Thunderstruck

by Shannon Delany

  John did most of the rifling, his large dark hands deceptively quiet as he rustled through her ladyship’s recently growing collection of expensive gowns while Laura watched Lady Astraea sleep, all the way keeping her body between any view the lady, upon waking, might get of John.

  He hissed in Laura’s direction and she spun around to face him, seeing how he shrugged, his broad, creased face one large question. His ample lips moved, forming careful and silent words. “I cannot find it….”

  Laura looked around the room, wracking her brain. Her eyes fell to the vanity. And the drawers there. She pointed.

  Lady Astraea sighed and, heart pounding, Laura turned back to her, her mouth agape.

  But, mercifully, the woman slept on.

  Her shoulders slumping, she continued her watch, only briefly wincing when she recognized the soft sound of the vanity’s drawer scraping open. Something behind her shifted, the drawer scraped closed, and suddenly John was at her shoulder.

  He opened up his hand, and there, sparkling up from his pale palm was a glittering blue soul stone.

  Laura’s eyes popped wide and she fanned herself.

  The smile lighting John’s face was contagious.

  She snatched the stone from him, put a finger to her lips, and, on tiptoes, she crept to Lady Astraea’s bedside. Doing the lady’s laundering had given Laura an uncommon advantage—she knew where a pocket had been secreted away near her lady’s bust line. With trembling fingers she reached down and slipped the stone into the pocket. She raced backwards, bumping into John’s chest, and felt his hands clamp down on her upper arms, a reassuring pressure.

  The lady slept on, and with a thin sigh of relief, Laura and John both slipped from the room.

  They paused a few yards from the door in the hallway, Laura grabbing John’s arm. “A note was delivered for you, John. I have it.”

  “A note? From who? About what?”

  She tucked the folded paper into his hand. “Open it and find out.”

  “Would that I could, but I fear I have little I can make out in written words.”

  “Oh. Shall I?”

  He nodded and she took it back. “Oh, from Cynda. Have you seen her recently?”

  He nodded grimly. “Indeed I have. Read on.”

  “John, it is with great fear I send this note. Having been in a new household these past few weeks, I have yet to forget the family of servants you spoke of me leaving and feel I must give you the truth of what you witnessed last night.” Laura looked at him. “Last night?”

  “Read on,” John whispered.

  “Merrow are not as we’ve been told. I have stood listening at enough doors of late to know that they are peaceful. They wish an end to war. Last night they did not come to steal and devour the body,” Laura shuddered, “but to bury it at sea—a high honor.”

  John massaged his forehead. “Is there anything else?”

  Laura’s eyes skimmed the note. “She fears the truth will never come out. That those who know will die. But she is certain you are safe. She wanted you to know.” Laura folded up the note. “We must burn this.”

  John nodded.

  “What will you do now you know?”

  He shook his head. “The same as any old man of my skin color with knowledge he shouldn’t have should do. Keep my head down and pray for change.”

  Laura pursed her lips but nodded.

  ***

  Aboard the Tempest

  “If you’re determined to go into Philadelphia and claim the reward on that wanted poster,” Jack said, giving the paper Rowen held out a jab, “it makes sense to have a person with you acting as the collector of said funds. As if that person is your captor.”

  Jack bent over, reaching into the corner of his cabin on the Tempest, withdrawing what was obviously a guitar wrapped in a few pretty scarves the likes of which Rowen had seen hanging in the Hill King’s Cavern in Bangor. Jack took a careful moment unwrapping the instrument, and turning it in his hands, he let the light from the cabin’s stormlight lantern flash across its polished wooden surface. “Lovely, yes?” he said.

  “Yes. May I?” Rowen extended his hand and Ginger Jack gently laid the guitar’s neck in it.

  Rowen grinned, strumming his fingers along the strings. He frowned at the sound of one and tightened a tuner, picking out that string and note again.

  Jack laughed. “So you play?”

  “A bit. Not very well and not very often, but I enjoy it when I can. This is lovely.”

  Jack retrieved the guitar. “Yes. So you’ll let me play captor?”

  “What?” Rowen rolled his eyes. “If you think you will make my task easier, then yes, come along. Besides, if I am to take a pod, I’d best have someone who can fly it.”

  Jack punched the air with the hand holding the guitar. “Excellent. We will sing for Jordan and Meggie and then, tomorrow morning so the light is best, you and I will start for Philadelphia.”

  Rowen pressed his lips together a moment, but he agreed. “Likely a nearly viable plan.”

  “Nearly viable! It’s brilliant. We’ll be the small ginger pirate leading the blond tree trunk to his appointment with destiny. As you so merrily pointed out, the wanted poster only requires your delivery, not that you remain. Then we’ll meet up with your friends, organize them, and return to the ship.” Jack stopped so suddenly Rowen bumped into him. “If …”

  “If what?”

  “If we can land the pod on a mountain or a hill we should be able to bring it back to the ship. But she needs to catch air under her wings. She’ll need lift.”

  Rowen smirked. “You want to land her on a hill … ?” He felt his smirk grow into a full out grin and he rubbed his hands together. “I have just the Hill for you. With a wonderful potential landing strip. As long as you don’t need it to be too long …”

  Jack considered and gave a sudden shrug. “I enjoy a challenge as much as any man.”

  “Good, good. Then our first challenge is finding a song or two for Jordan to sing. Start with that.” He folded up the wanted poster and tucked it into his belt.

  ***

  Aboard the Artemesia

  Jack and Rowen crossed from the Tempest to the Artemesia, a bounce in their step, and Jordan spared them a glance before returning to her work. The task of having two ships in the fluffy arms of her self-made clouds was definitely more of a job than she had expected. She was doing her best to keep from telling Evie to take her ship and go.

  Thankfully Caleb frequently made himself available to her, making sure she was drinking enough water to Draw Down so that, in turn, she might continue to Light Up the sky and maintain their course. Caleb made for a fine friend.

  What did they have to be so happy about? They were headed into Philadelphia as quickly as she could get them there just so they might risk their lives in a cause she wasn’t certain she supported fully. Yes, slaves should be freed. They had done nothing to deserve their fate and no one should be sentenced to toil as they did—and suffer as they did.

  But the Weather Witches … They were a dangerous breed. Releasing them on their own recognizance was a disastrous decision. She knew how quickly she pulled storms and lightning to herself when angry and if she—someone who should have been impossible to Make into a Witch—could do such things, what might happen if others who were more predisposed acted out in anger or fear or pain, too?

  They would destroy the world.

  She would sooner destroy her own kind than see that happen.

  Rowen, Jack, Meggie (grinning), Maude, and Bran settled at her feet. Miyakitsu reclined nearby, lounging comfortably across the Wandering Wallace’s lap while he stroked her hair. Marion sat alone at the table, glowering as only he seemed able to do. She looked at them each in turn. “It appears you are all gathered for a Sunday picnic. Should I have brought something?”

  Evie crossed the distance and sat beside Jack.

  Not Rowen.

  Jack.

  That was at least some small
something.

  Rowen pulled out the guitar.

  Jordan stifled a groan. “If you begin singing something I don’t like I’ll crash us, I swear.”

  He grinned at her.

  Her heart jumped a few beats before it settled into an appropriate rhythm again. She had encouraged him earlier by expressing the fact that she cared. She should not have done that, she realized, having seen the familiar gleam in his eyes. What could she offer him now she was a ruined woman and a Witch steering a motley crew toward insurrection?

  There was no future with her. She looked down at the planks filling the space between her bare feet and the bend of his knees as he sat cross-legged and cradling the guitar.

  Hopeful.

  How could he still be so blastedly hopeful?

  Caleb nudged her as if to say, Relax and enjoy.

  But she could do neither.

  “What would you like to sing, Jordan?” Rowen asked, strumming the guitar’s strings. He made it look deceptively easy, playing a guitar. She knew the truth though. Playing an instrument—any instrument—was a tricky business. She had tried them all and failed dramatically at each.

  “I would not like to sing anything, thank you, Rowen,” Jordan responded, turning her back to them all to set gears spinning. She still wasn’t certain what all the pieces and parts of the ship-based puzzle did, but she knew with enough force she could get it to obey.

  She knew, with certainty, this ship was hers.

  Except when the ship itself invaded her dreams and reminded her of the things—no, the person—she feared most. Even though he was dead. Gone.

  “Jordan.”

  Meggie’s voice jolted her back. “Please, Miss Jordan. Choose a song. It was so very generous for Jack and Rowen to offer to sing for us….”

  Jordan stretched her hands on the ship’s wheel, thinking. “As we are going into revolution, perhaps we had best sing something applicable.” She leveled her gaze at Rowen. “Do you know ‘Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye’?” She took some small satisfaction when his fingers slipped on the strings.

  “Yes,” he said, his tone dark. “But I thought we would sing a pleasant song … you know, on account of little ears,” he said, nodding toward Meggie. “Why not ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again’?”

  “Some soldiers never come marching home again,” Jordan said. “It is best she is prepared for what consequences our actions may bring. As the Wandering Wallace has pointed out, this overthrow is only as peaceable as our enemy allows it to be. And knowing the men of the Council, I doubt it will be peaceable at all unless we catch them totally unawares.”

  Rowen drew in a breath. There was a moment he fumbled to find the right chord to begin with, and she couldn’t be sure if it was because he was out of practice or because of the song she’d chosen.

  “I will apologize for not having the right voice for this song … as much of it is sung by a beautiful young lady. Not unlike our dear Conductor,” he added.

  She closed her mouth and tightened her jaw, wishing she could harden her heart as easily.

  Rowen closed his eyes and he began to sing:

  “While going the road to sweet Athy,

  Hurroo, hurrooo,

  While going the road to sweet Athy,

  Hurroo, hurroo,

  While going the road to sweet Athy,

  A stick in me hand and a tear in me eye,

  A doleful damsel I heard cry,”

  Then, in the highest voice he could manage before sounding utterly ridiculous, he sang:

  “Johnny I hardly knew ye.

  With your guns and drums

  And drums and guns

  Hurroo, hurroo.

  With your guns and drums

  and drums and guns

  Hurroo, hurroo.

  With their guns and drums

  and drums and guns,

  The enemy nearly slew ye.

  My darlin’ dear, you look so queer,

  Johnny I hardly knew ye.

  Where are the eyes that looked so mild,

  Hurroo, hurroo,

  Where are the eyes that looked so mild,

  Hurroo, hurroo,

  Where are the eyes that looked so mild,

  When my poor heart you first beguiled,

  Why did you skedaddle from me and the child,

  Johnny I hardly knew ye.

  Where are your legs that used to run,

  Hurroo, hurroo,

  Where are your legs that used to run,

  Hurroo, hurroo,

  Where are your legs that used to run,

  When you went to carry a gun,

  Indeed your dancing days are done,

  Oh, Johnny I hardly knew ye.

  Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg,

  Hurroo, hurroo,

  Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg,

  Hurroo, hurroo,

  Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg,

  Ye’re an armless, legless, chickenless egg,

  Ye’ll have to be put in a bowl to beg,

  Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye.”

  He stopped then, muting the strings with the palm of his hand and setting a fierce and dreadful silence between them.

  “It’s not over,” Jordan insisted.

  Rowen looked at her blankly.

  “The song is not over,” she insisted. “It’s not bad enough her Johnny has been reduced to an amputee who must beg his way through life, is it, Rowen,” she asked, leaning so close he could see every detail of her scar and each spark dancing in her glittering eyes. “It’s not enough that their war stole Johnny away from his love, but what next Rowen? Sing the final verse.”

  He swallowed hard, and slowly he began:

  “They’re rolling out the guns again,

  Hurroo, hurroo,

  They’re rolling out the guns again,

  Hurroo, hurroo,

  They’re rolling out the guns again,

  But they never will take our sons again,

  No they’ll never take our sons again,

  Johnny I’m swearing to ye.”

  Jordan snorted. “Because that is the truth of war and revolution,” she said. “Revolution is bloody and nasty and violent and crippling and the moment you think it is done someone decides to roll out the guns again. I am sick to death of war and I have never been a participant in it! And when we are done with this coup—what of the Wildkin threat? What of that war? Do we simply turn our ships and our guns toward them next?” She struggled to catch her breath now and leaned over, panting, her heart racing, her vision tight.

  The Wandering Wallace continued stroking Miyakitsu’s long dark hair and said, very slowly, very calmly, “There will be no more Wildkin War. We shall make peace with them quickly, I believe. They will see reason.”

  “What?” Jordan pulled herself upward quickly and nearly swooned as her head spun. She clutched the ship’s wheel and Rowen leaped to his feet to help hold her upright. She swayed against him, regretting immediately that she could not stay upright herself. Her vision swam and, licking her lips, she focused on the Wandering Wallace. “What do you mean they will see reason and make peace? We’ve been fighting them for generations….”

  Evie groaned and stretched, raising her arms high above her before dropping them back down and draping one across Ginger Jack’s shoulders. “They really keep your breed in the dark, don’t they?”

  “Now, now,” the Wandering Wallace soothed, setting Miyakitsu to the side and standing. “Young Lady Astraea is not at fault for not knowing the truth of things,” he said to Evie. “They keep young ladies of her rank well protected. Sheltered. They tell her what to believe and because she knows nothing different or, in this case, better, she accepts it. We must not blame her.”

  “He,” Evie said, crooking a thumb in Rowen’s direction, “thought the same thing. That we were at war and what?” She glanced up at him. “That we had good reason, aye?”

  “Aye. Yes,” Rowen stuttered. “It’s what the m
ilitary tells us. The war has raged for generations, ever since we accidentally killed one of their princes with a regular water-bound boat. They attacked, little Galeyn Turrell—not much older than you,” he added, nudging Meggie with the toe of one boot—”was suddenly Made and flew the ship to safety on our coast. She was the first Weather Witch. That ship—everything started with it. And things haven’t been right since.”

  He slipped an arm around Jordan’s waist, but she pulled away.

  “The war has raged on,” she said. “They attack our people, we beat them back, they slaughter our horses for meat, we beat them back … They keep coming no matter how we try to keep them at bay,” she whispered. “I’ve seen them—I’ve seen what they do to both horse and man alike. If they have souls, there is no mercy in them.” Shuddering, she wrapped her arms around herself to ward against memory. She had seen and survived an attack.

  Once.

  “There is more to the story,” the Wandering Wallace said. “There is always more to the story. You just have to listen to where and when and by whom—yes, most importantly, I think, by whom—the story is told.”

  “How can we know? They are Wildkin. They don’t even speak.”

  “Not true, not true. They speak, but not in a language we are familiar with. They speak not English, French, Latin, or German. That is true. But they most certainly communicate. All species do. All species must.”

  “Do you think all Wildkin speak the same language?”

  The Wandering Wallace glanced at Miyakitsu. “I might hope that is the case, but I have my doubts. You have noticed they have only allied themselves with other waterborne species of Wildkin, yes? Pookas and Kelpies and the like?”

  “Yes.”

  Now even Marion rose and crossed the distance to stand with them, listening intently.

  “I believe their language is based somehow in the very water they reside in. Or, if not their language, their format for communication. I believe water is our key to understanding them. Water is the key to their power.”