Water & Storm Country (13 page)

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.

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.