Water & Storm Country (22 page)

I hate to wake him but I must.

I nudge his shoulder and he stirs. “Father,”
I say.

His eyes flicker open, blinking away
moisture. “Sadie,” he says, his tone infused with such joy and
love, despite all that I’ve done, how poorly I’ve treated him. Do I
deserve him?

You needed to know. Now more than
ever.
What did Gard mean by that?

“Father, I know,” I say and he closes his
eyes, cringes. Opens them slowly, almost mournfully.

I wait for him to speak but he just watches
me. Will he withhold the truth from me even now?

“You tried to save Paw,” I say. “Don’t deny
it—Gard told me.” He nods. “You tried to stop Mother from riding.”
Another nod, almost imperceptible. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shakes his head. “I—I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want you to…” He bites his lip,
refuses to meet my gaze.

“Father,” I say, reaching forward to pull his
chin back in line with mine. “Why was I already in the tent and Paw
not? I remember some things. We were playing together, Paw and I.
How did I make it back and not him? Why am I alive and not him?” My
voice cracks and all I want is to let the waterfall of tears out of
my eyes, but I blink and force them back. Holding them back hurts,
but I’m still a Rider.

“Sadie, I’m—I’m dying.” His words are so
unexpected, so fierce, so
wrong
, that I shrink back against
them.

“What? No, you’re—you’re the only one who’s
not.” Does he mean dying inside because he can’t tell me the truth?
Does he mean emotionally dying after losing my mother?

“Sadie…” And when he speaks my name I know
it’s neither of those things. It’s not a riddle, not a vague
Man-of-Wisdom prediction that requires interpretation. For his
previous words were the truth, as stark and bright as lightning in
the night sky.

“No, Father,” I say. And again: “No.”

“I have the Plague,” he says.

“No.”

“I’ve had it for a while now.”

“No.”

“I love you, Sadie,” he says, and the
floodgates open, and the tears bloom like flowers, falling from
their stems and down my cheeks. Mother Earth can’t do this. Not
now. Not when I’ve finally realized…

That my father’s a hero.

And then my head’s against his chest and I
don’t know how it got there, and my tears are soaking through to
his skin and I’m choking, sobbing like a child, as far from a Rider
as I’ve ever been before. But I’m not ashamed—not this one time.
Because every tear is an apology, and my father’s worth every
one.

When the pain and the pride and the sorrow
grow so big that I can’t feel them anymore, my body goes numb and I
drift to sleep, my father’s arms wrapped firmly around me.

~~~

My father’s still asleep when I leave, his
deep breaths sighing in my memory with each step. On one side the
ocean screams at me, and on the other, the thick woods whisper and
taunt.
You have no one!

I make for the forest, because I know it’s
the one place my father won’t come looking for me. Does he have
days? Does he have hours? Why am I hiding from him?

Inside the cool shroud of the trees, I feel
calm again. The tears are but a distant memory, washed away by a
cupped hand in a small creek I find along the way.

My back propped against a thick tree, I watch
a small animal drink from the water, unaware of my presence. I’m
invisible so long as I’m still. Filled, the creature moves on,
scurrying into the underbrush.

A bird chirps somewhere above me, tweeting
out a joyful song that doesn’t match real life. Does the bird not
know?

Life goes on around me as if nothing’s
changed.

When he steps from behind a tree, I can’t
hide my surprise. My father’s in the forest.

“Father!” I say, leaping up. “You can’t be
here. You need to be resting.”

He’s bent over, which makes him look like an
old man. The birds sing his arrival as he limps toward me. “Sadie,
I don’t have long now,” he says, his voice full of cracks and
crumbles.

“Don’t say that, Father,” I say, helping him
to the ground, feeling how bone-thin his arms are. Thin even for
him. “You can’t know how long you’ve got.” But I know my words are
a false hope because:
He’s never been wrong.
A Man of Wisdom
till the end.

“I had to…”—he coughs into his arm, swallows
hard—“…had to see you again, Sadie. Before it’s too late.”

As usual, I’ve been selfish, running from my
fear, hiding from my father in the forest. When he needs me most.
Black clouds move overhead, thundering a warning. “Father, I’m
sorry,” I say.
For everything.

He shakes his head, coughs again, massages
his forehead, which is etched with deep lines of age and decay. “No
more apologies, my dear daughter. For you have been chosen for
great things and deserve to know the truth.”

Great things? Like treating my father
terribly? Like suffering the loss of my entire family? I say
nothing.

My father’s face is red and melting—raging
with a fever. Late stages of the Plague. Of course, he was right.
He doesn’t have long. “I should’ve told you sooner, but I was
afraid…”—he fights off a half-sob—“…afraid you would blame
yourself. Afraid it would destroy you.”

“What, Father?” I say. “Just tell me.”

He nods, places a hand on my shoulder, as if
to gain courage, or perhaps to comfort me. “That night, when Paw
was taken…” He shudders as a heavy blast of wind hurls itself
through the trees. Leaves fall like rain.

“Father, please. Tell me. Whatever it is, I
can handle it.”

He nods again, squeezes my shoulder. “I know
you can, Sadie. You are strong, so strong. I’m so proud of you.”
His voice hitches and tears stream down his cheeks. I’m filled with
emotion and love—so much love—but something’s changed in me.
Something powerful, like crying last night wasn’t a sign of
weakness, like I thought. It’s almost as if I’ve been cleansed,
unburdened,
strengthened
. If only I could share that
strength with my father.

I put my arms around him as he weeps
openly.

The first drops of rain drum on the treetops.
More leaves fall. And still I hold him.

“Tell me the truth, Father,” I say.

Eyes wet, he looks up at me. “I had a vision
before you were born,” he says.

This I know. I’m thankful every day for that
vision. “That I would be a Rider,” I say.

“Yes, yes. But that was only the beginning.
You were riding your horse, black with a white butterfly-shaped
marking on its nose.”

“Passion,” I say.

“Passion,” he agrees. “There will be a great
battle with the Soakers. You will fight magnificently, maybe more
so than your mother.” His voice is gaining strength, growing
clearer. Maybe he’s not as close to the end as he thinks. “You will
see him, the high-ranking Soaker boy in the blue uniform.”

“I know, you told me, Father. That I have to
decide whether to kill him. But why wouldn’t I? Where’s the
choice?” My voice sounds unnaturally high. I lower it. “If we’re
fighting the Soakers, why would I show mercy to one of their
officers?”

“I don’t know, Sadie,” he says. “I just know
that it’s your choice and your choice alone. And that it will
change
everything
.”

I look to the sky, which is a black blanket
between the leaves. The rain is falling harder now, seeking to soak
us through the gaps in the leaves, but failing, drumming all around
us. We are dry.

“I don’t understand, Father. How can saving
or killing a Soaker boy change things? What impact could it
possibly have?”

Father’s eyes shimmer with tears and
knowledge. “That is for you to discover, my daughter.”

We sit for a moment, listening to the rain,
waiting for it to pour down upon our heads. I wonder at my fate.
You have been chosen for great things
. Even the words make
me feel small, unworthy.

“I had another vision before you were born,”
Father says suddenly. He reaches a shaking hand forward and I take
it, hold it, try to calm it.

“Tell me,” I say.

“It was of the night Paw would die,” he
says.

“You knew?” I say harshly, and the familiar
heat surges through my blood. I take a deep breath. I can’t waste a
moment of the time we have left in anger. “Why didn’t you take us
away from there? Why didn’t you stop it from happening?” I have to
understand.

He laughs, but it’s a wheezing, coughing
laugh that breaks my heart. “If there’s one thing I’ve been taught
over and over again, it’s that you can’t change the future, only
how you’ll respond to it.”

“But what about my choice?” I say. “If the
future is set in stone, do I even have a choice? Or is my choice
preordained?”

“A wise question,” Father says. “One I’ve
pondered often. But I don’t choose what future I see. It’s a gift
from Mother Earth. And in this case I can only see to the point
where you face the Soaker boy. That is the future that cannot be
changed. What comes after, that is up to you.”

“And Paw’s future? That was set in
stone?”

His chin drops to his chest and he closes his
eyes. His voice comes out as a whisper, barely loud enough to be
heard over the rain, which continues to thrum on our leafy door,
almost begging to get to us. “I saw the night of the attack. I
didn’t know how the Soakers would break through, just that they
would. I saw you playing with Paw, laughing, having so much fun. I
remember smiling even as I was graced with the vision. And then
they came. I saw you in the tent and Paw on the ground. I knew he
was dead.”

“Then why didn’t you do something? You say
you can’t change the future, but I don’t understand. You could’ve
hid us in the forest, taken us away somewhere safe, somewhere they
wouldn’t find us.”
You can’t change the future. Just how you
respond to it.
My response has always been anger and
condescension.

“I tried,” Father says. “We started for the
forest, but Paw said his stomach hurt, and then it was his leg, and
then he was scared of the lightning flashing in the distance. He
refused to walk. When I tried to carry him, he kicked and screamed
and fought me every step of the way. But I persevered, brought you
to the edge of this very wood. We tried to enter it, but every path
we took was blocked, by brambles or thickets, or trees packed so
tightly you’d swear they were a fortress.

“We could have stayed at the edge of the
forest, but I already knew they’d find us. By the will of Mother
Earth, they’d find us anyway. And then
you
wouldn’t be in
the tent like in my vision. I thought maybe they’d get you, too,
Sadie. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So you took us back so Paw could die and I
live?” I can’t keep the pulsing, throbbing anger out of my voice
this time. There had to be another way. We could’ve started running
and not stopped until we were far, far away.

Ignoring my question, he continues. “So we
went back. I put you both in the tent, sat you in the corner,
watched you. But you were so fidgety, so squirmy, two little worms
unwilling to be tethered. You insisted to go outside and play your
game, with the rocks and the sticks. I told you
no
over and
over, but you wouldn’t give up, until finally I relented, because
at that point I knew: you would be in the yard playing when the
Soakers showed up. No matter what I did, you would be there; even
if Mother Earth had to work magic before my very eyes and cause you
to disappear from the tent and reappear in the yard, you would be
there.

“So I let you go, but stayed with you, right
next to you, watching you play. You were so happy. So happy.” His
voice falters and he looks away, reaches out a hand, palm up, as if
trying to catch the rain. When he pulls his hand back to his lap
it’s dry. “When they came, I grabbed you both, one under each arm.
I ran for the tent. Because I could stop it from happening. I could
change the future. They’d have to kill me to get to either of
you.”

He pauses and I realize my fingernails are
digging into my legs. I’m fighting with my father’s memory, every
step of the way, trying to remember. Trying…

“And then suddenly he was gone. Paw. One
second he was under my arm and the next he was on the ground.
Before I even knew he was gone, I’d run another few steps. The tent
was so close, but when I looked back, Paw was watching us,
laughing, as if something was so funny. And I made a choice, Sadie.
If I’d gone back you might’ve been killed, too. So I ran the last
few steps to the tent, put you inside, and went back for him, tried
to protect him. But they pushed me aside, knocked me down, and
they—they…”

“Shhh,” I say, touching his face. “No more.
No more, Father. You’ve said it all.”

“No,” Father says. “Sadie, he was always
going to die. Always. He had to die so you could live. That’s why I
couldn’t tell you. I thought it would destroy you.”

Too much. It’s too much. “It should’ve been
me,” I say.

“No, Sadie. You have to go on. You have to be
strong. You have to change things for us all.”

And in that moment, I know I will. Whatever
my destiny is, I’ll live it for Paw, for Mother, for Father.

“I love you, Father,” I say, feeling his body
shake with pain and the Plague as I hug him.

“I…love you…too, Sadie,” he says, his voice
getting weaker with every word. And I hold him and hold him and
hold him until the shaking slows and slows and slows, even as the
rain falls harder and harder and harder, and then his body goes
still, so still.

And the rain falls and the ground around us
grows wet, but we are dry; in a perfect circle around the base of
that tree, no rain can fall.

And in that circle, a great man dies.