Water & Storm Country (6 page)

I veer out of the ocean water, still on the
hard-packed sand, but not where the waves can reach. Although the
last thing I want to do is stop—can I keep running forever?—I know
I have to stop at some point, or I won’t be able to make it back
before nightfall. And the ocean is calling to me in the way that it
does, with whispers and swallows, in and out, in and out, almost
mesmerizing.

So I pull up, breathing heavy but not out of
breath, heart pounding but not wildly, body tired but not
exhausted. As I start to pull off my shirt, I can already feel the
ocean washing the sweat and anger off my skin, but then I stop,
belly exposed.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, I lower my shirt, my
eyes widening and my breath hitching.

Because further—much further—down the beach I
can see it. A series of shadows, rising and falling with the
ocean’s breathing, just off the shore.

Ships.

“Y
ou can’t do this!”
I say, speaking to my father louder than I ever have before.

He gives me a look and I shut up, sink down
on my bed, wondering if he’ll hit me. He doesn’t, although I can
see the tension in his arms, in his hands. In his face. “Are you a
child or a man?” he asks, surprising me. Not a rebuke or a command,
a question.

A trick?

Am I a man?

If drinking grog and singing men’s songs
makes you a man, then maybe I am. If having a pounding head and the
bitter taste of bile in the back of your throat is the key to
manhood, then I’ll wear my lieutenant’s uniform with dignity.

“Aye,” I say, reverting back to my typical
method of dealing with my father: telling him what he wants to
hear.

“Then quit acting like a child,” he growls.
Then, turning, he says, “Come to my chambers when you’re ready.” He
slams the cabin door behind him.

It’s only then that I realize the boat is
moving differently than it has for the last few weeks. Back and
forth, back and forth, but different. Still rolling, but calmer,
slower and shorter.

The anchors are down.

~~~

My father’s chambers are lit by a dozen round
portals, the sun streaming through each one with a yellowish-white
glow. His bed sits in the center of the large cabin, which is ten
times the size of mine. And mine’s three times the size of anyone
else’s.

He’s not on the bed. I glance to the right to
find him sitting in a large, finely carved chair with lion’s paws
etched at the base of its legs. His arms are sitting calmly on the
rests. His face is relaxed. His eyes are closed.

As I approach, he says, “Speak,” and I
flinch, thankful his eyes are closed so he doesn’t see.

“Yes, Admiral,” I say, remembering
myself.

“What have you learned from me?” he says.

My heart twitters because I didn’t expect the
question. Blank. That’s the only word to describe my mind. It’s
like everything’s gone white and then black, first like one of the
pale-white sun portals that are surrounding me, and then like a
dark chasm in the ocean, sucking all life and ships and men into
its endless void. He’s taught me so much

(Hasn’t he?)

but I can’t seem to remember any of it, nor
am I able to speak anyway.

His eyes flash open. “Bilge rat got your
tongue?” he asks harshly, flicking his tongue out like a snake.

“Uh.”

“You haven’t learned to be a coward from me,
I hope.” His eyes lock on mine and then dance away, settling on a
painting mounted on the wall.

A woman, pushing her blond hair away from her
face, holding a child in her other arm.

“Father, I’m sorry—”

“Admiral!” he explodes suddenly, rising to
his feet. His face is a web of veins, popping and red and violent.
He raises a hand and I close my eyes, tense for the blow. If this
is the only way I can prove my manhood, I will. I won’t run, I
won’t cry out, I’ll take every last bit of punishment he has to
give me for my weakness two yars ago.

But the blow never comes and when I open
first one eye, and then the other, I find he’s turned away and is
looking out one of the portals. “You could have saved her,” he says
to a bird that’s hopping on the railing outside.

I know he’s right because he was there—he saw
everything. I saw it too, but I just can’t quite…if I could
only…

Remember.

It’s as if the word is spoken in my head, a
soothing voice that sang gentle lullabies to me when I’d wake up in
the throes of a nightmare. Now my nightmares are about her, so
who’s going to sing to me?

Remember.

I can’t. I can’t.

Blood, frothing and churning.
The
image burns in my mind and I slam my eyes shut again, trying to
dispel the bubbles, red with…no! No more.

My mother’s body, sinking beneath the
surface, jerking as the sharp-tooths tear her to shreds.

Remember.
No, dammit, I don’t want to!
I don’t want to see you die again and again, never living, never a
happy ending where I save you, where I become the man I’m meant to
be now, pull you up, up, up, stronger than ten men, stronger than a
Stormer’s horse, stronger than the raw pull of the ocean, embracing
you and never letting go. Not ever again.

When I open my eyes my father is staring at
me curiously, and I wonder why. His gaze drops to my fists and I
follow it. My hands are clenched, splotched with red and white
amongst the little freckles that are always there because of the
sun and my fair complexion.

“Yesss,” my father murmurs, drawing the word
out like the hiss of snake. “Yes, anger is good, but only if it’s
controlled. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

I relax my hands and am surprised that they
ache when I stretch them out. Specks of fresh blood dot my palm
where my too-long fingernails cut into my flesh. I slide them
behind me and out of sight.

“What now?” I say, keeping my voice as
impassive as possible. One of his lessons comes back to me,
finally.
To show emotion is to be emotional. And emotions are
for women and the weak.
If men are to be cold-hearted vapid
creatures, then that’s what I’ll become. I’ll do anything to prove
myself. But isn’t anger an emotion?

I don’t have time to dwell on the question
because the Admiral smiles, strides to the bed and sits on it,
patting the bedcover beside him. Surprised at his sudden change in
mood, I hesitate, but then join him, keeping a healthy gap between
us. Although his expression has softened, there’s none of my
mother’s tenderness in the hard lines of his face.

“Son,” he says. “I know things have been
hard, strained even, between us. But I want you to succeed. I want
you to become the man I know you’re capable of. You’re my son,
after all.” He pauses and I search his eyes for the joke, for an
insult, but there’s only truth in them.

“Then why are you sending me on the Mayhem?”
I ask.

He smiles. “You should know me well enough by
now,” he says cryptically.

And I should know. And I do know. From the
moment I learned which ship I’d be assigned to, I knew exactly why.
I just didn’t want to admit it.

(Because I’m scared.)

“A test,” I say.

He doesn’t reply, but doesn’t deny it either.
He sighs, and for the first time in my life my father looks tired.
What I thought a moment ago were his hard lines, look more like age
lines now, deep canyons in his flesh cut from rivers of weariness
and grief and disappointment.

“What do I have to do?”

—to make you proud.

—to earn your forgiveness.

—to prove myself.

He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Your
task is to turn the Mayhem into a ship we can all be proud of, a
ship where the best sailors in the fleet will beg to be stationed,
to serve. Captain Montgomery is a…strange man, but a good captain.
He needs your help, as do I.”

I shouldn’t believe him (because it feels
like punishment), but I do, because I want it to be an opportunity.
That’s all I want. A chance to make things right. A chance to
forget the past, live in the present, and look forward to the
future.

“Aye, Admiral,” I say, standing, a flattened
hand raised in salute. “What advice will you give me?”

He raises an eyebrow and I can see I
surprised him.
A boy rushes into action and failure. A man asks
questions on the way to success.
Another of his lessons tumbles
through the void.

“Two things,” he says, waving away my salute
with a casual gesture. I drop my hand to my side. “One. Earn the
respect of your seamen by being one of them and above them.”

I frown. “But how can you be both?” I
ask.

He wipes my question away with another wave
of his hand. It’s part of the test, I realize. Making sense of his
advice. Learning from experience.

“Two. Beware the bilge rats,” he says, and my
face reddens because at first I think it’s a joke, a dig at my
failure from before. But his face is deadly serious. “They’re not
like us. They’ll do anything to bring you down, to make you as low
as they are. Don’t trust them. They are tools to be used, nothing
more.”

With that, he stands, ushers me to the door,
and I leave his chambers for maybe the last time, off to seek my
fate.

~~~

Small wooden boats carry us to the shore,
borne on the backs of midshipmen with heavy oars. Choppy waves
bounce us around, occasionally bandying together to propel us
forward from behind.

Cain sits beside me, staring out at the long
line of white-sailed ships standing sentinel, as if they’re
guarding the entrance to the ocean. Down the line—way down the
line—stands a ship with yellowing weather-stained sails, frayed and
full of holes. The eyesore of the fleet: The Sailors’ Mayhem.

My test.

Cain reaches down and lets the water rush
over his hand. Instinctively I reach to grab his arm and pull it
away. Because of the sharp-tooths. Sticking a hand in the water
around here is a good way to lose it. But I stop, because I’m being
stupid. Normal procedure has been followed. Fish guts and carcasses
would have been emptied in our wake, giving the deadly predators
something to keep themselves occupied with—and the spear guns would
have scared off the rest. They’ll come back, of course, because
they always do, but for now we’re safe.

Cain looks at me strangely, but lifts his
hand, now dripping with saltwater, flicks his fingers in my face.
“Hey!” I say, but I’m not angry, and I splash him back,
smiling.

Having informed me of my orders and offered
his advice, my father will remain on the ship, as Admirals’ do. I
don’t mind his absence—it relieves some of the pressure building in
my chest.

Hobbs glares at us from the other end of the
boat. I wish he was absent, too.

“Don’t mind him,” Cain says. “I heard he
hasn’t spent the night with a woman in months.” He laughs loudly
and I join him, although I don’t exactly understand what’s funny
about it. Hobbs can’t have heard what Cain said, but he extends a
gesture in response anyway, which only makes us laugh harder.

“I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” I
say to Cain, and even to my own ears my voice sounds high and
boyish. Right away I wish I could unsay it.

Cain’s smile fades and he slaps me on the
back. “Soon enough there will be another fight to fight against the
Stormers, and we’ll see each other then.”

“Aye,” I say, growling the way I’ve practiced
since I was only as tall as my father’s knees.

~~~

We say our goodbyes. My friends, Jobe and Ben
and Thom, wish me luck and say they’ll join me as men soon. Then we
can all fight the Stormers together. The thought sends
excited-nervous ripples through my skin, but I just pull them into
hardy half-hugs and it’s a promise.

Cain loops an arm over my shoulder and walks
me away from the beached boats and the water, up a slope to a
grassy patch. My legs wobble slightly with each step, because the
land is solid, unmoving, a stark contrast to the ebbs and flows of
the ship’s deck. “You can spend as much time up here as you need to
prepare,” he says. “We set sail when you’re ready.” I nod.

“Go with honor,” I say, using the traditional
farewell between officers.

“And you with the comfort of the sea maids,”
he returns, using an old favorite joke. I smile, but I can’t hold
it, because Cain’s been the older brother I never had, and I can
already see it’s time for him to go, and I’m not ready—I’m not—but
I know lingering isn’t an option.

Not wanting to look childish, I extend a
hand.

He looks at it, and I swear he’s got seawater
in his eyes and on his face from our splashing in the boat earlier,
but then I do too, because he takes my hand and pulls me to him,
hugging me in a brother-worthy embrace. “Take care of yourself,
Huck,” he says.

Fighting off a sob, I say, “That’s Lieutenant
Jones to you,” in my best Admiral Jones impersonation.

He laughs and I do too, and he slaps me on
the back because we both need something solid and strong to feel.
Sticking out his jaw, he nods, winks, and turns, leaving me to
decide when to board the Mayhem.

I
run.

The smart thing to do would be to run back
the way I came, all the way to the camp to alert my mother, who
would tell Gard. And then the Riders would ride forth to meet the
Soaker’s in the first battle in a long time.

And that’s what I start to do, but then I
stop, look back at the shadows on the horizon. Consider my options.
What will I tell my mother? I saw ships.
What were they
doing?
she'll ask. And I won’t know anything. Just that they’re
there, anchored.