Water & Storm Country

by David Estes

  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.

  Chapter Six

  Sadie

  Drenched 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.

  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.

  Chapter Seven

  Huck

  “You 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 gl
ance 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.