A Tear in the Ocean

by H. M. Bouwman

  Placed around the interior of the tent were a portable stove for heat, benches and pillows to sit and sleep on, and blankets to fight off any chill. Draperies could be closed for privacy—Putnam’s own room was a curtained nook toward the back of the tent, also filled with pillows and cushions. Once he’d gotten used to the earth not moving beneath him, he liked it. A lot.

  The Raft King turned to Putnam, and Putnam felt a surge of anger: how ancient his father was! And how set in his ways! He’d always been so large and impressive—but now, suddenly, he seemed shrunken. There were wrinkles around his eyes, and the gray was migrating up from his beard and invading his temples.

  “What is it?” the old man asked mildly. He held the flap open for Putnam to enter, gesturing for him to go first.

  Except for them, the tent was empty. “What’s wrong?” the king asked. “Something’s bothering you.”

  “The meeting,” said Putnam. “People are worried about the ocean. And you’re not doing anything.”

  The king smiled. “At least I need never fear that my son will hold things inside and not tell me what’s bothering him.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. But, you want to know what I’m going to do.” He sat on a padded bench and tapped the seat next to him for Putnam to sit.

  Putnam stayed standing. When was his dad going to admit he was wrong and offer to take action? Everyone always said how thoughtful the king was, how good he was at listening to everyone, and Putnam used to think these were compliments. But now he knew: his dad was stalling. It was humiliating to have people think that Raftworld was a nation that didn’t do things, that ignored problems. A nation that just floated at sea.

  His father shrugged. “We’re going to move carefully and deliberately. As we always do.”

  “This is an emergency.”

  “It’s not.”

  “The Islanders can’t move north when the water gets bad in their country. And it’ll become an emergency for us, too, eventually. Because eventually all the water could go bad. Don’t we want to fix it before that happens?”

  “We don’t know how to fix it. Whatever you mean by it.”

  His father was so irritating! Putnam again felt the hot embarrassment of overhearing the governor’s conversation with her elderly advisor, and the advisor’s promise to do something even if Raftworld wouldn’t help.

  They probably thought he was just like his dad. Unwilling.

  No, Putnam thought. Raftworld will help. But—

  “You said the fish didn’t answer.”

  The Raft King’s face shifted, for a quick moment, into something that looked like stubbornness, and then it was gone. He looked at the floor, avoiding his son’s eyes.

  Oh. “They didn’t answer,” said Putnam, “because you never asked them. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  The Raft King didn’t answer. His jaw twitched. Then he said, “Things are complicated, son. Sometimes it’s better not to ask questions.”

  Suddenly Putnam understood. “You didn’t ask them. But the fish told you anyway, didn’t they?” He could hear venom dripping from his voice, and he didn’t care. “They told you the sea was dying. They told you to do something to fix it. Didn’t they?”

  “Son—”

  “Did you even ask them for help? For more details so you could fix things?”

  “They said it was something terrible! In the deep south! The ice! We can’t fix that!” The old man took a deep breath. “I’m sure, given time, things can mend themselves.” But there was a note of pleading in his voice. “Our country is doing fine right now. We should . . . just keep going as we are. Don’t rock the boat.”

  It was like a punch to the gut. His dad was the do-nothing politician he seemed to be. Putnam hadn’t wanted to believe it. “How can you be king and not fix things?” He felt his fists curling and uncurling on their own. “You are a terrible king,” he said.

  His father’s head snapped back as if Putnam had punched him, too. Then he took a deep, long breath, almost a sigh. “Show respect, young man.”

  Putnam glared.

  Carefully, slowly, the Raft King unclasped the red cloak and hung it on a hook. Sitting on a brightly embroidered bench beneath the tapestry of Raftworld visiting Tathenn, he leaned forward, elbows on knees. “We might . . . discuss . . . issues in private, but you will not disagree publicly with me at the Session. We present a united front. Remember that tomorrow. Or don’t come to the meeting.”

  “Even if I’m right?”

  “Your job is to listen and to learn, not to speak publicly against the king.”

  “Then I won’t be at the Session.” Wishing he had a door to slam, Putnam yanked the tent flap aside and left.

  His father, cautious as always, didn’t follow or call after him.

  * * *

  • • •

  AS PUTNAM walked back through the party, he thought about his future life. He’d be king someday; would he turn out like his dad? His dad, who had been well past middle age when Putnam had been born, who’d never been the kind of dad to take his son fishing or go swimming with him, who by the time Putnam was ten was already bent with arthritis. Who was so old and boring that even his wife—Putnam’s adopted mom—couldn’t be convinced to stay.

  And that was his dad’s fault, too. At least partly.

  “You okay, Putnam?”

  “What?”

  “Shaking your head like that. A headache? Want to rest in my family’s tent?”

  It was one of his schoolmates from Raftworld, a boy named Olu who was always offering him things, inviting him places, losing to him in games. As much as Putnam liked winning, Olu could beat him at most games if he tried; but he didn’t. Most of the other kids were like that, too, flattering Putnam and losing to him, but it had started with Olu, who led the way. Olu was naturally athletic, a good speaker, and smart—and when he came in second to Putnam again and again, the other kids imitated him. Putnam didn’t know how to make them stop.

  “I’m fine,” he said, more brusquely than he’d meant to.

  “That’s great,” said Olu, smiling broadly. “Have a great evening!”

  Putnam walked on. He found himself wondering—he wasn’t sure why—where the bonfire girl had disappeared to. He glanced around as he skirted the fires, but her face never glinted into sight. She must have gone home—or wherever someone so ragged would disappear to.

  It was strange. He’d thought the Islanders would take care of their children. She was pretty clearly about his age, twelve, or maybe ten; how could she look so battered and underfed? And that was just in firelit glimpses. Surely she wasn’t so uncared for; she must have torn her clothes and avoided her parents when it was time to dress for the party. Yes, that was it. She was a troublemaker. Probably the kind of girl who picked fights and deserved her bruises—maybe some of them from jumping off cliffs into the sea, or climbing too-high trees and falling.

  His mind darted suddenly to his first mother, who had died giving birth to him; and his adoptive mother, the only mom he’d known, missing now for more than half his life. She’d left when he was five. Disappeared. But he hadn’t become a troublemaker. He was doing fine. He barely even knew she was gone. In fact, he didn’t miss her one bit. After all, she’d left him; why should he miss someone who didn’t want to be his mom?

  His dad and his dad’s advisors had raised him to be clean and obedient and never make mistakes. He’d always tried to be as perfect as possible. Even now, after a full day of meetings and parties, he was wearing a clean shirt and had recently washed his face and combed his tight curls. Well, maybe it was time to be done being perfect. Maybe he should be a troublemaker.

  This girl, though. She bit at his mind and wouldn’t leave—because she was so tattered. Because she stood out. Who was she? And why was she here?

  She had simply�
��flickered out. And no one else seemed to notice. He wished again that that was something he could do: run away, disappear. He was a good boat pilot, having lived on the sea all his life, and though he didn’t have any magical gifts with water like his father did, he did have twelve years of living on the water, good experience to call on. He could slip away to sea. It would be a relief not to attend the Session with his father, to forget for a while that these meetings would never stop happening, and eventually he’d have to be in charge of them as Raftworld’s king. Meetings where no real decisions seemed to be made, where nothing seemed to get done.

  And this weeklong party would be the best time to leave. His father wouldn’t want to upset people by sending out a search party; he’d just assume Putnam, angry at him, was skipping the Session and hanging out with some friends. It might even take him a day or two to notice that Putnam had gone. After all, Putnam wouldn’t make a big scene out of leaving like his mom had. He’d just slip away.

  He remembered, right after his second mom had left them—had flown off into the world, never to return—Olu’s father in his deep voice asking Putnam’s father, “Why didn’t you beg her to stay? Or start the engines of Raftworld and chase after her?”

  Five-year-old Putnam, standing in the next room, pressed his ear against the wall to hear.

  His father’s quiet words were almost drowned in the slap-slap of water on the raft’s bottom. But Putnam heard. “If she wants to go, who am I to try and stop her? I don’t interfere in such things.”

  “But she is your wife!”

  “Even so. It is her choice.”

  Putnam never asked his father about that conversation. Yes, his mom was her own person, with her own choices. But shouldn’t his dad have tried? His mom was no longer in this world—that much his dad had told him.

  I can’t find her. But I can try to fix this problem with the sea.

  Then he shook himself. What was he thinking? He couldn’t sneak away. He didn’t even have a boat. Anyway, running away was not something the king’s son would do. It would be just like what his mother had done. Irresponsible. Mean.

  But he would come back.

  He walked along the shore, away from the crowds. The thin moon winked dimly on the water.

  He could see the Island governor’s face as she said that the Raft King wasn’t going to do anything. Her eyes had glowed with sadness, and her mouth had turned in distaste and judgment. A wash of shame hit him like a wave. He couldn’t go back to the Session, not until he’d fixed the sea—and made it clear that he wasn’t his father, that he’d get things done.On top of all that, he remembered fear in the young governor’s eyes, and he felt that, too. What if they lost the sea? He had to do something.

  But how? Where to go? And how to get there?

  His walk had taken him far down the shore. Although he could hear voices in the distance, the beach here was deserted. The night was quiet, waves lapping gently and an owl hooting in the distance. The sea. Turning to salt.

  At that moment, he saw a little one-person-size sailing boat, sitting forlornly on the beach, barely pulled in out of the tide, unwatched—as if asking to be borrowed. And at the exact same moment, the thought popped into his head:. I’ll sail to the deep south. And I’ll leave tonight.

  2

  RAYEL. ABOUT 100 YEARS EARLIER.

  THE FUNERAL was over; Solomon’s small body had been wrapped and weighted and lowered into the ocean. The songs had been sung. The eulogies spoken. Everyone had cried, even Rayel’s mother.

  Rayel sat on the edge of Raftworld, her feet dangling in the water so she could feel close to her little brother just a few moments longer. Her eyes were dry now, even though the wind whipped up little splashes on her dress and her face. Everyone had left or just about left; as they filed out of the dock area where the funeral had been held, several of the musicians and speakers, and a few of Solomon’s teachers, paused to place their hand on Rayel’s shoulder. She didn’t acknowledge them. Couldn’t.

  He was gone. Rayel focused on breathing—she’d felt like she was gasping ever since Solomon’s flu had taken a bad turn and his lungs had clogged and he’d lain in bed struggling for air. She couldn’t breathe, either. But somehow she was still alive.

  A stone rested on her chest. Heavy.

  Behind her, Rayel’s mother sniffed. “Time to go, dear.” The dear was because there were still a few people within hearing.

  Rayel didn’t move.

  “Everyone is gone. It’s over. Let’s go.” Her voice was brisk now. Impatient. “I need—your father and I need—to talk to you. At home.”

  Rayel looked at her mother. Beautiful as always, she stood tall and straight in her long blue gown, a yellow cloth over her head to show she was mourning. She looked good in yellow. Her neck rose slim and dark from her gown, cut just low enough to draw the eye, and her stomach bulged with the baby that was nearly arrived. She was everything healthy and lovely, except for the expression on her face as her eyes swept over Rayel.

  Slowly Rayel pulled her legs out of the water and rose, feeling—as always around her mother—grubby and awkward. She was suddenly aware of how old her braids were. As she stood, her foot caught in the long funeral dress—she usually wore pants—and ripped the hem. Rayel’s mother rolled her eyes and turned to walk toward home. Rayel followed.

  They lived in the center of Raftworld, so the walk took more than a few minutes as they wound through the little houses and gardens and crossed from one lashed-together raft to another. Raftworld was silent this afternoon, in honor of Solomon’s funeral—the son of the king of Raftworld. As Rayel and her mother passed, people in their gardens bowed their heads but didn’t speak above hushed voices. Only the chickens were untouched by tragedy; they clucked and scrabbled as always.

  Rayel’s mind wandered as she trailed behind her mom. Her father wanted to talk to her? The Raft King? He never wanted to talk, just to read his books and watch birds, and, when he couldn’t avoid it, meet with his advisors about Raftworld. He had wept at Solomon’s bedside and again at his funeral, but then had quietly hurried away. She hadn’t thought she’d see him again so soon. What could he want to talk about?

  It wasn’t . . . ? No, he couldn’t want to talk to her about being the next king of Raftworld. There was a new baby on the way, after all, and that baby would surely be good enough to be the next king.

  Like Solomon had been.

  Like she would never be.

  It wasn’t just that she was awkward and no good at making friends. It was also that she was ugly. Not plain. Ugly.

  She’d known ever since she’d first overheard her mother say it, when she was barely old enough to understand what the words meant. Solomon too had been born ugly, like Rayel, with a misshapen lumpy head and mashed features and terrible skin (but without her twisted-in feet). Rayel had been eight. She remembered it vividly. Solomon, newborn and wrapped in a blanket, had been handed to their mother, and Rayel and her father had finally been allowed in the room, but instead of showing joy Rayel’s mom had shoved the baby back to the midwife. “He’s ugly, too. I can’t take this again. Not again.” Her mother had started crying. “Why me?”

  The midwife put the baby, who was whimpering, in a cradle and turned to Rayel’s father. “This sometimes happens with mamas,” she said apologetically. “After-baby sickness. I have some herbs that will make her more content.”

  The Raft King nodded gravely, as if after-baby sickness were all it was. But Rayel knew better—she knew it then, and she knew it now. There was something bigger wrong with her mother, something that herbs couldn’t fix.

  While her father and the midwife comforted her mother, Rayel had crept to the cradle and picked up the baby, supporting his head carefully as she’d seen grown-ups do. She sat cross-legged on the floor and curled her whole body around him, her face to his. His eyes, dark brown like hers, stared back at her
unblinking. His pale acned face would darken soon, and maybe clear up, too. Definitely he’d look better then. But she didn’t care. He was now, already, the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’ll love you.”

  And she did, for the next six years. Slowly, his head rounded out and his features smoothed and his skin cleared up. By the time he was toddling, he looked like any normal baby—which is to say, beautiful and messy with drool at the same time. By four years old, he was so full of light and energy and so quick to smile that strangers would stop Rayel to tell her that he was the cutest child they’d ever seen.

  By the time he was six, Rayel’s mother wanted to be seen with him, to have him follow her around, to have him run to her each day and tell her secrets and draw pictures for her. But instead he did all these things with Rayel—the person who’d fed him, changed him, rocked him to sleep, taken him for walks, read to him, sung to him, and given herself to him for six years. Solomon had many friends; everyone liked him and wanted to be around him. But he loved Rayel most of all.

  And Rayel had only one friend, only one person she spoke freely with, only one person who thought she was beautiful and funny and smart and kind and interesting. Solomon.

  And this, Rayel thought, watching her mom swishing ahead of her toward home, is why our mother disliked Solomon. And it is one of the reasons she hates me. Because I got the love that was supposed to be hers.

  At that moment, Rayel’s mother turned and gestured to her to hurry. “If I can walk at a normal pace with a baby inside me, I think you can try to keep up.”