Water & Storm Country (23 page)

W
e talk until the
sun sets, and I pretend to motion to the sails, as if I’m teaching
her about the finer art of sail repair. I’m conscious of the
occasional stares from below and very aware when Hobbs pays us an
inordinate amount of attention for longer than normal. But today I
don’t care.

She teaches me about fire country, about
strange spiky plants called pricklers that are filled with juice
and that have skin that’s tough until you cook it. She tells me
stories of the Hunters, of the enormous beasts they would bring
back, of wild animals called Killers, with razor-sharp teeth and
monstrous claws. I could listen to her stories all day.

But eventually she tires of talking and
begins asking me questions about life on The Merman’s Daughter. How
it’s different than the Mayhem. What it was like growing up as the
admiral’s son. About my mother. I tell her about the pride I used
to feel marching around with my father, like I was somebody. How
listening to him barking orders to the men, laying down appropriate
punishment and dealing out deserved praise, would stir my heart in
such a way that I wanted nothing more than to be just like him, to
follow in his footsteps.

“And now?” Jade asks.

Now? “I
am
following in his
footsteps,” I say. “I’m a lieutenant. I’m running a ship.”

“And me?” she asks, and I finally realize
where she’s going with it.
Would he approve of me talking to a
bilge rat as I would speak to a friend?

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I just don’t
know anymore.”

She nods. “Thank you for not lying.”

Her arm’s so close I can feel the hairs on
her skin touching mine. I shiver as the last rays of sun flash red
and then orange and then purple before disappearing below the
horizon.

“Why does your father send children here?” I
ask, before I can stop myself. And in my mind:
Why did he
send
you
here?

She swallows hard and I see I’ve upset her.
Her fingers squeeze the wooden railing. “It has something to do
with seaweed,” she says.

Ready to laugh, I look for the joke on her
face, but her expression’s as flat as the deck planks below.
“Seaweed?” I say. “You mean the stuff we’re forced to eat almost
every day?”

“Yeah, but not the weeds we pull from the
ocean, the stuff that washes up on shore and gets all dried out in
the sun.”

“They make tea from that, don’t they?”

“Some of it,” she says. “But the rest they
put in huge bags. There’s a lot more than what they need for
tea.”

I scratch my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t
understand what that has to do with bilge rats.”

“Why do you call us that?” she asks sharply,
pain apparent in her eyes. “We’re humans, you know. Not searin’
rats
.”

I feel a flush on my cheeks. “I’m sorry, I
didn’t—”

“You didn’t think, did you?” she snaps, and
the old Jade is back, the one who throws scrub brushes as well as
she throws glares.

“I didn’t. It’s just what we’ve always
called…”—I pause, struggling to find a way of saying what I mean
without being offensive—“your kind of brown-skinned people from
fire country,” I spew out in an avalanche of verbal diarrhea. I
freeze, hold my breath, watching her glare from the corner of my
eye.

Then, to my absolute shock, she laughs. “You
can just call us Heaters from now on. But you better not do so in
front of your father or he’ll know you know the truth. And if I
ever find out who came up with the name bilge rats, watch out.” I
picture a hailstorm of brushes raining down from above.

“So back to the seaweed…” I say. “How is it
linked to…the Heaters?”

She squints, although there’s no sun left to
be in her eyes. “I’m not sure exactly. All I know is that sometimes
when we’re anchored, a few men leave with the big bags of dried
seaweed and then come back with a new lot of children.”

“And the seaweed?”

“They never come back with that.”

~~~

We make it down from the crow’s nest just
before we lay anchor. Jade goes first, sliding all the way to the
bottom in a show of remarkable grace and agility, striding off in
search of food from the ship’s stores as if a day spent with me was
nothing to her.

(Was it nothing?)

I climb down more carefully, using the
ladder, happy when my feet are back on solid wood, relishing the
gentle rock of the moored ship beneath me. We’re the second ship to
arrive, and a plank has already been secured between us and The
Merman’s Daughter. My father wastes no time crossing it. Hobbs is
waiting for him, but to my surprise, he greets me first.
“Lieutenant Jones. Son. What do you have to report?”

I’m taken aback by his sudden show of
respect. Hobbs steps forward. “Sir, if I may, we’ve made
significant prog—”

“Let me be clear, Hobbs, you’re here to
observe. Any progress made is the result of the leadership of the
captain and his lieutenant, my son. Understand?”

Hobbs nods, but then glares at me when my
father turns away from him. I almost laugh. “Admiral, as you can
see, the ship is performing better than it ever has before. The men
and women are working hard, doing their duty, and should be
rewarded accordingly. Under my supervision, the sail repair work is
moving forward rapidly, which has greatly increased the ship’s
speed.”

“You and the bilge rat seem to be getting on
rather well,” Hobbs says.

“Bilge rat?” my father says, raising an
eyebrow.

“I’ve trained one of the…a girl…to repair the
sails. She’s a good climber and a quick learner. Much of the credit
goes to her.”

“There seems to be more talking than
repairing going on up there,” Hobbs sneers.

Ignoring his comment, my father says,
“Credit? To a rat? Surely the credit is yours, Son. The…
girl
you speak of wouldn’t know a patch from her ass if it wasn’t for
your leadership.”

Something flashes in my chest. I’ve got
several less diplomatic responses available, but all I say is,
“Thank you, sir. We’ll continue with the effort until every sail is
in pristine condition.”

“Very good. Hobbs,” he says, turning to the
fuming lieutenant. “Are you still needed here? Do you have more to
report or can I safely assume that the transition of Lieutenant
Jones to the Mayhem has been an outright success?”

His words are the ones I’ve been waiting for
my whole life. I should be proud. I should be swelling with
happiness and confidence right now. But instead I feel sick, as if
his words are sour, full of bitterness, because…well, because, as
Jade said, “…
your father brought us here against our will from
fire country.”

“I should give you my full report in
private,” Hobbs says. “Then you can decide whether I should stay
on.” There’s a glint in his eye.

“No,” I say, balling my fists. “You can say
whatever you need to in front of me, Lieutenant. I’m here to
learn.”

“I don’t think—” Hobbs starts to say, but my
father raises an arm to stop him.

“No, my son’s right. Say what you will,” the
admiral says.

Hobbs closes one eye, his other never leaving
mine, as if calculating something. What is he going to say? How can
he possibly shed a negative light on what I’ve accomplished on the
Mayhem?

“I fear
your son
is falling in love
with a bilge rat,” he says.

~~~

The fallout ain’t pretty. “Follow us,” my
father says to Hobbs. Then he grabs my arm, drags me up the steps
to the quarterdeck, and shoves me down the steps to the officers’
cabins. We nearly crash into Captain Montgomery, who has just
exited his own cabin, looking exceedingly groggy.

“Admiral, I wasn’t aware you were here. I was
just getting some shut eye after a long, hard day.”
Of sleeping
and drinking and smoking
, I think.

“Come with us,” my father orders.

He jostles me into my cabin, where a very
surprised Barney is just finishing making up my bed. “Hullo,
Admiral,” he says.

“Out,” is all my father replies. Barney
scurries on out of there, leaving me in a very crowded cabin with
my father (red-faced and rock-jawed), Hobbs (smiling cruelly), and
Captain Montgomery (still blinking away a long nap).

“Speak, Hobbs,” my father commands when the
door is shut.

Hobbs cracks his knuckles, as if he’d rather
punch me than talk about me. “Well, Admiral, your son”—he points at
me as if no one in the room knows who I am—“has been spending a
significant portion of his time with a bloody bilge rat girl.”

“And?” my father says.

“And…I think that shows there’s something
going on between them,” Hobbs adds.

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?
Huck…Lieutenant Jones admitted himself that he’s training her to
repair the sails. That would require time, would it not,
Lieutenant?”

Hobbs shifts from foot to foot, his toothy
smile wiped away by the strength of my father’s words. “Well, aye,
but—”

“So you have no further evidence?”

“Well, no, but surely Captain Montgomery has
noticed too,” Hobbs says, trying to direct my father’s heavy stare
to the captain, who looks like he’d much rather be in his hammock
than here.

“Captain?” my father says.

“Aye, sir?”

“What do you have to say?”

“About what, sir?”

Admiral Jones lets out a seething breath.
“Has water country gone half crazy?” he asks the room. I stay
silent. So far it’s worked pretty well for me.

“Sir?” the captain says.

“Have you, or have you not noticed any
inappropriate behavior from my son?” my father asks.

I hold my breath.

The captain looks from my father to me to
Hobbs, and then says, “No, sir. As far as I can tell, your son’s
done an exemplary job since his arrival. One that should be
commended.”

My father fires a dagger-filled look at
Hobbs, who says, “Sir, if I may, give me one more week. This is a
crucial time for the Mayhem, and I want to stay on, if only to help
maintain its performance.”

“You’ve falsely accused my son and now you
want to stay on the Mayhem?” my father says.

“One week,” Hobbs says. “That’s all I
ask.”

My father sighs, looks at me. “Do you
object?”

Aye!
I want to scream. But to do so
would be to admit guilt. And I have nothing to hide, right? Just
because Jade and I have formed a friendship doesn’t mean I’ve done
anything wrong. I shake my head.

“Very well, Hobbs. You stay,” the admiral
says.

“Thank you, sir, you won’t be sor—”

“But if you throw any more wild accusations
at my son, I will not be so forgiving.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Hobbs says weakly.

“As for you…”—he turns to me—“is the bilge
rat girl trained in sail repair?”

“Aye, but—”

“Good. Stay away from her. Let her do her
job, so you can do yours.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” I say.

I
have no one but me
and my horse.

When I fetch Gard, Remy is there and I can
tell he knows. He gives me a nod, but not a smile.

Gard carries my father back to the camp, sets
him atop the funeral pyre, makes the arrangements. I just sit
there, arms wrapped around my knees, numb. Paw’s death was because
of me. Only one of us could be saved, and Mother Earth chose me.
But why? Father said there’s an important choice I’ll have to make,
but how can one newly proclaimed Rider change anything? And how can
I live with myself knowing I blamed Father all these years when it
was really my fault? Paw died so I could live. A life for a life.
Father let me believe he was weak, a coward, so he could protect me
from blaming myself.

I’m broken with shame, with wasted years and
misplaced anger.

Although the rain has long passed, my cheeks
are still wet from running through it, leaving my father’s body in
that bare circle of dryness. None of the wetness is from tears. Not
another shall fall. Not one single tear.

“Hi,” Remy says, snapping me out of my stupor
and flopping down beside me.

I have the urge to look at him, but can’t
because I’m afraid I’ll see myself in his eyes. Instead, eyes
forward, I say, “How’s your horse? How’s Bolt?” A normal
conversation, twisting and wrenching in my gut.

“Sadie…” he says softly.

“Please,” I say. “Please.” A favor for a
promise. Don’t talk about my father and I’ll never be unkind to you
again.

Remy kicks my foot and I’m glad for it, glad
he does something that takes me back to when we first met, how many
times we’ve fought and argued since. I kick him back.

“Bolt’s amazing,” he says. “Although he
prefers to run straight ahead with his head down, as if he thinks
he can charge through most anything. I’m trying to get him to turn
now and again. So far I can get him to go right, but not left just
yet.”

The laughter springs to my lips before I can
stop it. I raise a hand to my mouth to silence it, but then it just
comes out muffled. I’m looking at Remy before I can remember I’m
not supposed to. When I look at him, somehow I don’t feel so
alone.

“It’s not funny,” Remy says, but he’s
smiling. “Do you know how hard it will be to fight the Soakers if
my steed will only charge forward and to the right?”

Straight-faced, I say, “You know, turning
right three times in a row will get you going left just fine.”

Now it’s Remy’s turn to laugh. “Rare wisdom
from a young Rider,” he says. “I can see it now. My leftward enemy
holds up his sword, dripping in Rider-blood, ready to cut me down.
‘Wait one minute, Bloodthirsty-Soaker, while I force my horse to
turn three times to the right so I can look you in the eye before
we do battle.”