Water & Storm Country (19 page)

The hairs rise on the back of my neck and I
leap to my feet, spinning around, ready to defend myself against
the attack I feel coming.

Remy stands statue-still, eyes as wide as a
full moon. “You’re not going to hit me, are you?” he says.

I’m surprised to feel contradicting desires
in my heart. On one hand hitting him sounds like a pretty decent
idea, but a more mysterious, less-controllable part of me wants to
be close to him again, to have things be like they were before,
when we were growing closer, back when my world wasn’t dead and
burned, back before we were Riders. When we could swim naked in the
ocean.

Has he come to make peace?

I shrug. “I’ll hit you if you want me to,” I
say.

He laughs, and I realize how much I’ve missed
it. My nerves, which have been so frayed and torn lately, seem to
twist themselves back together.

Pain wells inside of me, gathering itself in
bunches, aching like deep bruises.

“Would hitting me make you feel any better?”
Remy asks.

Probably.
“There’s a good chance,” I
say.

“Then do it,” he says.

But I can’t, not when I haven’t even told him
why I’m so angry with him.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“My father sent me.”

What?
“Why?”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me. I went to
your tent first and your father said you’d left. He seemed pretty
shattered. Did something happen?”

If only. “Nothing happened,” I say. “Ever
since my mother…” Why am I telling him any of this? “Should I go to
see your father?”

“Yes,” he says, and there’s a hitch in his
voice that tells me he wishes it wasn’t one of his father’s errands
that brought us to speak again.

I have to tell him. I have to. Even if it
fails to quench the flames of my anger, at least he’ll know
why.

But I don’t. I walk away, leaving him
standing on the beach staring forlornly at the moonlit ocean.

T
he men, women, and
bilge rats, although pretending to carry out their duties, are
watching us. Jade climbs the mast easily, while I am forced to
tether myself to the wood and inch my way up, up, up, for fear of
falling to my death.

For the first hour we don’t really talk,
don’t so much as look at each other, as we construct a series of
rope walkways that reach the portions of the largest sail that are
most in need of repair.

Eventually, the eyes get bored of watching,
and we’re alone again.

Finally, I look at her, tired and hot from
climbing and straining against the pull of the ocean. Her brown
eyes are bright, her breathing normal. She doesn’t even look
winded, and while I can feel the drops of sweat meandering down my
cheeks, her face is dry.

Weird how I never noticed how beautiful brown
skin could look on a bilge rat. Perhaps it’s because I never really
noticed the bilge rats at all, I realize.

And why not?

I want to say it’s because my father told me
they were meant to be invisible, working without being seen, but I
know in my heart it was simply easier
not
to see them.

“What next?” she says, and I realize I’ve
been staring at her for too long.

I pull away from her with an awkward jerk.
“Uh, I guess we start sewing,” I say.

“You look like you need a bloody break,” she
says.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you look searin’ exhausted,” she
says.

I laugh at her honesty, but not so loud that
we attract attention. This’ll be over in a second if Hobbs—who’s
always lurking—thinks there’s something going on. Which there
isn’t.

I pretend to lecture her, to instruct her on
the finer aspects of sail repair, motioning to a particularly large
tear. But really, I say, “What does
searin’
mean? I’ve never
heard anyone say that word like you just did.”

Now it’s her turn to laugh. “Then you ain’t
never talked to any of the bloody bilge rats.” And I haven’t. Of
course I haven’t. Well, except for her, of course.

I shake my head, admitting as much.

“It’s a mild curse word, not unlike
bloody
,” she says. “From my people, from my lands.”

I frown. “What people?”
What
lands?

While my eyebrows sink further down, hers
lift. “Where they take us from,” she says. “Fire country.”

Although the ropes are secure, I grip the
mast harder. My fingers start to ache. “Fire country? What’s
that?”

Her eyes are giant orbs now, shockingly big,
transfixed on me and what apparently is a ridiculous question.
“Where do you think we come from?” she asks.

“From nowhere,” I say, parroting my father’s
insistent answer, realizing as the words float off my tongue how
silly they sound. “Or from the ground or the sky, or something,” I
add, my cheeks burning.

“Everyone comes from somewhere,” Jade says.
“We’re from a burnt desert called fire country. The Icers take us
and sell us to your father.” A skeptical look flashes across her
face. “You’re saying you don’t know any of this? That your father
brought us here against our will from fire country.”

I feel dumb, but I can’t lie. “I didn’t
know,” I say, not admitting I don’t know who “the Icers” are
either. “But I don’t think my father would do that, not without
good reason.”

She glares at me and I wish I had somewhere
to hide. “I’m here, ain’t I? You saying I’m lying?”

I release the mast, letting myself dangle
from the rope harness, hold my hands in front of me, palms forward.
“No, no, not at all. I’m just wondering whether there’s more to it.
Like did you commit a crime? Were you a prisoner?”

Jade’s glare softens, but remains. “You’re
wooloo,” she says, which means as much as gobbledygook to me. “I
was a child when my father said I was going on an incredible
journey. One that was just for children.”

“Your father?”

She nods.

“Your father sent you here?”

Another nod. She looks at her hands. Is
that…embarrassment? Shame? I’ve never seen either emotion on this
girl before, and it doesn’t look natural. Why would a father send
his daughter into a life of slavery? It’s the question I want to
ask, but I won’t, not when Jade’s shoulders are slumped like they
are now.

“Let me show you how to fix one of these
tears,” I say, and her face brightens, like my change of subject
was a gift.

For the next two hours we work, balancing on
the rope bridges we constructed, using pre-cut squares of cloth to
patch up the raggedy sails. And because we do it while the ship’s
in motion, we don’t even lose any time.

When the sun begins to splash into the ocean,
finishing its daylong arc across the red sky, we pause.

“There’s a lot more work to be done,” I say.
“But it can wait for another day.”

“You know, you’re not much like your father,”
Jade says.

A balloon swells in my stomach, pushing on my
insides, making me feel slightly sick. “I’m not?” I say, wishing I
was. Strong, fearless, a leader.

“Huck, it’s a good thing,” she says, and the
balloon pops, though I’m not sure why; perhaps because I like the
way she says my name—my
real
name—not Lieutenant Jones.

“Oh,” I say, wondering how being unlike the
Admiral of the fleet could be a good thing.

There’s silence for a few minutes as we both
rest high atop the decks. The wind blows strong and steady,
brushing my hair away from my eyes. Jade begins braiding her dark
hair into two tight plaits down her back.

Although it should be nice, hanging next to
Jade, the silence wears through my skin like an abrasive material,
wood-sanding paper or the like.

I breathe a sigh of relief when Jade finally
speaks. “I don’t know why my father gave me away,” she says.

I look at her, but her gaze is out to sea,
stretching across the fathoms of the Deep Blue. “Perhaps it was a
trade,” I say.

“For what?” she says, her voice tight. “What
could be worth his daughter’s life?”

“I don’t know,” I say, realizing I’m not
helping her. “What about your mother?”

She looks at me, her hard stare softening
like melting butter. “Mother was beautiful,” she says softly. When
she’s like this it’s hard to believe this is the same girl who
threw a scrub brush at my head. “And kind, and loving. No, she
didn’t know what my father was doing. I don’t know what he told
her.”

My hands are sweaty, not from the work, but
because I have the sudden urge to reach out and touch her hand.

Instead I rub my head. “You’ve got a good
bloody arm,” I say. “No, a good
searin’
arm,” I correct.

She laughs and my heart swells. “I could
teach you some other words if you want?” she says.

I nod, smiling. “But not here,” I say. “The
men will hear if we talk too loudly.” I motion below.

“Where then?”

I point upwards, even higher. She follows my
gesture. “The crow’s nest?” she says, eyes widening. “But I…”
Whatever she was going to say fades away like the daylight.

“What?” I say.

“We can’t do this,” she says suddenly. “We’re
not the same—we come from different worlds.”

She starts to slide down the mast. “Wait,” I
say, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t look up. Slides all the way to
the deck and melts into the brown wood below.

~~~

Jade won’t talk to me after that, and I can’t
actively pursue a conversation for fear that Hobbs will suspect my
true motives.

And what are my true motives?

Bloody hell if I know.

It’s crazy, I know. A bilge rat and a
lieutenant? They’ve chucked men overboard for less. And if it came
down to it, my father would throw her to the sharp-tooths first,
and leave me alive to shoulder the pain.

Although at first I watch her every free
moment I get, eventually duty and bad luck draw my attention
elsewhere.

The Scurve hits the ship hard. First it’s a
woman, one of the laundresses, moaning and crying in the night,
waking up half the ship. She dies a week later, alone because of
the mandatory quarantine.

Next is an oarsman, whose newfound sense of
honor leads him to request to keep working while he’s ill. When I
find him, he’s soaked with sweat and burning with fever, clinging
to his oar. The other men have all gone above deck, afraid of
catching it. When I order him to the quarantine cabin, he cries,
and a bit of me rips apart.

Everyone has to work harder to fill the gaps,
and my energy is temporarily focused on keeping the ship running
smoothly.

Another sailor dies less than a week later.
And still we sail on, ever onwards, waiting for the fleet to
stop.

I spend a lot of time with Barney, who seems
unwilling to leave my side. We sit side by side, watching the
sailors, considering how best to operate with the shortages in
manpower. “What if I operate an oar while Hobbs mans one of the
sails?” I suggest.

“You might as well ask your father to rig up
the sails,” Barney says.

I bite my lip because he’s right. Hobbs would
never stoop to such a position, even if doing so could save his
life. And we haven’t reached that point yet anyway. “How about
you?” I say.

Barney’s eyes widen. “Me? Sir, I can assure
you, I’m not your man.”

“Can you walk?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Do you have hands?”

“Of course, but, sir—”

“Then you’re my man,” I say, smiling broadly
and knowing full well that Barney would faint under a day of hard
sailor’s work.

“I’m not exactly…
fit
for the job,” he
says, rubbing his more-than-adequate belly.

I laugh heartily, stopping only when I
realize: it’s the first time I’ve laughed in several days.

The ship lists from side to side while I
continue to ponder our dilemma. In the end, no matter how many
replacement workers we throw at the sails and the oars, with our
holey sails we’re not going to be able to keep up with the other
ships.

I have to fix them. Alone this time, it
seems. The thought becomes a pit in my gut. A
searin’
pit in
my
searin’
gut, I think, almost laughing in spite of
myself.

I miss the way she talks, I realize. And the
way she laughs and moves and looks at me. At least when she’s not
glaring daggers in my direction.

The ships rolls hard to the right and
something thumps on the lower deck.

Someone screams.

I stand, seeing a brown body crumpled on the
wood.
No!
I think, already running, leaving Barney’s side
and taking the steps two at a time.

Brown-skinned bodies are huddled around the
fallen form. The rest of the sailors stand off to the side, just
watching, offering no assistance.

Jade is one of the bilge rats standing in the
circle. There’s a burst of joy in my chest and I know it’s mean
(and wrong), because there’s a young boy, maybe two yars my junior,
shaking on the deck, wheezing, stricken with the Scurve. Dying.

“We need to get him to quarantine,” I say,
and the bilge rats turn to look at me, opening a gap in their
circle. I feel Jade’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at her, can’t
look at her, not when there’s a boy dying between us.

I step forward and lift him carefully. He’s
all bone and muscle, still shaking, his body in full rebellion
against the disease, but clearly losing both the battle and the
war.

For a moment his eyes meet mine, and I think
there’s clarity in them, like maybe he knows who I am, but then
they roll back and all I see are the whites.

I step out of the circle, but stop when I
come face to face with Hobbs.

“One of the rats got the Scurve?” he asks,
although it’s pretty clear he’s not looking for an answer. Not the
way his arms are crossed like an X across his chest.