A/N: Ulysses and Nausicaa are characters from the epic poem, The Odyssey, by Homer. You don't need to know who they are for the story, but it might help.

Obscurities

I’m a wanderer far from home, so I guess it makes an obscure kind of sense that I’m in love with a girl whose name is Nausicaa. Only problem is, unlike Ulysses, Nessie’s parents don’t like me at all. See, me and my brother Russell (Les for short) live with her and her family and do odd jobs on the farm in return for room and board. Or rather, I do odd jobs and Les spills things. He’s just a kid, barely ten, whereas I’m almost seventeen, so I guess it makes sense for me to be taking care of him.

It’s aggravating sometimes though, like the time when he was supposed to be washing windows and he spilled lye all over the carpet. Nessie’s mother, Mrs. Macready, wasn’t pleased, and I, passing by on my way out for one of my rare days off, bore the brunt of it.

“Well, boy? Clean it up,” Mrs. Macready ordered.

“Won’t you let me change first?” I asked. “These are my good clothes.”

“No. I won’t have messes in my house, and it was your little brother who made it. Clean it up now.”

There was nothing for me to do, save go grab a rag and mop up the spill, wincing as I felt the liquid seeping into the knees of my good woolen breeches and leeching the dye out. That’s why they’re all faded, y’know.

You might ask why I put up with this sort of thing, why me and Les don’t just up and leave. I’ll tell you. See, our parents died of the fever back in England, and since we didn’t have anywhere to go, we decided to try our luck in the New World. Problem was, we didn’t have any money to pay our way across. The solution? Sell ourselves as indentured servants. Only nobody wanted Les, so the ship’s captain threw him in for free when Mr. Macready bought me to work on his farm.

“Good strong lad, tall for his age and good for farm work!” the captain proclaimed. I endured the poking and prodding, worrying about my brother and hoping we wouldn’t get separated. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to buy Les. He’s kind of chunky and wears spectacles, and he’s constantly tripping and falling over things.

Mr. Macready wasn’t the only buyer interested in me. There were about five other people, and the bidding went ridiculously high, considering my age and lack of skills apart from reading and writing. Actually, I found it rather amusing that people were willing to pay so much for one skinny boy.

“Twenty silver!” someone shouted. It was a short, balding man in an expensive-looking suit. I would later learn that his name was John Macready, father of the beautiful Nausicaa.

“Sold!” the captain called. “And for that excellent price, I’ll throw in the lad’s younger brother as well!” Mr. Macready didn’t look pleased to be taking Les as well as me, but I guess for twenty silver, two servants are better than one, even if one is a useless kid.

Mrs. Macready nearly flipped when she saw me and Les.

“Probably a thief” she said of me. “A lazy little brat” she said of Les, who immediately burst into tears. She didn’t seem to care.

In fact, the only real welcome we got was from Nausicaa herself.

“Oh, how darling!” she said when she saw Les. She dried his tears with her own handkerchief and brought him into the kitchen for tea and cakes. Needless to say, she completely ignored me.

A few words about Nessie. She’s beautiful. Long, golden hair and blue eyes, a waist I could span with my hands, creamy porcelain skin. Like a china doll, only real and gentle and kind. So unlike me with my straw-coloured hair that sticks out all over the place, and Les with his reddish blond mop. If she weren’t as nice as she is, I’d probably feel like a scarecrow when I’m near her.

Although being a scarecrow is one of my jobs. Along with carrying large amounts of hay for the cows, milking said bovines, feeding the chickens and collecting eggs (They tried to have Les be in charge of the chickens, but it didn’t go too well. The creatures seemed to take a delight in tripping him and pecking him, and I don’t think he ever brought a single whole egg back to the house.) I also clean the house and help Mrs. Macready get around when she feels weak (which is alarmingly often, due to her habit of over-tightening her stays in order to look as willowy as her daughter). I’m not sure why Mrs. Macready doesn’t get a lady’s maid for that sort of thing, because Lord only knows how much she can’t stand me. She makes a point of saying so at every convenient time. She truly is a mystery.

Sometimes in the evenings, the Macreadies go to other farms, or into Boston for a play or a party. Most of the time, they bring me. I think they’re trying to show off how rich they are, that they have a servant, even though most wealthy people in the colony have several. Or maybe it’s just to show me what I can never have. Nausicaa’s quite popular among the young men, and a few of the not-so-young men as well. I hear there’s quite a bit of speculation over who she’s going to marry, and you have no idea how much it hurts to see her flitting around in a blue gown, dancing with everyone except me.

“You must understand, Peter,” she says. “You’re very sweet, but it would never work out. Father wants me to marry someone with land, and you don’t even have decent clothing.”

Which is true, thanks to her mother. Indentured servants are supposed to get two new suits of clothes every year, but the Macreadies never got around to replacing my lye-bleached good breeches, and it’s been well over six months. My work clothes are practically in tatters. I don’t understand—wouldn’t it reflect on them better if their servant were better clothed?

And then there’s Les. He seems to be enjoying himself, aside from the snide remarks from Mrs. Macready. Nessie spoils him to death, gets him anything he asks for and a great many things he doesn’t. He still sleeps with me in the little cubbyhole off the kitchen, but he wears good wool and fine linen and has sweets every day, and has Nessie to coo over him if he falls or spills something. He’s gotten clumsier than ever since we’ve arrived in the colonies, and I doubt that it’s a coincidence.

And me? I work. I fetch and carry, and trim the lawn and the hedges, and clean up whatever Les spills or knocks over. And every night I fall asleep and dream of being rich enough to buy new clothes and my own farm, and to marry Nausicaa Macready.