Water & Storm Country (5 page)

The sun warms my skin when I burst out into
the fresh air, but it doesn’t help. I’ve got to get to the side. I
rush starboard because the boat’s edge is closer on that side, and
because my father is port and stops talking to the rudderman when
he sees me, shooting glares in my direction that hold none of the
false pride I saw from him last night.

Barely, barely, I make it to the railing
before I throw everything up: last night’s supper, the obscene
amounts of grog I drank, my manhood. All of it splashes down the
side of the ship, leaving a trail of pink in the water, which is
quickly swallowed up by the sharp-tooths thrashing below.

My loss is their gain, I guess.

Hanging my thundering head over the side, I
just breathe, holding back my hair with one hand so the stream of
drool from my mouth doesn’t soil it, the endless rocking of the
ship doing little to help the nausea. Nearby, someone laughs. Then
someone else. My ears open and I hear their jokes. “The little man
can’t even hold his ale,” one says, laughing loudly. “He won’t last
a minute on the Sailors’ Mayhem,” the other voice adds,
chuckling.

My head snaps up, not from the jokes, which
I’ve grown used to, but because of what the second man said.
Sailors’ Mayhem?
A ship name, one I know all too well. Its
reputation precedes it. The worst ship in the fleet, requiring
constant repairs, the
Mayhem
, as it’s known, is home to the
outcasts of the outcasts, the sailors who can’t seem to fit in on
any of the other ships.

But I won’t be going there.

My father wouldn’t do such a thing.

(He would.)

He wouldn’t.

(He would.)

As if in response to my inner tug of war, a
voice startles me from behind. “Lieutenant Jones,” he says.

I stare at the fins cutting circles in the
ocean, take a deep breath. Wipe the drool off my lips with my
shirt. Comb my dirty-blond locks away from my face. Turn to face
him.

“Father,” I say, feeling horribly
underdressed in my vomit-stained shirt and three-quarter-length
britches. His pristine blue uniform gleams with metal medallions.
So does his sword when he slides it shrieking from its
scabbard.

I shrink back when he points the tip of the
blade at me, but I have nowhere to go, my back pressed against the
railing.

I can feel the sharp-tooths swarming below,
hungry for the blood of another Jones. My mother wasn’t enough to
satisfy their insatiable hunger.

Red flashes across my vision, and it’s not
the clear crimson sky overhead.
Blood in the water. So much
blood.

“Admiral,” he corrects, but I can’t see him
through the red. “Your assignment is in, Lieutenant. You’ll board
the Sailors’ Mayhem shortly, just after we make landfall.”

The ship rolls on a particularly high, wide
wave and I feel whatever I’ve got left coming back up, and it’s too
late to turn, and I know I’m about to

(throw up in front of my father.)

but I can’t stop it now, and so then I
do.

I throw up all over my father’s polished
black boots.

I don’t feel any better though, because my
mother’s blood is still in the water and I’m still leaving
everything I’ve ever known to work on the Mayhem.

D
renched and cold
and shaking in the stables, I feel much better.

I hold my knees to my sopping chest, my wet
and stringy hair falling around me like a black veil.

The unceasing drumroll of the rain on the
roof drowns out my thoughts.

Something about being near the horses calms
me. The light stamp of their feet showing their agitation at the
storm raging around them; their smell, musty and leathery and
alive; their soft whinnies and snorts: all of it centers me,
steadies me, like how driving a stake deep into the ground anchors
a tent.

I remember Paw. No, not really
remember
him. More like the idea of him. The feeling of him.
Even after all these years. Even after all that’s happened.
Although in my memory his face is blurry now, as if smudged with
dirt, my heart leaps when I think about how I looked up to him, how
we ran around waving swords and practicing to be Riders even before
we started our formal training. Paw never had the chance to train,
but I know—
I
know
—he would have been amazing.

Abruptly the chatter of the rain and the
smell of the horses aren’t enough to soothe my rising temper. I
slam my fist into the dirt, which is fast becoming sludge as a
river of rainwater finds its way inside.

My father, a Man of Wisdom, ha! He wasn’t
wise enough to know to save his own son from death. But even in my
anger, I know in that burning place in my chest it had nothing to
do with wisdom—it had everything to do with fear. Fear of the
Soakers and their swords, fear of dying, fear of not fulfilling
some strange and mystical destiny that Father believes is his.

“Mother Earth, please bring him back,” I
pray, blinking back the tears. It’s a fool’s prayer, and yet I feel
better for having whispered it in the dark.

Shadow stamps and I stand up, lift a hand to
his nose, let him nuzzle against my palm. When I rub him between
his ears, he lowers his head so I can easily reach him. “Shadow,” I
murmur, and he responds to his name with a slight jerk and a
snort.

I’ve known Shadow forever. He was only three
when I was born, so we’ve grown up together. Although I shouldn’t
be allowed to play with him because he’s a Rider’s horse, Mother
always made exceptions for me. We used to run, run, run through the
long grass, stopping only so I could make myself a soft bed, and so
Shadow could eat it out from under me. Mother lets me ride him
sometimes, too, but only when she’s around. “Shadow may look
friendly,” she always says, “but he’s still a Rider’s horse, and
he’s seen great and terrible things.”

Although I don’t think Shadow would ever do
anything to hurt me, I won’t betray my mother’s trust by riding her
on my own, although Mother Earth knows I’ve been tempted before.
I’m tempted now, but instead I just keep rubbing him, counting down
the days until I’ll have a horse of my own. A Rider’s horse, one of
the Escariot.

I hear a noise that doesn’t sound like a
horse. A scuffle and a splash, like someone’s stumbled and stepped
in a puddle. Probably Father coming to make peace, as he does.
“Hello?” I say.

Silence for a moment, and then, “Who’s
there?” A man’s voice, only without the gruffness.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I say to
Shadow, who seems content as long as I keep rubbing him.

“Remy,” the man-not-a-man’s voice says.

My heart stutters, because I know exactly who
he is. Son of Gard, the leader of the Riders. Not six months after
my father laid his hands on my head and declared me a Rider, he did
the same for Remy. Until we were twelve, we attended the same fire
speeches, sitting around a campfire with all the other children
while my father taught us the ways of the Stormers, of the Soakers,
our history. Why we fight and why we kill.

For most of my childhood, Remy tormented me.
Up until we parted ways for our individual training, he’d pull my
hair, try to trip me, whisper gross messages in my ear. Back then I
didn’t have the strength I do now. I tried to ignore him and
eventually he gave up.

“Sadie,” I say firmly.

“I know you,” he says, his voice closer
now.

“Good for you,” I say.

“Where are you?” he asks.

I say nothing.

“What are you doing out here in the rain?” he
asks.

“I’m not in the rain,” I say, “and again, I
could ask you the same thing.” My tongue feels sharp and I’m glad.
My hand stops moving on Shadow’s side as I listen for his
response.

“True and true,” he says. “My father asked me
to check on Thunder.”

Of course.
What else would he be doing
out here? Hiding from his parents like me? Not likely. Not when
you’re the war leader’s son.

“The horses are fine,” I say. They always
are, even in the worst storms. They’re used to the thunder and
lightning by now. Even the young ones do okay, so long as their
mothers are nearby.

“I know,” Remy says. “But you know Riders and
their horses.” He says it in such a way that makes me laugh, but I
cut it off right away. I shouldn’t be out here. I shouldn’t be
laughing with him. Already I feel unsteady on my feet, unfocused,
not something I can afford when I’m so close to…

“Won’t you be a Rider soon?” Remy asks.

Is Remy also training to become a mind
reader? “I’m already a Rider,” I correct. The moment a Man of
Wisdom says we’re Riders, we’re Riders, even when we’re just little
babies who don’t know a horse from a mossy stump.

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean it like
that.” His voice is much closer now, and I realize it’s coming from
the stall next to Shadow’s, through a gap in the wood.

I peer through and see him watering Thunder,
holding a tin bucket up so the horse can slurp it up without
bending over. His other hand’s on Thunder’s nose, stroking it much
the same way I rubbed Shadow’s.

Lightning flashes and for a moment his face
is fully illuminated, sending crackles of warmth through me, as if
I’ve been struck by the storm.

He’s pleasing to look at. That’s all I’m
saying.

Warm, brown eyes, close-cropped dark hair
over a well-shaped head, lips that are quick to smile, which he’s
doing now, something I remember about him from my father’s fire
speeches. But that’s all I’m saying, for real this time.

I pull away, embarrassed with myself for
staring for so long.

“You still there?” he asks, and I take a few
deep swallows of air, trying to catch my breath.

“Still here,” I say, managing to keep my
voice steady in the way my mother taught me to command the
horses.

“So you’ll be having your
Rider
ceremony
soon?” he says, correcting his question from
earlier.

I nod absently, then realize he can’t see me,
not unless he’s…

Two big, brown eyes stare through the crack
in the wall separating Thunder’s and Shadow’s stalls.

I flinch and half-jump behind Shadow, who
gives me a strange look and snorts as if to say,
Some Rider you
are.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I
spout.

The white teeth and curved lips of his smile
flash through the crack. “The same thing you were doing a minute
ago: looking.”

~~~

I leave after that. I don’t know what kind of
game Remy’s playing, but I’m not in the mood to play it. Nor is now
a good time in my life to be playing games of any sort.

I stride back across the deserted camp,
ignoring the muddy puddles as I tromp right through them, dirtying
my black pants. The rain is still coming down in sheets, but the
lightning is streaking far away now, the thunder distant and no
more than a grumble. The storm is passing.

Gritting my teeth, I shove my head into our
tent, seeing my father’s head snap up from the piece of bark, which
he’s once again poring over. Mother is sleeping, which is her
favorite activity during storms. “I’m going for a run,” I say, and
I hear my father start to protest, but I’m already gone, leaving
the flap swinging in my wake.

Today I head south, opposite from where I ran
yesterday, when I first spotted the Soaker ship. The storm has
moved north, as they usually do, and although the clouds remain
dark and gray, they’re slightly less dark and gray to the south,
and down the coastline they almost look yellow, like the clouds out
to sea.

I hear a shout from behind, and I know it’s
my father, but I don’t look back, just start running, letting the
slowing rainfall wash over my head, my face, my arms, every part of
me, cleaning away my father’s choices and Remy’s smile—like the
storm is a part of me, and me a part of it. My blood starts
flowing, my heart pumping, and I feel warmth blossom through me,
chasing away the chill I felt earlier in the stables.

For this is my time. Mine alone.

The camp fades away behind me as I gallop
across the plains to the ocean. Just before the grass gives way to
sand, I shuck off my black boots, discarding them haphazardly in a
muddy pile until I return. Overhead, the gulls are back, playing
and chattering, riding the back edge of the storm, which continues
to blow the hair around my face. The ocean is restless, churning
whitecaps in a seemingly random sequence of waves and swirls.

I run right for it, relishing the coolness of
the thick wet sand on my feet. When I reach the point where the
waves lap onto the shore, I cut hard south, loving the way my heel
digs into the sand, changing my direction as quickly as a bird
lowers a wing to change its flight path. The tide rushes around my
feet and I splash through it gleefully, almost childishly.

My time.

I run and run, picking up speed when I know I
won’t be coming back anytime soon, not for hours at least. No need
to conserve my energy. Wherever I’m going, I’ll be stopping there
to rest before I return. My parents will be worried—no, my
father
will be worried—but I won’t be punished. I’m a Rider,
which gives me a certain level of independence that other children
only dream of.

When a burst of sun shatters through the
cloud cover, I realize I’ve left the storm well behind me. Although
the wind has lessened, my clothes are nearly dry, save for the
bottoms of my pants. The sun crawls up my dark skin, drying the
beads of sweat already there and drawing more drops out from the
little holes in my skin.

A huge bird swoops overhead, a fish in its
mouth, dozens of white gulls around it, hoping for scraps. A
big-chin.

I laugh and keep running, never tiring,
feeling only strength in my taut muscles. “If you want to be a
Rider, you have to be as strong as your horse,” my mother taught me
when I was eleven. It was my first day of Rider training, starting
earlier than the required age of twelve. “But don’t I ride the
horse?” I asked. She laughed and said, “Yes, but your horse will be
stronger knowing that you’re strong.” At the time I didn’t get it,
but I do now. If a Rider is truly to be one with her horse, she
needs to be every bit as strong, so they can each rely on each
other, trust each other, protect each other. Die for each other, if
necessary.