Water & Storm Country (10 page)

“I’m going with them,” I say, snapping my
mouth shut as soon as the words come out. Why did I say that? I
don’t even have a horse yet. I haven’t finished training.

“You are?” Remy says. “But I thought your
ceremony wasn’t for another few months.”

“They’ll make an exception,” I say, firming
up my voice, as if I’m on my way to discuss it with Remy’s father
right now.

Remy laughs, grabs my hand, stops me. “You’re
so full of horse dung, Sadie. My father doesn’t make
exceptions.”

I grit my teeth and wrench my hand from
Remy’s grip. Anger bursts through me like a crashing wave.

Because I know Remy’s right.

W
hen I finally leave
my cabin, full of brown gruel that tasted even worse than it
looked, the sun is well beyond its peak, the sky a dark bloody red.
Right away, I wish I hadn’t hidden in there for so long.

It only made things worse. Now
everyone
stares at me as I walk along the quarterdeck,
trying to look like a leader. But no matter how high I raise my
chin or how straight I keep my back, I feel like a boy pretending
to be a lieutenant, all the way to the clean, blue uniform, which
feels more like a costume than a sign of my position.

A test, I remember. Maybe my last chance to
prove myself to my father.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hobbs
watching my every move, his usual frown-smile plastered on his
face.

I ignore him and look around, taking it all
in. The scene is consistent with when I arrived: men and women
alike, sleeping, some sipping bottles of grog, some telling jokes,
laughing and slapping their knees. One woman struggles to clip wet
clothes to a line strung up between two masts. A few men are
working, too, swinging the tattered sails around to catch the wind
properly, but they’re struggling because the wind is swirling,
changing direction so quickly that using sails is a
near-impossibility.
Why doesn’t anyone say something?
I
wonder. The captain, one of the other lieutenants, somebody…

“Where’s the captain?” I ask myself.

“In his favorite spot,” a voice says from
behind.

I shudder and turn quickly.

Barney stands nearby, looking off at the far
end of the quarterdeck, near where Hobbs is standing, still
watching me. But my steward isn’t looking at Hobbs, his gaze is
locked on a swinging bundle to the left of him. A salt-yellowed
hammock rocks back and forth in the wind, wisps of smoke curling up
from where the captain lays, pipe in his mouth, eyes closed, either
oblivious or disinterested in the complete lack of competence on
the decks of his ship.

Ignoring Hobbs’ dagger-stares, I march on up
to the captain and tap him on the shoulder. He awakes with a start,
his pipe falling from his lips and onto his grungy uniform. He
scrabbles for it, manages to pluck it off his chest, but not before
it leaves a black circle burned into his shirt.

“What in the Deep Blue?” he says, his tired
eyes flashing to mine. So he
was
asleep, setting a good
example for his men. “Something I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Well, I, uh, I just thought…”

“Spit it out, boy!” he says, not too
nicely.

When he calls me
boy
, something snaps
in me, something that evens my words out, allows them to flow with
confidence. “We’ve fallen behind the other ships,” I say. I add,
“Sir,” as an afterthought.

“And?” he says.

Dumbfounded, I gawk at the captain in his
hammock, not a care in the world, except maybe not getting burned
by his bloody pipe. We sail for our livelihood, to fill our nets
with fish, to reach our next safe landing zone to find fresh water
to sate our dry throats. We’ve done it for years, since the time
that the first Soakers constructed the first ships out of
driftwood, broken from homes during what everyone believed was the
end of days. We sail to survive. Doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t he
care?

“And…we need to catch up,” I say.

“Then catch up!” he says, sticking his pipe
between his lips before rolling over.

I want to kick him, to pound my fists against
him, to tell him he’s the worst captain ever and that his ship is
the laughingstock of my father’s fleet. But that’s the tantrum of a
child. For the first time in my life I wonder if it’s all worth
it—the ships, the sailing, the fishing. We could settle down
somewhere, like the Stormers, live off the land. There’s plenty of
uninhabited land along our fishing route. We could pick a spot and
just take it, leave the ships behind forever.

But even the thought sends my heart sinking
into my stomach. Leave the ships? Leave the sea? Settle down? It’s
just not in us—it’s not in me. My people were made for the sea and
I know we’ll never leave it. So that means…

I glance over at Hobbs, who’s laughing. He
makes a crying motioning with his fists against his eyes. The
captain’s words ring in my ears—
Then catch up!
—while Hobbs’
mocking burns in my chest.

If they won’t do anything, then I will.

I stomp across the quarterdeck, down the
steps, enjoying the sound my boots make on the wood. Solid,
confident. My footsteps have never sounded like that before.

I ignore the sleepers and the drinkers—for
now, anyway.

First, I approach one of the men struggling
with the sails. “Seaman!” I holler.

The man, a wiry fellow with yellow teeth that
are showing as he exerts himself, stops suddenly, snaps around.
“Are you talkin’ to me, boy?”

The burn in my stomach, in my chest, grows
into a huge bonfire, not unlike the ones we build whenever we land
on the beaches of storm country. Except the fire’s in me,
crackling, burning, fueling me. I wonder if this is how my father
feels all the time. Powerful.

“You will address me as Lieutenant or sir, or
you will be sent to the brig, seaman!” My voice sounds different,
almost like it’s coming from somewhere else, but the way it
vibrates in my neck proves it’s me. I feel strong.

“We ain’t got a brig,” the man says. He
breaks into a crooked smile, his whole face lifting and his eyes
sparkling like the ocean. And then he laughs, right at me, like I’m
some sort of a joke. (Am I?)

I feel my fire start to go out, as if
someone’s dumped a bucket of water on it. Clenching my fists, I
force the heat to rise again. I draw my sword.

“What’re you gonna do with that little
toothpick,
boy
?” the sailor says, spitting a wad of tobacco
at my feet. “Clean my teeth?”

What
am
I gonna do? Do I even know? Am
I even in control anymore?

I don’t know the answer to any of those
questions, but my feet march me forward, my arm whips back, and for
a moment—just a moment—there’s fear in the man’s eyes and it feels
so bloody good to be feared rather than mocked. The powerful, not
the powerless.

I hit him. Hard, with the broadside of my
sword.

Smack!

Right in the upper part of his leg, where
it’ll hurt and bruise but won’t do any permanent damage.

There’s a commotion behind me, but I don’t
turn to look, because the man isn’t too happy. He’s cursing like
I’ve never heard anyone curse before, even in my thirteen long yars
living amongst sailors.

Clutching at his leg, he says, “You
shouldn’ta done that, boy. I’ll kill you.” He reaches down and
slips a knife from his boot, tosses it from hand to hand. The way
he wields it leaves no doubt in my mind: he’s killed with this
knife before. Although the blood’s probably been cleaned away long
ago, I can almost still see the stains on the shining metal
blade.

I should be scared, terrified—of getting cut
open, of dying—but I’m not. Peace washes over me, borne by the warm
breeze that continues to swirl around us. If I die today, I’ll see
my mother. And anyway, there are worse things than death—like my
father’s disappointment.

“I warned you, Seaman,” I say, trying out the
deep voice again, remembering words I’ve heard my father speak.
“You have disobeyed a direct order by your superior officer, and
therefore, you are sentenced to a day in the brig without food. Now
give me your name, so it can be recorded in the ship’s annals.”

The man stops tossing the knife, stares at me
like I’ve grown a merman’s tail, and then laughs again, but this
time it’s less boisterous, almost forced. “Yer one crazy little
boy,” he laughs. “I’ll give you something to stick up yer
annal.”

He starts to lunge forward, and I’m already
leaping back, when someone shouts, “Webb!” which stops the man
dead.

He looks behind me, but I keep my eyes on
him, my sword raised, ready to defend myself to the death if
necessary. “Who said that?” he growls. “I’ll kill whoever said
that.”

The same voice rings out again, and I realize
it’s that of a woman. “Aye, aye, yer always saying you’ll kill
everyone,
Webb
, but yer all talk. You only pick on those
weaker than you. Yer just pissed our new lieutenant put you in yer
place. Now take yer punishment like a man.”

The man now has a name: Webb. Simply having
that knowledge makes me feel like I’ve got the upper hand, like
there’s power in knowing he’s not just a mysterious,
knife-wielding, yellow-toothed sailor, but a man named Webb.

It seems he feels the same thing, because his
arm drops, and he releases the knife, which clatters to the wood.
“This ain’t over,” he spits, glaring at me.

“This ain’t over,
sir
,” I say, meeting
his eyes. “You just earned yourself another day, sailor.” Finally,
I turn to the crowd, almost dropping my sword when I see how many
people are gathered behind me. Men and women and children, all
watching, some smiling, some with wide, surprised eyes and raised
eyebrows, other with flat, unreadable lips. I point at three
strong-looking men standing near the front. “You, you, and you,
please take Mr. Webb to the lowest decks and find a safe place for
him to stay. Preferably a place with a lock.”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” the man in the middle
says, saluting.

Lieutenant.
The word echoes in my
head. By speaking that one simple word, this seaman on the Sailors’
Mayhem has changed my life.

I smile as they escort Webb away.

~~~

“Pull!” I shout, grunting with exertion and
exhaustion, but not even close to giving up.

As usual, my father’s words are tearing a
hole in my head.
Earn the respect of your seamen by being one of
them and above them.

This is the “being one of them” part.
Definitely not as fun as the other part.

I push the oar forward as hard as I can,
perfectly in sync with the other oarsmen. “Pull!” I shout,
wrenching the wooden pole back into my chest where it smacks my
uniform with a heavy thud.

The ship lurches forward and although we
can’t see the bow cutting across the waves, can’t feel the wind
through our hair, can’t watch the shores of storm country float
past, there’s satisfaction in knowing the ship’s riding on our
backs, on the strength in our sore muscles.

A few hours ago, when I ordered a few men to
close and lash the sails, and all other men below deck to man the
oars, there were more than a few grumbles and whispers, but
grudgingly, the men complied. Two of them stank so badly of grog
and couldn’t walk in a straight line, so I sent them to sleep it
off in the newly established brig. I’ll let them out tomorrow with
a warning to not show up for work drunk again.

“Pull!” I shout again, almost automatically
as I start the motion back toward my chest. My throat is sore and
my muscles burning, but I won’t stop, not while my men continue to
toil. I’m not as strong or experienced as many of them, but I will
work every bit as hard as I make them.

Do I have my father in me? Do I have what it
takes to lead? For the first time in my life, I think maybe I
do.

Another shout, another motion.

Footfalls clop down the steps. A face
appears. A boy, a couple of yars younger than me, with hair as
white as the sands on the beaches. Jacob. I’d ordered him to stay
with the wheelman, Marley, who’s responsible for steering the ship
while the captain focuses on dreaming the day away. Jacob’s job is
to periodically tell me how things are looking above deck.

His last ten reports have been, “No change,
sir.” And each time he’s reported, my muscles have ached just a
little more than the last time.

“The fleet has stopped!” he shouts, all
smiles.

A shiver of excitement runs through me, and
although I’m already past the point of exhaustion, I manage a
smile. “Halt!” I cry, and I’m surprised when amongst the creaking
and clattering oars, a cheer rises up from the men. They’re as
excited as I am.

I stand, ready to slap a few backs, to
congratulate them on a job well done, but my smile vanishes when I
see the looks on most of the faces: grimaces and glares. A few of
them mutter under their breaths as they stomp past, brushing by
Jacob as they slowly climb the stairs.

I just stare at them as they go, wondering
what I did wrong.

“You made them work,” a man says. He’s not
much older than me—maybe three or four yars. Long, lean, sinewy
arms. Short dark hair. A thin beard. He’s smiling.

“That’s their job,” I say. Isn’t it?

The man laughs, extends a hand. “Norris,” he
says. “I man the foremast sails. The men aren’t used to working,
that’s all.”

I take his hand, which crushes mine in a firm
shake. I try to squeeze back but his grip’s like iron. “Huck,” I
say, forgetting myself. “I mean, Lieutenant Jones.”

“You did well today, Lieutenant,” Norris
says, looking me in the eyes. “They’ll come around. They just have
to get used to you. There are a few of us who’ve been waiting for
someone like you.” He motions to three other men behind him. “Meet
the real crew,” he says.