Water & Storm Country

by David Estes

  I know he’s right because he was there—he saw everything. I saw it too, but I just can’t quite…if I could only…

  Remember.

  It’s as if the word is spoken in my head, a soothing voice that sang gentle lullabies to me when I’d wake up in the throes of a nightmare. Now my nightmares are about her, so who’s going to sing to me?

  Remember.

  I can’t. I can’t.

  Blood, frothing and churning. The image burns in my mind and I slam my eyes shut again, trying to dispel the bubbles, red with…no! No more.

  My mother’s body, sinking beneath the surface, jerking as the sharp-tooths tear her to shreds.

  Remember. No, dammit, I don’t want to! I don’t want to see you die again and again, never living, never a happy ending where I save you, where I become the man I’m meant to be now, pull you up, up, up, stronger than ten men, stronger than a Stormer’s horse, stronger than the raw pull of the ocean, embracing you and never letting go. Not ever again.

  When I open my eyes my father is staring at me curiously, and I wonder why. His gaze drops to my fists and I follow it. My hands are clenched, splotched with red and white amongst the little freckles that are always there because of the sun and my fair complexion.

  “Yesss,” my father murmurs, drawing the word out like the hiss of snake. “Yes, anger is good, but only if it’s controlled. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  I relax my hands and am surprised that they ache when I stretch them out. Specks of fresh blood dot my palm where my too-long fingernails cut into my flesh. I slide them behind me and out of sight.

  “What now?” I say, keeping my voice as impassive as possible. One of his lessons comes back to me, finally. To show emotion is to be emotional. And emotions are for women and the weak. If men are to be cold-hearted vapid creatures, then that’s what I’ll become. I’ll do anything to prove myself. But isn’t anger an emotion?

  I don’t have time to dwell on the question because the Admiral smiles, strides to the bed and sits on it, patting the bedcover beside him. Surprised at his sudden change in mood, I hesitate, but then join him, keeping a healthy gap between us. Although his expression has softened, there’s none of my mother’s tenderness in the hard lines of his face.

  “Son,” he says. “I know things have been hard, strained even, between us. But I want you to succeed. I want you to become the man I know you’re capable of. You’re my son, after all.” He pauses and I search his eyes for the joke, for an insult, but there’s only truth in them.

  “Then why are you sending me on the Mayhem?” I ask.

  He smiles. “You should know me well enough by now,” he says cryptically.

  And I should know. And I do know. From the moment I learned which ship I’d be assigned to, I knew exactly why. I just didn’t want to admit it.

  (Because I’m scared.)

  “A test,” I say.

  He doesn’t reply, but doesn’t deny it either. He sighs, and for the first time in my life my father looks tired. What I thought a moment ago were his hard lines, look more like age lines now, deep canyons in his flesh cut from rivers of weariness and grief and disappointment.

  “What do I have to do?”

  —to make you proud.

  —to earn your forgiveness.

  —to prove myself.

  He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Your task is to turn the Mayhem into a ship we can all be proud of, a ship where the best sailors in the fleet will beg to be stationed, to serve. Captain Montgomery is a…strange man, but a good captain. He needs your help, as do I.”

  I shouldn’t believe him (because it feels like punishment), but I do, because I want it to be an opportunity. That’s all I want. A chance to make things right. A chance to forget the past, live in the present, and look forward to the future.

  “Aye, Admiral,” I say, standing, a flattened hand raised in salute. “What advice will you give me?”

  He raises an eyebrow and I can see I surprised him. A boy rushes into action and failure. A man asks questions on the way to success. Another of his lessons tumbles through the void.

  “Two things,” he says, waving away my salute with a casual gesture. I drop my hand to my side. “One. Earn the respect of your seamen by being one of them and above them.”

  I frown. “But how can you be both?” I ask.

  He wipes my question away with another wave of his hand. It’s part of the test, I realize. Making sense of his advice. Learning from experience.

  “Two. Beware the bilge rats,” he says, and my face reddens because at first I think it’s a joke, a dig at my failure from before. But his face is deadly serious. “They’re not like us. They’ll do anything to bring you down, to make you as low as they are. Don’t trust them. They are tools to be used, nothing more.”

  With that, he stands, ushers me to the door, and I leave his chambers for maybe the last time, off to seek my fate.

  ~~~

  Small wooden boats carry us to the shore, borne on the backs of midshipmen with heavy oars. Choppy waves bounce us around, occasionally bandying together to propel us forward from behind.

  Cain sits beside me, staring out at the long line of white-sailed ships standing sentinel, as if they’re guarding the entrance to the ocean. Down the line—way down the line—stands a ship with yellowing weather-stained sails, frayed and full of holes. The eyesore of the fleet: The Sailors’ Mayhem.

  My test.

  Cain reaches down and lets the water rush over his hand. Instinctively I reach to grab his arm and pull it away. Because of the sharp-tooths. Sticking a hand in the water around here is a good way to lose it. But I stop, because I’m being stupid. Normal procedure has been followed. Fish guts and carcasses would have been emptied in our wake, giving the deadly predators something to keep themselves occupied with—and the spear guns would have scared off the rest. They’ll come back, of course, because they always do, but for now we’re safe.

  Cain looks at me strangely, but lifts his hand, now dripping with saltwater, flicks his fingers in my face. “Hey!” I say, but I’m not angry, and I splash him back, smiling.

  Having informed me of my orders and offered his advice, my father will remain on the ship, as Admirals’ do. I don’t mind his absence—it relieves some of the pressure building in my chest.

  Hobbs glares at us from the other end of the boat. I wish he was absent, too.

  “Don’t mind him,” Cain says. “I heard he hasn’t spent the night with a woman in months.” He laughs loudly and I join him, although I don’t exactly understand what’s funny about it. Hobbs can’t have heard what Cain said, but he extends a gesture in response anyway, which only makes us laugh harder.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” I say to Cain, and even to my own ears my voice sounds high and boyish. Right away I wish I could unsay it.

  Cain’s smile fades and he slaps me on the back. “Soon enough there will be another fight to fight against the Stormers, and we’ll see each other then.”

  “Aye,” I say, growling the way I’ve practiced since I was only as tall as my father’s knees.

  ~~~

  We say our goodbyes. My friends, Jobe and Ben and Thom, wish me luck and say they’ll join me as men soon. Then we can all fight the Stormers together. The thought sends excited-nervous ripples through my skin, but I just pull them into hardy half-hugs and it’s a promise.

  Cain loops an arm over my shoulder and walks me away from the beached boats and the water, up a slope to a grassy patch. My legs wobble slightly with each step, because the land is solid, unmoving, a stark contrast to the ebbs and flows of the ship’s deck. “You can spend as much time up here as you need to prepare,” he says. “We set sail when you’re ready.” I nod.

  “Go with honor,” I say, using the traditional farewell between officers.

  “And you with the comfort of the sea maids,” he returns, using an old favorite joke. I smile, but I can’t hold it, because Cain’s been
the older brother I never had, and I can already see it’s time for him to go, and I’m not ready—I’m not—but I know lingering isn’t an option.

  Not wanting to look childish, I extend a hand.

  He looks at it, and I swear he’s got seawater in his eyes and on his face from our splashing in the boat earlier, but then I do too, because he takes my hand and pulls me to him, hugging me in a brother-worthy embrace. “Take care of yourself, Huck,” he says.

  Fighting off a sob, I say, “That’s Lieutenant Jones to you,” in my best Admiral Jones impersonation.

  He laughs and I do too, and he slaps me on the back because we both need something solid and strong to feel. Sticking out his jaw, he nods, winks, and turns, leaving me to decide when to board the Mayhem.

  Chapter Eight

  Sadie

  I run.

  The smart thing to do would be to run back the way I came, all the way to the camp to alert my mother, who would tell Gard. And then the Riders would ride forth to meet the Soaker’s in the first battle in a long time.

  And that’s what I start to do, but then I stop, look back at the shadows on the horizon. Consider my options. What will I tell my mother? I saw ships. What were they doing? she'll ask. And I won’t know anything. Just that they’re there, anchored.

  I have to get closer. A Rider would try to get closer.

  So I do run, but in the other direction, toward the ships. I cut an angled path up the beach, stumbling slightly when the sand rises up onto the grass, which rolls away from me in mounds broken only by the occasional tree or bush.

  On the grass I could run much faster, but I remain cautious, vigilant, pushing myself down each hill with speed and then slowing on the rises, creeping over the crests, looking for Soakers.

  If they spot me I’m dead.

  Rise and fall, over a hill and down a valley. Again and again and aga—

  I drop flat on my stomach when I peek over the next hill, cursing silently, because I didn’t expect to reach them so soon. Distance can play tricks on you sometimes, especially near the ocean; the ships were much closer than I thought.

  My heart pounding in my chest, I edge my head—just my scalp and eyes—over the hill, half-wondering whether I was seeing things, if maybe I’d imagined it.

  No. Because sitting on the top of one of the grassy mounds, just a hill over, is a Soaker. Not a big one, but a boy, with dirty-blond hair pulled into a ponytail and a forlorn and thoughtful expression. He’s half-turned toward me, as if he wants to look at the land but can’t seem to pry one eye off of the ocean. They say the ocean constantly calls to the Soakers, which is why they never stay on land for long. Seeing this Soaker boy makes me believe them.

  A dozen ships are anchored in the sea, but it’s like the boy refuses to look at them, preferring to take in the vast blue ocean beyond.

  I look past him, to the sand, where men and boys scramble around small boats—landing vessels my mother calls them—manhandling them into the water, the waves crashing at their knees, and then they clamor onboard, using thick sticks with broad, flat ends to push forward. Back to the ships.

  Leaving this boy here alone.

  Except for me, who he’s not even aware of.

  But then I notice: not everyone left. There are a few men down the beach. And one closer. One Soaker, a man, stares up the rise at the boy. From this distance, I can’t make out his expression, but something about his posture makes me shudder. He’s lean and wiry, but stands with a slight hunch. I can almost imagine him slinking in the shadows, sneaking from behind, his fingers curled around a dripping knife.

  Soakers.

  They killed my brother. They’ve killed many of my people. Countless souls sent back to Mother Earth before their time, buried on the plains of storm country.

  We’ve killed them by the hundreds, too, but we were provoked. We didn’t start the fight so many years ago, but we will finish it. When I become a full-fledged Rider, I swear I’ll finish it.

  Starting now.

  This boy is only one, alone and unthreatening, but one day he’ll be a man, he’ll bear children. Children who will kill my people.

  Paw’s face flashes in my mind, the way I want to remember him. The bravest four-year-old in the camp, my mother still says when she talks about him. And I’d follow him anywhere.

  I don’t have a weapon, but I don’t need one. This is a mere boy and I’m a Rider.

  On my hands and knees, I veer right, start to circle the inland side of the mound so I can come up behind him. Sweat pools under my arms and in the small of my back. Something winged flutters in my stomach. Anticipation of my first kill.

  I gasp when someone grabs me from behind, covering my mouth with a dark hand.

  ~~~

  I struggle against my captor, try to scream, but he’s strong and has the element of surprise on his side.

  “Shhh,” he hisses sharply in my ear, his exhalation a hot burst. “It’s me. Remy.”

  I freeze, both because I couldn’t be more shocked if a bolt of lightning struck me in the head, and because it’s Remy, and he’s…touching me. Well, not really touching, but locking me up from behind, holding me back.

  But still…he feels warm and strong and I could so easily relax and just melt away…

  “Mmmhhh,” I murmur through his hand, trying to speak, my body remaining as rigid and stiff as a long-dead corpse.

  “You’ll be quiet?” he asks, his lips so close to my ear that it tickles.

  I nod against his grip, and he relaxes his arms, pulls his hand away from my mouth, rolls over next to me, staying low. Our heads are side by side—there’s no stall wall to separate us now.

  I glare at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I whisper.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Saving your skin,” he says, peeking over the mound. I do the same, watching as the boy stands, turns so his back is completely toward us. That’s when I notice what he’s wearing: a clean blue uniform, slightly wrinkled, but other than that, unmarked. An officer’s uniform.

  “I didn’t need saving,” I whisper, wanting to hit him for wasting my opportunity. This boy—an officer?

  “They’d have killed you,” Remy says.

  “Not if I killed them first,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Hurry your bloody ass up!” a gruff voice bellows from somewhere below the mounds.

  Remy and I duck our heads even lower, pressing our cheeks to the grass, stare at each other with wide eyes.

  “Cain said I could take as long as I wanted,” a voice returns. The officer boy.

  “It’s Lieutenant Cain to you, and he ain’t bloody well around now, is he? Now move it before I have to make you.” A challenge. Will the boy answer?

  There’s a deep sigh of resignation. “I was ready to go anyway,” the boy says.

  “Aye, sure you were,” the gruff voice says, laughing. Footsteps fade away and silence ensues.

  I realize I’m still staring at Remy, although I haven’t been seeing him. Heat floods my cheeks and I look away, crane my neck over the mound’s crest, watch as the officer boy and the gruff-voiced man stride through the sand, back toward the water.

  Remy’s head bobs up next to me. “What are you doing her—” he starts to say.

  “Shhh!” I hiss, as the two Soakers change course before they get to the water. They move down the beach, away from us. One small boat remains, manned by a dozen oarsmen. A tallish man wearing a black cap and a blue officer’s uniform stands waiting.

  “Is that a…” My voice fades away as Gruff-voice hands something to the tall man. A thin tube.

  “A captain’s hat,” Remy finishes for me. “That man is the captain of one of the ships.”

  His tone is almost reverent, and I glance at him. His eyes serious, he appears enthralled by the scene unfolding before us: a captain greeting a new lieutenant who looks more like a boy.

  “I could have killed him,” I say, standing, watching as the small boat leaves the sh
ore, riding the waves along a sunlit path of sparkling ocean, all the way to a ship that looks strangely as if it’s been left for decades to rot and weather away.

  My father’s words ring in my ears:

  Sometimes the more important choice is not when to take a life, but when to spare one.

  But this wasn’t my choice—it was Remy’s. I hope it was the right one.

  ~~~

  “We have to tell someone,” Remy says for the fourteenth time.

  I shake my head. “Who? Your father?”

  “My father, your father, one of the other Riders…anyone.” The more worked up Remy gets, the more his hands do the talking along with his mouth.

  We’ve been walking for an hour, slowly working our way back to the camp.

  “And what will you tell them?” I ask.

  “That we saw the Soakers and…” His voice drops away sharply, like a knife blade disappearing into the sand.

  “And what?” I prod.

  “And nothing,” he says, stopping. “You’re right. There’s nothing to tell. When the ships left, they sailed away from us, which the Riders already know. We’d just get in trouble for being this far south.”

  I stop too. “My mother lets me run as far afield as I want,” I say, pride pulling at the corners of my lips.

  “And look where that got you. You almost got yourself killed today.”

  Anger rises in my chest. “You don’t know anything,” I say. “I swear to Mother Earth I’d have killed that boy.” I push Remy away because he’s gotten too close.

  “Maybe,” he says, laughing. He sits in the sand, looks out to sea. “But that man would’ve killed you for sure. I saved your life.”

  “You did not,” I say, every muscle in my body going tight. “I can handle myself. I’ll be a Rider before you.”