The Water Queens (Keeper of the Water) (15 page)

But at least it lets me know when someone’s coming, like right now. I’ve worried this day would come and though I’ve been out of action for years, I jump to my feet, ready for whoever’s come to attack. There’s no place for me to hide on the porch so I don’t hesitate to run and leap over the balcony.

Wind whips around me as I drop twenty feet down the mountain steppe, speeding toward the large garden area we’ve carved out for ourselves. I land without making a sound and rush across the garden, ending up near the bottom of the driveway. I see the shadowy outline of a person climbing the driveway, staggering as though he – or she – never ascended the steep concrete before. I try to see who it is but the person stays to the side of the driveway where plenty of tree branches hang over and block the moonlight. I might be overreacting but I’m not taking any chances.

I race up the sharp incline, my feet barely touching ground, not disturbing a single rock. A few concrete pebbles skitter down but I easily leap over them. Without thinking, I crash into the person struggling to walk ahead of me, hearing him grunt as my shoulder crashes into him from behind. I hold on tight and we both tumble painfully down the driveway, eventually rolling across the narrow paved road. I roll to a stop just a few feet from an even farther drop off the mountain’s side; the other person is much closer to falling over.

I ignore bloody cuts on my arms and legs and jump to my feet, ready to pounce.

“It’s me, it’s me,” John slurs, his voice strained with pain.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

My heart sinks. I expect him to easily pull himself to safety but his body begins to slide back. I hurry to grab his hands just before he plunges more than fifty feet; I doubt the fall would kill him but he certainly wouldn’t feel great in the morning. I pull him to his feet, dragging him away from the edge. He’s still woozy as he stands in place, pawing at his own scrapes.

“You were supposed to give me a signal so I’d know you were coming,” I hiss at him.

John sways again. Pain is much easier for us to deal with than normal people so I wonder if I hurt him more than I realized.

“Sorry,” he slurs. “Must have forgot.”

It’s at this moment I’m hit with a strong odor emanating from his breath, the aroma of sweet-smelling rocket fuel.

“What have you been doing with those men? Drinking again?” I ask.

I don’t mean to sound so accusatory but John barely seems to notice. Instead, he hiccups before answering.

“And I thought my two uncles…
uncles
,” he says, starting to crack up. “I thought my two soldiers used to drink a lot. These guys got them beat.”

From somewhere farther down the road, the silence of night is finally broken by the sounds of laughing men and violin music that could only be enjoyed by the locals. I can’t make out which song is being played but if it’s anything like the rest of the local music, it’s the same ten-second chord played over and over for about twenty minutes, a simple melody to allow dancing that requires very little rhythm.

I didn’t plan on giving him grief for blowing off a little steam until he laughed about the memory of lying to me about the identity of his soldiers. I guess I don’t have the same sense of humor he does, though I wonder if he’d find this so funny if he were sober.

“Don’t you think it’s smarter to keep clear-minded at all times?” I ask. “You know, just in case?”

John sighs and I get another strong whiff of what’s caused him to end up this way; just smelling it makes me feel buzzed.

“I can’t spend time with them
without
taking a few sips. I don’t want to raise any more suspicions about us than we already have,” he slurs. “Especially since my Greek is barely passable. Besides, drinking is the best way I can avoid too many questions about our past or why we settled here.”

“I thought you said the gifts we brought would take care of that,” I say.

“The gardening tools? They’re the most advanced things these people have ever seen; their old hoes and picks and tools have probably been handed down from the times I was
first
here,” he says, chuckling. “I guess our gifts to the villagers kept their attention for a while but I think these old guys are back to using their ancient tools. If anything, I think my plan to win them over backfired.”

“Does Christos still blame us for what happened to his son’s hand?” I ask.

John frowns and shakes his head. “Like always, he gives me dirty looks whenever I show up but after a couple shots of ouzo and moonshine, he becomes my best friend. He insists that the four-fingered version of his son is just as useful as the five-fingered version. Anyway, these are social men; I
had
to be friendly and drink as much as them.”

I snort. “Social men who live out in the middle of nowhere?”

John looks out toward the handful of houses around the valley.

“
We
chose to live out here to get away from the world,” he says. “
These
people choose to live here because it’s where they’re from, where they grew up. I think some of them are actually glad we’re here so the village has younger people. These old guys mostly sit around and complain that their kids end up moving to the city and never come back. Without us, they swear this village would eventually become extinct.”

“That’s okay, these Greeks live to be a hundred,” I say.

John hobbles up the driveway; I stay just behind to make sure he doesn’t slip and roll off the mountain. When we reach the porch, he takes a deep breath and plops down in one of the chairs. I sit beside him and he takes my hand in his. For nearly ten minutes, we say nothing and simply enjoy the silence, enjoy the night. Without TV or other modern technology,
this
is our biggest form of entertainment. I have to say I don’t miss many modern ‘luxuries’ once so important in my teenage life.

Not surprisingly, my mind begins to wander when I look out at the valley.

“Is this what it looked like the last time you were here?” I finally ask.

I continue to look forward, though I feel John’s gaze turned toward me. He doesn’t answer right away; I’m sure he must be trying to figure out not only how
much
he should answer but whether he should answer
at all
. I’ve had issues with his past before, becoming mad at him for things he did hundreds of years ago. But during the time I’ve been away from the Amazons, I’ve forgiven his past transgressions.

At least I’ve forgiven him ninety-nine percent of the way.

“Well, that ferry boat wasn’t here last time,” he says, pointing at the blinking lights fading across the sea in the distance, the last boat of the night off the island. He then gestures to the few houses with lights still on. “And those lights were candles instead of bulbs. But besides that, most of it is the same; maybe a couple more churches.”

There are nearly as many tiny churches as there are houses around the valley, none of them big enough to hold more than a few people. In the few years since we’ve been here, three more of these tiny buildings have popped up, built in desolate, unlivable sections of the mountain by villagers giving thanks to God. I don’t know whether I share their same religious ideals but I respect their hard work and dedication to their beliefs; it’s not altogether dissimilar to the sacrifices I had as an Amazon.

When we first reached the Greek island of Andros after learning of my pregnancy, I was concerned about the connection this island had to the Amazons and John’s past. Still, it seemed a better option than many other places. I
know
Cassie didn’t go through so much to regain power just to hide out on a small island in the middle of nowhere. Sure, there are countless places across the globe where we could’ve hidden but I wanted –
needed
– some sort of connection to my Amazonian roots; that became especially important to me once I learned I was having a girl. Janey may never know more about the Amazons than the few stories I tell but having her live near a former water source just
feels
right. I felt an invisible hand pulling John and I toward this place and I’m glad we eventually settled here.

Not that I feel
totally
safe or comfortable, even after so many years of quiet solitude. This
is
an important location in the history of the Amazons and I hope my current connection to the nearby water source doesn’t open
other
connections. During our race to the jungle years earlier, I learned that I could form a mental bond with Cassie during times of intense emotion. Luckily, I don’t think she sensed that bond between us; hopefully, she still thinks we’re dead so we’ll be left alone. Though I’m constantly curious about what Cassie’s doing with her life – especially what she and the queens are planning with the water – I’m careful about remaining calm at all times to avoid opening my mind for
her
to enter.

“For all I know, the men I drank with tonight are distant relatives of villagers who told us stories of the magic women hundreds of years ago,” John laments. “I
thought
that guy Niko looked familiar; I think his great, great, great-whatever grandfather gave me wine back in the day.”

John chuckles; he must be drunker than I thought to be making jokes – even light-hearted ones – about this subject. I glare at him but he doesn’t even notice. It’s hard not to think about what this valley would’ve looked like had a young Ponce de Leon not stumbled upon Andros and heard tales about a powerful tribe of beautiful young women. The special water had been kept here hundreds of years – remained safely tucked away, even through several wars – so it very well could’ve remained here had John never existed. But that
also
means the Amazons never would’ve taken shelter in the American Northwest, which means I never would’ve stumbled upon Anne Bonny and thus would’ve died of fever a few years later. I never would’ve become an Amazon, never would’ve met John, never would’ve given birth to Janey…

But Cassie never would’ve become an Amazon and taken control of the water. In hindsight, it’s tough for me to choose whether I would’ve wanted things to work out how they did or whether I’d give up
my
entire life to keep the water safe. The fact that I’m leaning toward selfishness is the only reason I’m not berating John about his joke.
Besides, I
know
he’s sorry about his past, whether I always forgive him or not. If it weren’t for him, this life wouldn’t be possible for us.

During his years following around Isabella, John amassed quite a fortune, even if the means by which he and his soldiers attained this money was less than honest. But John was smart with his wealth, distributing it into banks across the world under a variety of pseudonyms. He had plenty of money to buy this plot of land, build our small house and bribe one of the nearby villagers to put everything under his name to avoid official hassles with the mainland. Since then, we’ve barely needed money for anything though John keeps more than enough in a water-tight sack hidden beneath some loose tiles under our bed.

Soon before Janey was born, John and I married in one of the small churches nearby. Though we were still mostly strangers, many mountain villagers celebrated with us, opening up their homes –
and
wine barrels – to everyone. Since then, we’ve needed very little money. Instead, we use a barter system with the rest of the villagers, trading our crops with them for bread and meat and olive oil and wine, just as it’s been done in this village for centuries.

Our life has been quiet, peaceful, more than I could’ve hoped for after leaving the dangers of an Amazonian existence behind me. I love my husband and adore my daughter yet… sometimes I feel my life is missing something. I’d never want to risk John looking at me with anything less than complete adulation so I keep my feelings of emptiness to myself. When these feelings become too overwhelming, I sometimes climb up the mountain to be near the small spring that once held the special water. I spend that time imagining what Amazon life used to be like here, reminisce about my own time near the water within the jungle. Each time I bring Janey with me on these hikes, she ends up asking why mommy looks so sad to be near the water.

When I first took these walks to the spring, I did so when John wasn’t around. I’d wait until he took the hour-long trip to Batsi, a bigger town along the sea where there was more shopping to be done. Janey was too young then to tell her daddy we went up the mountain; I didn’t want John finding out about the longing I felt for my previous life. But one morning I was woken by an old Greek woman; I was curled up on the ground beside the spring, the first time I’d ever sleepwalked. I came clean with John that morning but like always, he was totally accepting and didn’t make me feel bad for the urges I couldn’t control.

“Oh, and when I was here the first time, none of the houses were built as high up the mountain as ours,” John adds. “The villagers kept away from the mysterious women, who hogged this great view for themselves.”

“Speaking of which,” I say slowly, “Janey finally stayed awake for the end of my story tonight. She didn’t quite believe the ending.”

John smiles. “It’s good that she knows. Janey’s a smart little girl; she can handle the truth.”

I expect him to say more, to have more of an opinion. Maybe that will come when he sobers up in the morning. Minutes pass and he stays quiet; I can’t tell if he’s in deep thought or if he’s merely too drunk to think. Either way, my mind inevitably wanders to the water spring just up the mountain. I hope John passes out in his chair or heads inside to bed so I can sneak away for a few hours. But when John finally stands up – wobbly as he does so – he’s in no rush to leave the porch. He reaches into one back pocket of his pants, shakes his head, and then reaches into the other.

“One of the villagers had a newspaper in English so I flipped through it,” he said, pulling it out. “She made it.”

My heart suddenly feels squeezed with fear. For so long I’ve been trying to suppress anxiety gnawing at the back of my mind, concern about the trouble that Cassie and her queens are brewing out there.

“
Who
made
what
?” I ask, wondering if I really want to know the answer.

But John doesn’t look nearly as concerned as I think he should. He tosses the newspaper onto my lap. I turn it toward the moon so there’s enough light for me to read what it says.

“That reporter friend of yours,” he says.

It’s too dark for me to see the smaller words of the story but there’s a big picture on the cover of Ashley Lutz, the reporter who flew us to Brazil years ago. Her hair is pulled back and her clothes and makeup are far less elegant than usual but I can tell the smile on her face is genuine, not just plastered on for the photo op.