Water & Storm Country

by David Estes

  When I try speaking to him, his eyes remain closed, and he waves me away with a hand.

  I am alone when I’m with my father.

  I don’t spend much time in our tent.

  Outside isn’t much better. It’s as if the camp is in mourning, the hush so loud I want to scream. When anyone does speak, it’s in whispers and with barely parted lips, the unidentifiable words deafening in the abject silence.

  I don’t spend much time in the camp.

  When I throw myself into training, it helps, but only for a day, until even the aches and pains are insufficient to drown out the questions in my mind.

  Although gray clouds swarm above, it hasn’t rained for two days, as if the sky is gathering up every last raindrop, hording them for some unknown purpose.

  As I walk along the beach, the sand is soft and cold and foreboding under my bare feet. I burrow a small hole, well back from the water. Today I fear the chill of the Deep Blue on my skin—which usually feels invigorating and life-giving—could have the opposite effect, carrying the Plague in its wet entrails. As if touching the water would make me shrivel and die.

  I stare across the fathomless ocean until my gaze meets the deep, red, cloudless horizon. A drop of water splashes on my cheek, and I look up, sure that the clouds are about to open their overflowing gates.

  A face smiles over me, tipping a water jug just enough to spill a drop at a time. Another splash, this time on my forehead.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I demand, rising to my feet in one swift motion, facing off against Remy, whose smile falters for a moment before springing back into shape.

  “Thought you could use some water,” he says, shrugging, one foot aimed toward me and the other back toward the plains. He holds the jug in my direction. An offering. An apology?

  I shake my head. What does he have to apologize for? After all, he was right. There was never a chance of me going with the Riders.

  I stare at the jug, considering whether taking it would be the same thing as me apologizing.

  My tongue is as dry as the sand, my mouth sticky. In the end, it’s selfish need that makes up my mind. “Thanks,” I say, grabbing the jug and taking a swig, wondering how he knew I was down by the water. Did he follow me?

  Without answering, he sits next to my hole, gazes across the waters, not unlike I was doing. “Did you find what you’re looking for?” he asks, his eyes forward.

  Chewing on the now-moist inside of my lip, I ease down beside him, trying to determine what he means. I take another pull of water to buy time, but when I glance back at Remy, his hand is out and he’s looking at me.

  When I hesitate to return the jug to him, he says, “I hope I didn’t give you the impression the entire jug was for you. My mouth is rather dry too.”

  Heat warms my cheeks, and it might be anger, but it might not be, which only serves to make me angry. I take a third drink, and the jug is beginning to feel light, but before I empty it completely, I pull it away from my lips and thrust it at him.

  He smiles and accepts it, hurriedly pushing the vessel to his lips as if the water is slipping out the bottom. For some senseless reason, watching him drink from the same jug, watching his lips touch the same place that my lips just touched, makes me blush again, as if the moment is more intimate than it seems.

  It’s only a water jug, I remind myself.

  “Mm. Water tastes so much better when you’re thirsty,” Remy says, licking his lips.

  I look away, don’t answer.

  “Are you worried about your mother?” he asks, shoving the now-empty jug into the sand.

  I glance at him sharply, and say, “Riders don’t worry.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Are you always this defensive about everything?” And then, before I can respond, he says, “I know, I know, you weren’t being defensive,” and I almost laugh, because he stole the words right out of my mouth, disarming me before I could attack.

  “It’s the only way I know,” I say.

  “Not everyone is trying to hurt you, you know,” he says, pushing a pile of sand forward with his foot, which is clad in a heavy, black boot.

  “How would you know?” I say, and an echo ricochets off the empty places in my mind. PAW, Paw, Paw. And again, despite my objections to the contrary, I know I’m being defensive.

  “Because I’m not,” he says softly, digging a heel into the sand.

  “Do you think they’re alive?” I blurt out, jerking my head sharply away from him as soon as the words are out, trying to hide my shame. And what I really mean is: Do you think she’s alive?

  To my surprise, I don’t feel his piercing brown eyes on me, and when I look back, he’s looking in the other direction, as if he’s ashamed to be having this conversation too.

  “I…” he says.

  I want to look away from him, because I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, and because I can see the worry lines on the side of his face, and because he’s guilty of feeling weak and helpless and un-Rider-like. Just like me. But I don’t look away, because seeing him like this makes me feel better about myself.

  When he looks back at me, I flinch, because the shame and guilt I was so sure was plastered on his face wasn’t real, and the whole time he’s been smiling, grinning like a wildcat. “Let’s go swimming,” he says, and there’s such excitement in his voice you’d think we weren’t at war with the Icers and the Soakers, and that we were all about to sit down together to a giant feast.

  “Swimming?” I say, unable to hide my astonishment at his suggestion.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s cold.”

  “Not that cold.”

  “There are monsters in the water.”

  “Not this shallow.”

  “It’s wet,” I say, wishing I could think of a better excuse.

  “The water’s wet? Now that’s a strange idea,” he says, mocking me with both his words and expression.

  “It’s getting dark,” I say, but it’s really not, despite the best efforts of the pregnant clouds.

  “We’re going swimming,” he says, and this time it’s a statement and I get the feeling that he’ll try to carry me in if I don’t agree. I’d like to see him try, I think.

  “I won’t force you,” he says, as if reading my mind. “But I’ll never forget how you were scared of a little water.”

  And with that, he’s gone, whooping as he sprints for the ocean, running right out of his boots, tossing his shirt aside, and nearly tripping as his pants fall around his ankles. It all happens so fast that I barely catch a flash of his dark, bare skin before he dives into a wave, disappearing beneath the surface.

  A moment later his head pops up. He delivers a smile that would rival the bottom quarter of a crescent moon. He gestures for me to join him.

  I stand, suddenly feeling tingly in a way that both angers and delights me. Surely I can’t follow a naked boy into the ocean. Can I?

  But my mother’s not around and my father’s lost inside himself and I’m feeling reckless, not in search of self-destruction but for a way to keep my mind off of the mission to ice country, and, well, this is as good a way as any.

  I walk toward the water.

  Remy’s smile grows bigger as he splashes in my direction.

  I step into the water, feeling an instant buzz through my body as the coolness fills me from the bottom up.

  “Your clothes are going to get all wet,” Remy says, a gleam in his eye.

  “Keep dreaming,” I say, taking another step.

  “I’ll turn around,” he says, demonstrating by whirling away from me. “And I won’t peek.”

  Surely I can’t. Surely.

  My mother’s face burns through my mind and I clamp my eyes shut against it but still it remains, flames licking at her hair and her eyes and her lips, and I can’t make it go away.

  I can’t.

  Unless…

  It’s crazy, but—

  I pull off my shirt, holding it
across my breasts, watching Remy for any sign that he might turn his head. The wind licks at my skin and instead of cold, it’s warm, and exhilaration swarms through my head and chest. My mother’s face is gone, I realize.

  Remy stays facing away and I toss my shirt aside, well out of reach of the rising waters. My pants are next and I discard them quickly, pushing forward into the water and slipping below before even the circling gulls can see me.

  The ocean washes away all my fears.

  “Are you in?” Remy says when I surface.

  “Yes,” I say. “Thank you for not looking.”

  Remy turns, his short, black hair shiny and speckled with water droplets. “That’s two thank yous in one day,” he says. “I must be growing on you.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” I say, splashing him, feeling foolish even as I do it. And yet, even as a fool I feel better now than I did sitting alone on the beach with my dark thoughts.

  I can tell he’s about to splash me back, and I’m already turning my head and closing my eyes—

  —and then I hear it. A shout. A cry. First one, then two, then a chorus.

  I don’t know if Remy splashes me or not, because I’m already facing the shore, searching for…

  The Riders.

  Black and shadowy and riding like the wind across the plains, and there’s something wrong, because…

  There are so few of them.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Huck

  I’m tired of dreams, because most of the time they turn into nightmares—nightmares from my past.

  For once I wake up and I’m not in a cold sweat, not holding my breath in terror, not clutching at my pillow like it’s a lifeline. Sadly, I’m smiling, because my dream was not of my mother falling from the ship, but of her holding me, watching the sunset like we planned, telling stories and laughing, laughing, laughing…

  And the boat lurches—

  And I know it’s time for her to go, for me to fail, for the blood in the water, for my father’s dark and unforgiving stare—

  But my mother just stumbles against the rail and holds on and laughs.

  So I wake up smiling, sad that this beautiful dream is the biggest lie of all, further from reality than blue sky or peace between the Stormers and Soakers.

  A beautiful lie.

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” a voice says, startling me. Barney. Watching me sleep, or awake, or both.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, squinting, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes with a fist. When I can see again, the yellow of Barney’s smile is like a lantern in the semi-darkness. If anything, his brown beard and hair are more unkempt than the last time I saw him.

  “I’m your steward, sir. It’s my job to stay with you. And since Lieutenant Hobbs has dismissed me from his service, I guess my every waking moment will be spent catering to your every need. Sir.”

  I sit up, rest my back against the wall. “Why would Hobbs dismiss you?” I ask.

  There’s a twinkle in Barney’s eyes that’s somewhat disconcerting. “Since your father ordered Cain and Hobbs to conduct the investigation into your attack, Hobbs doesn’t want any distractions. And apparently I’m a distraction.” There’s no anger or frustration in Barney’s voice, despite him being released from Hobbs’ service. If anything, I sense humor, like it’s all a big joke.

  With his words, everything comes screaming back. Getting knocked out by the girl, how neither Barney nor Cain saw what happened, how Cain and Hobbs volunteered to investigate. The brown-skinned girl—one eyewitness or piece of evidence away from being chucked overboard to the sharp-tooths.

  Which is probably what she deserves, right?

  Then why does the thought send shivers up my spine and acid roiling through my stomach?

  “I’d like you to monitor the investigation,” I say softly. “Inform me if they find anything.”

  Barney nods thoughtfully. “I thought you might show some interest in the apprehension of your attacker,” Barney says, winking. “The first day yielded no promising leads, sir. Perhaps tomorrow will be more fruitful.” There’s something in his tone that tells me he doesn’t think so.

  Wait. A day? “How long have I been asleep?” I ask.

  Barney chuckles and the hairs around his mouth dance and bob. “If you count the time when you were pretending to be asleep while your father questioned us…”—he laughs even harder when he sees the frown that creases my lips—“…you’ve been out for near on a few days. Sir.”

  That long? I absently lift a hand to my forehead and feel a bulge. The wooden handle on the brush packed quite a wallop. And the bilge rat’s aim was near-on perfect. Why shouldn’t I turn her in?

  “Did you want this, sir?” Barney says, reaching out to hand me an object, flat and hard on one side and rough and bristled on the other. A brush. No. The brush. The very one that hit me, obvious only from the specks of dried blood on the handle. My blood. Evidence.

  Barney lied to my father. He lied to the admiral. Right to his face, knowing full well I was awake and listening.

  “Why did you—” I start to say.

  “It wasn’t my choice to make,” Barney says, still holding the brush in the palm of his hand.

  I shake my head. The attack, Barney lying, the investigation: it’s all too much to think about. Just when I thought I was starting to instill order on the Mayhem, the ship reverted back to its namesake with one thrown scrub brush.

  “Shall I hand over the brush to Hobbs?” Barney asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “No!” I say, louder than necessary given our close proximity. “I mean, no, just, um, just toss it overboard.” I close my eyes, wait for Barney to laugh at me, to reprimand me for being a silly boy, to mock me with sarcastic sirs and Lieutenants.

  “Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” he says, his words firm and respectful.

  And when I open my eyes he’s gone, having opened and closed the door to my cabin so quietly I didn’t hear it.

  ~~~

  From the shadows streaming through my porthole, it’s clear night’s upon us already, so I don’t leave my cabin.

  The ship lurches and rolls and I know we’re moving—have probably been moving for a while now, the last ship in the fleet, falling behind the others already.

  Barney brings me supper an hour later, and although the baked waterfowl looks, smells, and tastes delicious, I pick at it, unable to stomach such a hearty meal with my head still pounding between my ears.

  “Is it done?” I ask between nibbles.

  “Is what done, sir?” Barney says, but his smile doesn’t match his words. The blood-flecked brush is on the bottom of the ocean, or in the stomach of a sharp-tooth. And if Barney is the only witness…

  “Will Hobbs and Cain find anything else?” I ask.

  “I cannot predict the future, sir,” Barney drones.

  “I want to go on deck,” I say, but each word cracks like a hammer to my skull.

  “You should rest, Lieutenant.”

  I push the plate away, clench my fists in frustration. I was gaining respect from the men, improving the ship’s performance, instilling work ethic…and then a bilge rat—and a girl no less—had to go and mess it all up. If I can just find her, talk to her, ask her why she did what she did. Try to understand. And if I don’t like her answer, maybe I’ll throw her over the rail myself. I laugh inwardly at my thoughts, knowing full well I wouldn’t have the stomach for that sort of thing.

  “Bring Cain down if he’s available,” I say.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Barney says, opening the door. Over his shoulder, he asks, “Shall I invite Lieutenant Hobbs, too?”

  “No. This will not be in regards to the investigation.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  I sit in bed for a few minutes, chewing on my lip and thinking, but eventually my eyelids grow heavy and I slump onto my pillow once more. I hear the door open and, behind my eyelids, see the room darken as someone blows out the lantern.

  “Goodnig
ht, Lieutenant,” Cain says. “I’ve spoken to Barney. Don’t you worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

  And my last thought before sleep takes me: He knows.

  ~~~

  I’ve been watching her for a week. And she’s been ignoring me, going about her business as if I don’t exist. But I know she knows I’m watching her, because yesterday she walked right past me carrying a bucket of soapy water, and “accidentally” sloshed it over the side and onto my boots. She didn’t look at me, but I detected the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. The nerve of this girl!

  She has to know I hold her life in my hands, that with a simple accusation I can make her life worth less than the new scrub brush she’s been using to scour every inch of the ship.

  And yet she continues on with her disrespect and subtle insults. Even now, as she uses her extraordinary and unique climbing ability to scrub the main mast so hard it’s like getting the salt off is an offering to the Deep Blue, I can see the rebellion in the lines of her hard jaw, in the way her eyes smolder each time they flash around the mast, piercing me with hot anger. I know she wants to throw another brush, perhaps to add a matching red bulge to the opposite side of my forehead, but thus far, she’s restrained herself, either fulfilling a deep need for self-preservation, or simply due to the multitude of witnesses on deck.

  As I keep the bilge rat girl on the edge of my vision, I curl my nose when a putrid scent fills my nostrils.

  “Why does it always smell like fish?” I ask, sniffing the air.

  Beside me, Barney laughs. “It’s Stew, the cook. He thinks fish heads keep away the demons. He stashes them everywhere. No one can stop him or find them all, so we’ve all just learned to live with it.”

  Typical Mayhem mentality. “Tell him that I order him to stop with the fish-head-hiding,” I say, shaking my head. “Or I’ll send him to the brig.” Since recovering from my head injury, I’ve used the brig as often as possible. Although the ship is still the worst-performing in the fleet, our speed has improved by double and you won’t find a single midshipman lounging on the deck under the warmth of the afternoon sun. Everyone works.