Water & Storm Country

by David Estes

  “And…we need to catch up,” I say.

  “Then catch up!” he says, sticking his pipe between his lips before rolling over.

  I want to kick him, to pound my fists against him, to tell him he’s the worst captain ever and that his ship is the laughingstock of my father’s fleet. But that’s the tantrum of a child. For the first time in my life I wonder if it’s all worth it—the ships, the sailing, the fishing. We could settle down somewhere, like the Stormers, live off the land. There’s plenty of uninhabited land along our fishing route. We could pick a spot and just take it, leave the ships behind forever.

  But even the thought sends my heart sinking into my stomach. Leave the ships? Leave the sea? Settle down? It’s just not in us—it’s not in me. My people were made for the sea and I know we’ll never leave it. So that means…

  I glance over at Hobbs, who’s laughing. He makes a crying motioning with his fists against his eyes. The captain’s words ring in my ears—Then catch up!—while Hobbs’ mocking burns in my chest.

  If they won’t do anything, then I will.

  I stomp across the quarterdeck, down the steps, enjoying the sound my boots make on the wood. Solid, confident. My footsteps have never sounded like that before.

  I ignore the sleepers and the drinkers—for now, anyway.

  First, I approach one of the men struggling with the sails. “Seaman!” I holler.

  The man, a wiry fellow with yellow teeth that are showing as he exerts himself, stops suddenly, snaps around. “Are you talkin’ to me, boy?”

  The burn in my stomach, in my chest, grows into a huge bonfire, not unlike the ones we build whenever we land on the beaches of storm country. Except the fire’s in me, crackling, burning, fueling me. I wonder if this is how my father feels all the time. Powerful.

  “You will address me as Lieutenant or sir, or you will be sent to the brig, seaman!” My voice sounds different, almost like it’s coming from somewhere else, but the way it vibrates in my neck proves it’s me. I feel strong.

  “We ain’t got a brig,” the man says. He breaks into a crooked smile, his whole face lifting and his eyes sparkling like the ocean. And then he laughs, right at me, like I’m some sort of a joke. (Am I?)

  I feel my fire start to go out, as if someone’s dumped a bucket of water on it. Clenching my fists, I force the heat to rise again. I draw my sword.

  “What’re you gonna do with that little toothpick, boy?” the sailor says, spitting a wad of tobacco at my feet. “Clean my teeth?”

  What am I gonna do? Do I even know? Am I even in control anymore?

  I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, but my feet march me forward, my arm whips back, and for a moment—just a moment—there’s fear in the man’s eyes and it feels so bloody good to be feared rather than mocked. The powerful, not the powerless.

  I hit him. Hard, with the broadside of my sword.

  Smack!

  Right in the upper part of his leg, where it’ll hurt and bruise but won’t do any permanent damage.

  There’s a commotion behind me, but I don’t turn to look, because the man isn’t too happy. He’s cursing like I’ve never heard anyone curse before, even in my thirteen long yars living amongst sailors.

  Clutching at his leg, he says, “You shouldn’ta done that, boy. I’ll kill you.” He reaches down and slips a knife from his boot, tosses it from hand to hand. The way he wields it leaves no doubt in my mind: he’s killed with this knife before. Although the blood’s probably been cleaned away long ago, I can almost still see the stains on the shining metal blade.

  I should be scared, terrified—of getting cut open, of dying—but I’m not. Peace washes over me, borne by the warm breeze that continues to swirl around us. If I die today, I’ll see my mother. And anyway, there are worse things than death—like my father’s disappointment.

  “I warned you, Seaman,” I say, trying out the deep voice again, remembering words I’ve heard my father speak. “You have disobeyed a direct order by your superior officer, and therefore, you are sentenced to a day in the brig without food. Now give me your name, so it can be recorded in the ship’s annals.”

  The man stops tossing the knife, stares at me like I’ve grown a merman’s tail, and then laughs again, but this time it’s less boisterous, almost forced. “Yer one crazy little boy,” he laughs. “I’ll give you something to stick up yer annal.”

  He starts to lunge forward, and I’m already leaping back, when someone shouts, “Webb!” which stops the man dead.

  He looks behind me, but I keep my eyes on him, my sword raised, ready to defend myself to the death if necessary. “Who said that?” he growls. “I’ll kill whoever said that.”

  The same voice rings out again, and I realize it’s that of a woman. “Aye, aye, yer always saying you’ll kill everyone, Webb, but yer all talk. You only pick on those weaker than you. Yer just pissed our new lieutenant put you in yer place. Now take yer punishment like a man.”

  The man now has a name: Webb. Simply having that knowledge makes me feel like I’ve got the upper hand, like there’s power in knowing he’s not just a mysterious, knife-wielding, yellow-toothed sailor, but a man named Webb.

  It seems he feels the same thing, because his arm drops, and he releases the knife, which clatters to the wood. “This ain’t over,” he spits, glaring at me.

  “This ain’t over, sir,” I say, meeting his eyes. “You just earned yourself another day, sailor.” Finally, I turn to the crowd, almost dropping my sword when I see how many people are gathered behind me. Men and women and children, all watching, some smiling, some with wide, surprised eyes and raised eyebrows, other with flat, unreadable lips. I point at three strong-looking men standing near the front. “You, you, and you, please take Mr. Webb to the lowest decks and find a safe place for him to stay. Preferably a place with a lock.”

  “Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” the man in the middle says, saluting.

  Lieutenant. The word echoes in my head. By speaking that one simple word, this seaman on the Sailors’ Mayhem has changed my life.

  I smile as they escort Webb away.

  ~~~

  “Pull!” I shout, grunting with exertion and exhaustion, but not even close to giving up.

  As usual, my father’s words are tearing a hole in my head. Earn the respect of your seamen by being one of them and above them.

  This is the “being one of them” part. Definitely not as fun as the other part.

  I push the oar forward as hard as I can, perfectly in sync with the other oarsmen. “Pull!” I shout, wrenching the wooden pole back into my chest where it smacks my uniform with a heavy thud.

  The ship lurches forward and although we can’t see the bow cutting across the waves, can’t feel the wind through our hair, can’t watch the shores of storm country float past, there’s satisfaction in knowing the ship’s riding on our backs, on the strength in our sore muscles.

  A few hours ago, when I ordered a few men to close and lash the sails, and all other men below deck to man the oars, there were more than a few grumbles and whispers, but grudgingly, the men complied. Two of them stank so badly of grog and couldn’t walk in a straight line, so I sent them to sleep it off in the newly established brig. I’ll let them out tomorrow with a warning to not show up for work drunk again.

  “Pull!” I shout again, almost automatically as I start the motion back toward my chest. My throat is sore and my muscles burning, but I won’t stop, not while my men continue to toil. I’m not as strong or experienced as many of them, but I will work every bit as hard as I make them.

  Do I have my father in me? Do I have what it takes to lead? For the first time in my life, I think maybe I do.

  Another shout, another motion.

  Footfalls clop down the steps. A face appears. A boy, a couple of yars younger than me, with hair as white as the sands on the beaches. Jacob. I’d ordered him to stay with the wheelman, Marley, who’s responsible for steering the ship while the captain focu
ses on dreaming the day away. Jacob’s job is to periodically tell me how things are looking above deck.

  His last ten reports have been, “No change, sir.” And each time he’s reported, my muscles have ached just a little more than the last time.

  “The fleet has stopped!” he shouts, all smiles.

  A shiver of excitement runs through me, and although I’m already past the point of exhaustion, I manage a smile. “Halt!” I cry, and I’m surprised when amongst the creaking and clattering oars, a cheer rises up from the men. They’re as excited as I am.

  I stand, ready to slap a few backs, to congratulate them on a job well done, but my smile vanishes when I see the looks on most of the faces: grimaces and glares. A few of them mutter under their breaths as they stomp past, brushing by Jacob as they slowly climb the stairs.

  I just stare at them as they go, wondering what I did wrong.

  “You made them work,” a man says. He’s not much older than me—maybe three or four yars. Long, lean, sinewy arms. Short dark hair. A thin beard. He’s smiling.

  “That’s their job,” I say. Isn’t it?

  The man laughs, extends a hand. “Norris,” he says. “I man the foremast sails. The men aren’t used to working, that’s all.”

  I take his hand, which crushes mine in a firm shake. I try to squeeze back but his grip’s like iron. “Huck,” I say, forgetting myself. “I mean, Lieutenant Jones.”

  “You did well today, Lieutenant,” Norris says, looking me in the eyes. “They’ll come around. They just have to get used to you. There are a few of us who’ve been waiting for someone like you.” He motions to three other men behind him. “Meet the real crew,” he says.

  I shake each of their hands in turn, squeezing hard to avoid getting my fingers crushed. Budge, Ferris, and Whittle.

  Budge is meant to be an oarsmen, built like an anchor, heavy and compact, but usually he can’t even get enough men to join him. Until today, that is.

  Ferris is a lookout, small and thin, and apparently very good at climbing. The crow’s nest is his post.

  Whittle stinks like tobacco and has a face that only a mother could love, with dozens of scars and pockmarks, and she’d have to be a pretty understanding mother at that. He manages the bilge rats, which is evidently one of the reasons they seem to do such a fine job keeping the ship clean.

  “There’s no one to command us,” Norris says, “so we pretty much run things ourselves, with very little help from the rest of the crew. You’re very welcome here.”

  I nod firmly. Although it feels good to have a few early advocates, I get no warmth from it. I’ll need the support of every man and woman if I’m to turn things around.

  “Thank you, seaman,” I say. “If I could ask you a question. Who was the woman who shouted Webb’s name today?”

  I’m surprised when Norris and the other three snicker. “She’s a real jibboom, alright. That was Lyla, my sister. She’s about your age. She’ll love you for putting Webb in his place. He’s hated by most of the women, always leering and groping at them. Sending him to the brig will have gone a long way with the ship women.”

  My cheeks burn because of the way he says it, all wagging eyebrows and smirking. “Fine. Thank you, seaman,” I say.

  I turn and head for the door, only now realizing what’s coming next.

  It’s time to see my father.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sadie

  I’m so angry I march right through the stables without stopping to see Shadow.

  Remy’s right—too right. There’s no way Gard will let me ride to ice country with my mother.

  Mother’s not there, so I skirt the edge of the camp, taking my normal route to our training area, along the western border, where Carrion Forest is but a stone’s throw away. The heavy clouds comb the green manes of the trees, turning them a deep shade of gray. The squeal-grunt of a wild boar shrills through the air. Perhaps he stumbled upon one of our traps. My father says the forest is an evil place, full of dark magic and sorcery, but I see it only as the place where we get our food. Conies and boar and plump fowl live there, the latter roosting high in the branches of the trees, where a well-placed arrow or a good climber can reach them quite easily. The forest is the lifeblood of my people.

  We refuse to eat from the sea like the Soakers. My father says eating the sea creatures leads to madness.

  A few of the men and women in the watch tents offer greetings as I pass, but, afraid that after my encounter with Remy my voice will come out filled with venom, I offer only a nod in response to each of them.

  When I reach the broad, grassy area, I stop abruptly.

  Mother is there already, as I suspected, and she’s practicing her sword work by herself. I duck behind a tent so I can watch without her knowing. Every motion perfectly fluid, like running water, she moves with a grace and litheness that cannot be taught. Again and again, her sword flashes out and back, blocking and attacking an invisible foe.

  Paw’s killer, maybe?

  Her feet are always perfectly balanced as she dances, spins, leaps around. If she is imagining herself fighting Paw’s killer, or some other Soaker enemy, you can’t tell from her face. Her cheeks are hard with concentration and her eyes flash determination, but there’s no anger to be found. Anger is weakness, she’s taught me. Of all her sayings, that one scares me the most, because I feel angry so often. At my father’s weakness, at the Soakers, at whichever one of them took Paw’s life before it really got started. How do I thrust off the anger?

  I watch for a few more minutes, my awe growing at the perfection that is my mother.

  When I step out of hiding, she spots me, stopping in mid-swing. I’ve just saved an invisible Soaker’s life. Pity.

  “I didn’t know if you’d come,” she says, which makes me lift my eyebrows. Why wouldn’t I come?

  When she sees my confusion, she explains, “Because I slapped you.”

  Oh. That. To be honest, I’d pretty much forgotten, but now the embarrassment comes back with the speed of a flash storm. I raise a hand to my cheek, remembering the sting. “I deserved it,” I say, meaning it. I was acting like a child, being exceptionally disrespectful to my father.

  “You did,” she says with a smile, making me smile too. “But that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.”

  And just like that, all is forgiven and forgotten. “Mother, do you think Father is right?” I ask.

  “Defend!” she says, leaping forward with her sword. My blade is out before her feet touch the ground, blocking her attack, the swords ringing out in the early morning, as if welcoming the sun to the sky.

  Excitement and energy courses through me as we battle across the plains, sword fighting, circling, jumping, kicking, swinging, faster and faster, until the world becomes only me and my mother, condensed into a circle around us, everything else a blur, melting away.

  I deflect a blow to the right, to the left, above my head, backing up swiftly from my mother’s onslaught. And then she does something completely unexpected.

  She ducks and dives, right at my feet, grabs me around the ankles, knocking me off balance. I whirl my arms and tumble to the ground, where she points her sword at my neck, breathing heavily, but laughing.

  “New lesson,” she says. “Do something unexpected, surprise your enemy.”

  I nod. “Again?” It’s a question I ask each time she defeats me, until she eventually has to decline, or we’d fight all day and all night.

  She never says no after one fight.

  “No,” she says, grinning.

  “But, Moth—”

  “Our orders are to burn as much of ice country as we can, to send a message, but to spare the innocents. Kill only the king and his men,” she says, cutting me off.

  “And this is all because of Father’s prediction?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “Have you forgotten your question?”

  I have. “What question?”

  “You asked whether I think your fath
er is right.”

  “And then you attacked me,” I say, grinning.

  She laughs. “I needed time to think,” she says, which makes me laugh. While I’ve been completely focused on beating her, her mind’s been a million miles away, coming up with what to say to me.

  “So do you…think Father’s right?” I ask.

  “He’s never been…” Her voice catches, like she’s got something stuck in her throat. There’s a faraway look in her eyes, one I’ve never seen before.

  “Mother? What has he never been?” I ask, sitting up.

  “Wrong,” she says, more firmly. “He’s never been wrong.”

  Although her words come out stronger this time, her eyes are filled with the morning fog, not scared, but uncertain.

  And that scares me the most, because I’ve never seen her unsure of herself.

  ~~~

  The Plague took another life today.

  Jala, a Man of Wisdom, like my father. When my father lit his funeral pyre, his eyes were red and wet. Although I’ve been to many death ceremonies, this one hit me harder than most. Emotion swelled in my chest, and I felt like crying. I didn’t, but I felt like it.

  I didn’t know Jala well, but I haven’t seen Father cry since Paw died, and though I’ve given him a hard time lately, between his crying and my mother’s uncertain words from earlier, well, I’m out of sorts.

  There’s tension and sadness in the air as I carry two buckets of water to the stables. Men and women are scurrying about everywhere, helping the Riders prepare for their long ride and for battle.

  As soon as I enter the stables, the walls and roof seem to close in around me. For the first time in my life, I feel uncomfortable around the horses. While I water Shadow and place a thin black cloth on his back, which my mother will mount, my unease grows and grows, until I want to scream. I spot Remy preparing his father’s horse, Thunder. He smiles at me but I don’t smile back, because seeing him reminds me of our conversation from earlier. I hate being told what I can’t do. To hell with waiting for my sixteenth age day.