrum, rose quickly. "She is not with you?" My Mom would often sleep in my room, and I would be nestled in her arms, but that was not the case this morning.

"No," I said through an eruption of tears.

My Father ran to my bedroom, then to the kitchen, then to the porch. Then his eyes trailed out to the ocean. His eyes widened. "Go inside," he said, gently pushing me back. 

I fought against him. Demanding to see my Mother. "She went to the kingdom," I scream. "She went home!" I shouted. Pushing all the while against him. "Stop. Stop!" He insisted. The last command, the loudest I ever heard him, gave me pause. He knelt before me. Asking me what I said. I repeated the words. All of it. The last words spoken by my Mother. 

"She returned to the kingdom of the sea, and I want to go with her."

My Father collapsed then. Weeping into his hands. Confused, I watched him. Wondering if he, too, desired to return home.

Even now, I may see her. Even now, as my feet wade in the water, the fingers of river foam feel like the strange remembrance of my Mother—her love, her light.

At home, in my former village, they say things. Some say she drowned in the waters by her hand or fate. Others say she abandoned her husband and her child. Me, but I like to believe--no, I know she did none of this. She did as simply as she desired. She returned home.