by David Estes
“No.”
“I’ve had it for a while now.”
“No.”
“I love you, Sadie,” he says, and the floodgates open, and the tears bloom like flowers, falling from their stems and down my cheeks. Mother Earth can’t do this. Not now. Not when I’ve finally realized…
That my father’s a hero.
And then my head’s against his chest and I don’t know how it got there, and my tears are soaking through to his skin and I’m choking, sobbing like a child, as far from a Rider as I’ve ever been before. But I’m not ashamed—not this one time. Because every tear is an apology, and my father’s worth every one.
When the pain and the pride and the sorrow grow so big that I can’t feel them anymore, my body goes numb and I drift to sleep, my father’s arms wrapped firmly around me.
~~~
My father’s still asleep when I leave, his deep breaths sighing in my memory with each step. On one side the ocean screams at me, and on the other, the thick woods whisper and taunt. You have no one!
I make for the forest, because I know it’s the one place my father won’t come looking for me. Does he have days? Does he have hours? Why am I hiding from him?
Inside the cool shroud of the trees, I feel calm again. The tears are but a distant memory, washed away by a cupped hand in a small creek I find along the way.
My back propped against a thick tree, I watch a small animal drink from the water, unaware of my presence. I’m invisible so long as I’m still. Filled, the creature moves on, scurrying into the underbrush.
A bird chirps somewhere above me, tweeting out a joyful song that doesn’t match real life. Does the bird not know?
Life goes on around me as if nothing’s changed.
When he steps from behind a tree, I can’t hide my surprise. My father’s in the forest.
“Father!” I say, leaping up. “You can’t be here. You need to be resting.”
He’s bent over, which makes him look like an old man. The birds sing his arrival as he limps toward me. “Sadie, I don’t have long now,” he says, his voice full of cracks and crumbles.
“Don’t say that, Father,” I say, helping him to the ground, feeling how bone-thin his arms are. Thin even for him. “You can’t know how long you’ve got.” But I know my words are a false hope because: He’s never been wrong. A Man of Wisdom till the end.
“I had to…”—he coughs into his arm, swallows hard—“…had to see you again, Sadie. Before it’s too late.”
As usual, I’ve been selfish, running from my fear, hiding from my father in the forest. When he needs me most. Black clouds move overhead, thundering a warning. “Father, I’m sorry,” I say. For everything.
He shakes his head, coughs again, massages his forehead, which is etched with deep lines of age and decay. “No more apologies, my dear daughter. For you have been chosen for great things and deserve to know the truth.”
Great things? Like treating my father terribly? Like suffering the loss of my entire family? I say nothing.
My father’s face is red and melting—raging with a fever. Late stages of the Plague. Of course, he was right. He doesn’t have long. “I should’ve told you sooner, but I was afraid…”—he fights off a half-sob—“…afraid you would blame yourself. Afraid it would destroy you.”
“What, Father?” I say. “Just tell me.”
He nods, places a hand on my shoulder, as if to gain courage, or perhaps to comfort me. “That night, when Paw was taken…” He shudders as a heavy blast of wind hurls itself through the trees. Leaves fall like rain.
“Father, please. Tell me. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”
He nods again, squeezes my shoulder. “I know you can, Sadie. You are strong, so strong. I’m so proud of you.” His voice hitches and tears stream down his cheeks. I’m filled with emotion and love—so much love—but something’s changed in me. Something powerful, like crying last night wasn’t a sign of weakness, like I thought. It’s almost as if I’ve been cleansed, unburdened, strengthened. If only I could share that strength with my father.
I put my arms around him as he weeps openly.
The first drops of rain drum on the treetops. More leaves fall. And still I hold him.
“Tell me the truth, Father,” I say.
Eyes wet, he looks up at me. “I had a vision before you were born,” he says.
This I know. I’m thankful every day for that vision. “That I would be a Rider,” I say.
“Yes, yes. But that was only the beginning. You were riding your horse, black with a white butterfly-shaped marking on its nose.”
“Passion,” I say.
“Passion,” he agrees. “There will be a great battle with the Soakers. You will fight magnificently, maybe more so than your mother.” His voice is gaining strength, growing clearer. Maybe he’s not as close to the end as he thinks. “You will see him, the high-ranking Soaker boy in the blue uniform.”
“I know, you told me, Father. That I have to decide whether to kill him. But why wouldn’t I? Where’s the choice?” My voice sounds unnaturally high. I lower it. “If we’re fighting the Soakers, why would I show mercy to one of their officers?”
“I don’t know, Sadie,” he says. “I just know that it’s your choice and your choice alone. And that it will change everything.”
I look to the sky, which is a black blanket between the leaves. The rain is falling harder now, seeking to soak us through the gaps in the leaves, but failing, drumming all around us. We are dry.
“I don’t understand, Father. How can saving or killing a Soaker boy change things? What impact could it possibly have?”
Father’s eyes shimmer with tears and knowledge. “That is for you to discover, my daughter.”
We sit for a moment, listening to the rain, waiting for it to pour down upon our heads. I wonder at my fate. You have been chosen for great things. Even the words make me feel small, unworthy.
“I had another vision before you were born,” Father says suddenly. He reaches a shaking hand forward and I take it, hold it, try to calm it.
“Tell me,” I say.
“It was of the night Paw would die,” he says.
“You knew?” I say harshly, and the familiar heat surges through my blood. I take a deep breath. I can’t waste a moment of the time we have left in anger. “Why didn’t you take us away from there? Why didn’t you stop it from happening?” I have to understand.
He laughs, but it’s a wheezing, coughing laugh that breaks my heart. “If there’s one thing I’ve been taught over and over again, it’s that you can’t change the future, only how you’ll respond to it.”
“But what about my choice?” I say. “If the future is set in stone, do I even have a choice? Or is my choice preordained?”
“A wise question,” Father says. “One I’ve pondered often. But I don’t choose what future I see. It’s a gift from Mother Earth. And in this case I can only see to the point where you face the Soaker boy. That is the future that cannot be changed. What comes after, that is up to you.”
“And Paw’s future? That was set in stone?”
His chin drops to his chest and he closes his eyes. His voice comes out as a whisper, barely loud enough to be heard over the rain, which continues to thrum on our leafy door, almost begging to get to us. “I saw the night of the attack. I didn’t know how the Soakers would break through, just that they would. I saw you playing with Paw, laughing, having so much fun. I remember smiling even as I was graced with the vision. And then they came. I saw you in the tent and Paw on the ground. I knew he was dead.”
“Then why didn’t you do something? You say you can’t change the future, but I don’t understand. You could’ve hid us in the forest, taken us away somewhere safe, somewhere they wouldn’t find us.” You can’t change the future. Just how you respond to it. My response has always been anger and condescension.
“I tried,” Father says. “We started for the forest, but Paw said his stomach hu
rt, and then it was his leg, and then he was scared of the lightning flashing in the distance. He refused to walk. When I tried to carry him, he kicked and screamed and fought me every step of the way. But I persevered, brought you to the edge of this very wood. We tried to enter it, but every path we took was blocked, by brambles or thickets, or trees packed so tightly you’d swear they were a fortress.
“We could have stayed at the edge of the forest, but I already knew they’d find us. By the will of Mother Earth, they’d find us anyway. And then you wouldn’t be in the tent like in my vision. I thought maybe they’d get you, too, Sadie. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“So you took us back so Paw could die and I live?” I can’t keep the pulsing, throbbing anger out of my voice this time. There had to be another way. We could’ve started running and not stopped until we were far, far away.
Ignoring my question, he continues. “So we went back. I put you both in the tent, sat you in the corner, watched you. But you were so fidgety, so squirmy, two little worms unwilling to be tethered. You insisted to go outside and play your game, with the rocks and the sticks. I told you no over and over, but you wouldn’t give up, until finally I relented, because at that point I knew: you would be in the yard playing when the Soakers showed up. No matter what I did, you would be there; even if Mother Earth had to work magic before my very eyes and cause you to disappear from the tent and reappear in the yard, you would be there.
“So I let you go, but stayed with you, right next to you, watching you play. You were so happy. So happy.” His voice falters and he looks away, reaches out a hand, palm up, as if trying to catch the rain. When he pulls his hand back to his lap it’s dry. “When they came, I grabbed you both, one under each arm. I ran for the tent. Because I could stop it from happening. I could change the future. They’d have to kill me to get to either of you.”
He pauses and I realize my fingernails are digging into my legs. I’m fighting with my father’s memory, every step of the way, trying to remember. Trying…
“And then suddenly he was gone. Paw. One second he was under my arm and the next he was on the ground. Before I even knew he was gone, I’d run another few steps. The tent was so close, but when I looked back, Paw was watching us, laughing, as if something was so funny. And I made a choice, Sadie. If I’d gone back you might’ve been killed, too. So I ran the last few steps to the tent, put you inside, and went back for him, tried to protect him. But they pushed me aside, knocked me down, and they—they…”
“Shhh,” I say, touching his face. “No more. No more, Father. You’ve said it all.”
“No,” Father says. “Sadie, he was always going to die. Always. He had to die so you could live. That’s why I couldn’t tell you. I thought it would destroy you.”
Too much. It’s too much. “It should’ve been me,” I say.
“No, Sadie. You have to go on. You have to be strong. You have to change things for us all.”
And in that moment, I know I will. Whatever my destiny is, I’ll live it for Paw, for Mother, for Father.
“I love you, Father,” I say, feeling his body shake with pain and the Plague as I hug him.
“I…love you…too, Sadie,” he says, his voice getting weaker with every word. And I hold him and hold him and hold him until the shaking slows and slows and slows, even as the rain falls harder and harder and harder, and then his body goes still, so still.
And the rain falls and the ground around us grows wet, but we are dry; in a perfect circle around the base of that tree, no rain can fall.
And in that circle, a great man dies.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Huck
We talk until the sun sets, and I pretend to motion to the sails, as if I’m teaching her about the finer art of sail repair. I’m conscious of the occasional stares from below and very aware when Hobbs pays us an inordinate amount of attention for longer than normal. But today I don’t care.
She teaches me about fire country, about strange spiky plants called pricklers that are filled with juice and that have skin that’s tough until you cook it. She tells me stories of the Hunters, of the enormous beasts they would bring back, of wild animals called Killers, with razor-sharp teeth and monstrous claws. I could listen to her stories all day.
But eventually she tires of talking and begins asking me questions about life on The Merman’s Daughter. How it’s different than the Mayhem. What it was like growing up as the admiral’s son. About my mother. I tell her about the pride I used to feel marching around with my father, like I was somebody. How listening to him barking orders to the men, laying down appropriate punishment and dealing out deserved praise, would stir my heart in such a way that I wanted nothing more than to be just like him, to follow in his footsteps.
“And now?” Jade asks.
Now? “I am following in his footsteps,” I say. “I’m a lieutenant. I’m running a ship.”
“And me?” she asks, and I finally realize where she’s going with it. Would he approve of me talking to a bilge rat as I would speak to a friend?
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I just don’t know anymore.”
She nods. “Thank you for not lying.”
Her arm’s so close I can feel the hairs on her skin touching mine. I shiver as the last rays of sun flash red and then orange and then purple before disappearing below the horizon.
“Why does your father send children here?” I ask, before I can stop myself. And in my mind: Why did he send you here?
She swallows hard and I see I’ve upset her. Her fingers squeeze the wooden railing. “It has something to do with seaweed,” she says.
Ready to laugh, I look for the joke on her face, but her expression’s as flat as the deck planks below. “Seaweed?” I say. “You mean the stuff we’re forced to eat almost every day?”
“Yeah, but not the weeds we pull from the ocean, the stuff that washes up on shore and gets all dried out in the sun.”
“They make tea from that, don’t they?”
“Some of it,” she says. “But the rest they put in huge bags. There’s a lot more than what they need for tea.”
I scratch my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what that has to do with bilge rats.”
“Why do you call us that?” she asks sharply, pain apparent in her eyes. “We’re humans, you know. Not searin’ rats.”
I feel a flush on my cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“You didn’t think, did you?” she snaps, and the old Jade is back, the one who throws scrub brushes as well as she throws glares.
“I didn’t. It’s just what we’ve always called…”—I pause, struggling to find a way of saying what I mean without being offensive—“your kind of brown-skinned people from fire country,” I spew out in an avalanche of verbal diarrhea. I freeze, hold my breath, watching her glare from the corner of my eye.
Then, to my absolute shock, she laughs. “You can just call us Heaters from now on. But you better not do so in front of your father or he’ll know you know the truth. And if I ever find out who came up with the name bilge rats, watch out.” I picture a hailstorm of brushes raining down from above.
“So back to the seaweed…” I say. “How is it linked to…the Heaters?”
She squints, although there’s no sun left to be in her eyes. “I’m not sure exactly. All I know is that sometimes when we’re anchored, a few men leave with the big bags of dried seaweed and then come back with a new lot of children.”
“And the seaweed?”
“They never come back with that.”
~~~
We make it down from the crow’s nest just before we lay anchor. Jade goes first, sliding all the way to the bottom in a show of remarkable grace and agility, striding off in search of food from the ship’s stores as if a day spent with me was nothing to her.
(Was it nothing?)
I climb down more carefully, using the ladder, happy when my feet are back on solid wood, relishing the gentle ro
ck of the moored ship beneath me. We’re the second ship to arrive, and a plank has already been secured between us and The Merman’s Daughter. My father wastes no time crossing it. Hobbs is waiting for him, but to my surprise, he greets me first. “Lieutenant Jones. Son. What do you have to report?”
I’m taken aback by his sudden show of respect. Hobbs steps forward. “Sir, if I may, we’ve made significant prog—”
“Let me be clear, Hobbs, you’re here to observe. Any progress made is the result of the leadership of the captain and his lieutenant, my son. Understand?”
Hobbs nods, but then glares at me when my father turns away from him. I almost laugh. “Admiral, as you can see, the ship is performing better than it ever has before. The men and women are working hard, doing their duty, and should be rewarded accordingly. Under my supervision, the sail repair work is moving forward rapidly, which has greatly increased the ship’s speed.”
“You and the bilge rat seem to be getting on rather well,” Hobbs says.
“Bilge rat?” my father says, raising an eyebrow.
“I’ve trained one of the…a girl…to repair the sails. She’s a good climber and a quick learner. Much of the credit goes to her.”
“There seems to be more talking than repairing going on up there,” Hobbs sneers.
Ignoring his comment, my father says, “Credit? To a rat? Surely the credit is yours, Son. The…girl you speak of wouldn’t know a patch from her ass if it wasn’t for your leadership.”
Something flashes in my chest. I’ve got several less diplomatic responses available, but all I say is, “Thank you, sir. We’ll continue with the effort until every sail is in pristine condition.”
“Very good. Hobbs,” he says, turning to the fuming lieutenant. “Are you still needed here? Do you have more to report or can I safely assume that the transition of Lieutenant Jones to the Mayhem has been an outright success?”
His words are the ones I’ve been waiting for my whole life. I should be proud. I should be swelling with happiness and confidence right now. But instead I feel sick, as if his words are sour, full of bitterness, because…well, because, as Jade said, “…your father brought us here against our will from fire country.”
