Water & Storm Country (7 page)

I have to get closer. A Rider would try to
get closer.

So I do run, but in the other direction,
toward the ships. I cut an angled path up the beach, stumbling
slightly when the sand rises up onto the grass, which rolls away
from me in mounds broken only by the occasional tree or bush.

On the grass I could run much faster, but I
remain cautious, vigilant, pushing myself down each hill with speed
and then slowing on the rises, creeping over the crests, looking
for Soakers.

If they spot me I’m dead.

Rise and fall, over a hill and down a valley.
Again and again and aga—

I drop flat on my stomach when I peek over
the next hill, cursing silently, because I didn’t expect to reach
them so soon. Distance can play tricks on you sometimes, especially
near the ocean; the ships were much closer than I thought.

My heart pounding in my chest, I edge my
head—just my scalp and eyes—over the hill, half-wondering whether I
was seeing things, if maybe I’d imagined it.

No. Because sitting on the top of one of the
grassy mounds, just a hill over, is a Soaker. Not a big one, but a
boy, with dirty-blond hair pulled into a ponytail and a forlorn and
thoughtful expression. He’s half-turned toward me, as if he wants
to look at the land but can’t seem to pry one eye off of the ocean.
They say the ocean constantly calls to the Soakers, which is why
they never stay on land for long. Seeing this Soaker boy makes me
believe them.

A dozen ships are anchored in the sea, but
it’s like the boy refuses to look at them, preferring to take in
the vast blue ocean beyond.

I look past him, to the sand, where men and
boys scramble around small boats—landing vessels my mother calls
them—manhandling them into the water, the waves crashing at their
knees, and then they clamor onboard, using thick sticks with broad,
flat ends to push forward. Back to the ships.

Leaving this boy here alone.

Except for me, who he’s not even aware
of.

But then I notice: not everyone left. There
are a few men down the beach. And one closer. One Soaker, a man,
stares up the rise at the boy. From this distance, I can’t make out
his expression, but something about his posture makes me shudder.
He’s lean and wiry, but stands with a slight hunch. I can almost
imagine him slinking in the shadows, sneaking from behind, his
fingers curled around a dripping knife.

Soakers.

They killed my brother. They’ve killed many
of my people. Countless souls sent back to Mother Earth before
their time, buried on the plains of storm country.

We’ve killed them by the hundreds, too, but
we were provoked. We didn’t start the fight so many years ago, but
we will finish it. When I become a full-fledged Rider, I swear I’ll
finish it.

Starting now.

This boy is only one, alone and
unthreatening, but one day he’ll be a man, he’ll bear children.
Children who will kill my people.

Paw’s face flashes in my mind, the way I want
to remember him.
The bravest four-year-old in the camp
, my
mother still says when she talks about him. And I’d follow him
anywhere.

I don’t have a weapon, but I don’t need one.
This is a mere boy and I’m a Rider.

On my hands and knees, I veer right, start to
circle the inland side of the mound so I can come up behind him.
Sweat pools under my arms and in the small of my back. Something
winged flutters in my stomach. Anticipation of my first kill.

I gasp when someone grabs me from behind,
covering my mouth with a dark hand.

~~~

I struggle against my captor, try to scream,
but he’s strong and has the element of surprise on his side.

“Shhh,” he hisses sharply in my ear, his
exhalation a hot burst. “It’s me. Remy.”

I freeze, both because I couldn’t be more
shocked if a bolt of lightning struck me in the head, and because
it’s Remy, and he’s…touching me. Well, not really touching, but
locking me up from behind, holding me back.

But still…he feels warm and strong and I
could so easily relax and just melt away…

“Mmmhhh,” I murmur through his hand, trying
to speak, my body remaining as rigid and stiff as a long-dead
corpse.

“You’ll be quiet?” he asks, his lips so close
to my ear that it tickles.

I nod against his grip, and he relaxes his
arms, pulls his hand away from my mouth, rolls over next to me,
staying low. Our heads are side by side—there’s no stall wall to
separate us now.

I glare at him. “What the
hell
do you
think you’re doing?” I whisper.

He raises an eyebrow. “Saving your skin,” he
says, peeking over the mound. I do the same, watching as the boy
stands, turns so his back is completely toward us. That’s when I
notice what he’s wearing: a clean blue uniform, slightly wrinkled,
but other than that, unmarked. An officer’s uniform.

“I didn’t need saving,” I whisper, wanting to
hit him for wasting my opportunity. This boy—an officer?

“They’d have killed you,” Remy says.

“Not if I killed them first,” I mutter under
my breath.

“Hurry your bloody ass up!” a gruff voice
bellows from somewhere below the mounds.

Remy and I duck our heads even lower,
pressing our cheeks to the grass, stare at each other with wide
eyes.

“Cain said I could take as long as I wanted,”
a voice returns. The officer boy.

“It’s Lieutenant Cain to you, and he ain’t
bloody well around now, is he? Now move it before I have to make
you.” A challenge. Will the boy answer?

There’s a deep sigh of resignation. “I was
ready to go anyway,” the boy says.

“Aye, sure you were,” the gruff voice says,
laughing. Footsteps fade away and silence ensues.

I realize I’m still staring at Remy, although
I haven’t been seeing him. Heat floods my cheeks and I look away,
crane my neck over the mound’s crest, watch as the officer boy and
the gruff-voiced man stride through the sand, back toward the
water.

Remy’s head bobs up next to me. “What are you
doing her—” he starts to say.

“Shhh!” I hiss, as the two Soakers change
course before they get to the water. They move down the beach, away
from us. One small boat remains, manned by a dozen oarsmen. A
tallish man wearing a black cap and a blue officer’s uniform stands
waiting.

“Is that a…” My voice fades away as
Gruff-voice hands something to the tall man. A thin tube.

“A captain’s hat,” Remy finishes for me.
“That man is the captain of one of the ships.”

His tone is almost reverent, and I glance at
him. His eyes serious, he appears enthralled by the scene unfolding
before us: a captain greeting a new lieutenant who looks more like
a boy.

“I could have killed him,” I say, standing,
watching as the small boat leaves the shore, riding the waves along
a sunlit path of sparkling ocean, all the way to a ship that looks
strangely as if it’s been left for decades to rot and weather
away.

My father’s words ring in my ears:

Sometimes the more important choice is not
when to take a life, but when to spare one.

But this wasn’t my choice—it was Remy’s. I
hope it was the right one.

~~~

“We have to tell someone,” Remy says for the
fourteenth time.

I shake my head. “Who? Your father?”

“My father, your father, one of the other
Riders…anyone.” The more worked up Remy gets, the more his hands do
the talking along with his mouth.

We’ve been walking for an hour, slowly
working our way back to the camp.

“And what will you tell them?” I ask.

“That we saw the Soakers and…” His voice
drops away sharply, like a knife blade disappearing into the
sand.

“And what?” I prod.

“And nothing,” he says, stopping. “You’re
right. There’s nothing to tell. When the ships left, they sailed
away from us, which the Riders already know. We’d just get in
trouble for being this far south.”

I stop too. “My mother lets me run as far
afield as I want,” I say, pride pulling at the corners of my
lips.

“And look where that got you. You almost got
yourself killed today.”

Anger rises in my chest. “You don’t know
anything,” I say. “I swear to Mother Earth I’d have killed that
boy.” I push Remy away because he’s gotten too close.

“Maybe,” he says, laughing. He sits in the
sand, looks out to sea. “But that man would’ve killed you for sure.
I saved your life.”

“You did not,” I say, every muscle in my body
going tight. “I can handle myself. I’ll be a Rider before you.”

Remy laughs again, and this time it sounds so
good I can’t help but relax the tension in my body. I slump down
next to him. “What the hell’s so funny?”

“You are already a Rider,” he says, mimicking
my tone from earlier, when I’d said the same thing to him. He looks
right at me, and the sun, which is arcing back toward the horizon,
lights up his brown eyes.

I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the smile
that forms on my lips. Turning away to hide it, I say, “You
followed me like you were hunting a jackrabbit. Why?”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

He grabs my arm and I feel the same warmth,
the same breathlessness that I felt before, when we were close
together atop the mound. It’s like when the sun breaks through the
clouds on a warm summer’s day, and you feel it on your skin,
melting together with the breeze and becoming a part of you. I
grimace, as if a nest of biting ants have slipped into my
pants.

I look at him and my breath catches in my
throat. The intensity in his expression takes me by surprise. “You
seemed upset when you left the stables. I wanted to make sure
nothing happened to you.”

Although I feel a flutter in my chest, I
scowl at him, shake off his hand, stand. “I don’t need you looking
out for me,” I say. “Don’t follow me ever again.”

I run, refusing to look behind, although I
can feel Remy’s grin on my back.

I run the entire way back to the camp.

T
he captain of the
Mayhem is a big man, broad-shouldered and bearded, not unlike my
father.

The similarities end there.

His silver medals are smudged and rusty, the
exact opposite of my father’s, which are polished every morning
before he pins them to his shirt. His uniform is wrinkled, faded
and dusty, like he’s been keeping it in a corner of his cabin, only
bringing it out when absolutely necessary. He blinks twice too
often, like he can barely keep his eyes open.

“Is this my new lieutenant?” he asks in a
booming voice as we approach.

Hobbs strides forward, pushing a scroll
forward toward the captain. “Here are the boy’s orders,” he
says.

Ignoring Hobbs’ verbal jab, I hurry to catch
up and step past him and his scroll. “Lieutenant Jones, at your
service,” I say, extending a hand, trying to look confident,
although my legs are shaking. I lock my knees and look the captain
in the eye, like my father taught me to do.
Always look a man in
the eye when you meet him. Not only will it prove your strength,
but you’ll discover much about theirs.

The captain locks on my gaze, his blue eyes
red and swollen. I’m not sure about this man’s strength, but he
didn’t get much sleep last night. But neither did I, so I guess
that makes us even. The thought brings a smile to my lips.

“Captain Jebediah L. Montgomery, the Third,”
the captain says. “But everyone just calls me Jeb,” he adds with a
red-eyed wink. Turning to Hobbs, he snatches the scroll and says,
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

I expect Hobbs to leave, but he stands there,
unblinking, his usual scowl blanketing his face. I think Captain
Montgomery expects him to leave, too, because he says, “Thank you,
Mr. Hobbs,” again.

“Read the orders, Captain,” Hobbs says,
looking out to sea absently.

“Are you giving
me
a direct order,
Lieutenant?” the captain says, his voice taking on the shape of
anger, but not quite reaching the thickness of it.

“Just read them,” Hobbs says, still staring
at the ocean, ignoring the captain’s question. A show of disrespect
like that to my father would earn him a week in the brig, or worse.
I’ve seen my father send a man into the sharp-tooth infested drink
for looking at him the wrong way.
A ship is only as strong as
the men that occupy it
, he used to tell me.
And the admiral
must be the strongest of all.

This’ll be good
, I think. I wait for
it, for the explosion, for Captain Montgomery to order his oarsmen,
who are waiting to launch the landing boat into the water, to bind
Hobbs, to send him back to The Merman’s Daughter to be dealt with
by my father.

His eyes narrow and his nose turns up, but he
doesn’t say anything, just calmly unties the blue ribbon from the
scroll, unfurls the brittle pages, and reads the long, elegant
script that I recognize as my father’s handwriting. I try to read
along, but the tall captain is holding it too high for me to see
much more than a few words.

Thankfully, he mutters parts of it as he
reads: “Captain Montgomery…I hereby present my son…a lieutenant on
The Sailors’ Mayhem…improve efficiency, morale, order…” He looks up
at me at that part, chewing on his chapped lips. Before I can stop
myself, I look down at my feet, trying to count the grains of sand
on the toe of one of my boots. I’m not sure what that says about
my
strength, but it can’t be good.

Only when the captain continues reading do I
look up. “Lieutenant Hobbs is ordered to oversee Lieutenant Jones
as he becomes acclimated to life on a new ship.”

“What?” I say at the same time as the
captain. Both of us turn to look at Hobbs, who ignores us.