Water & Storm Country (17 page)

I stand with nine others, my age or a year
younger, in a line. Remy was already waiting when I arrived, and I
chose a position on the opposite end. One of us is last and one
first, depending on which direction Gard chooses to start from.

Gard begins by clearing his throat.
“Stormers, we have faced a grave threat and have been victorious!”
I stay silent while the camp cheers. “The Icer King is dead!” More
cheers. “But the war is not yet won. Although we have cut off the
head of the dragon that would deliver children to work as slaves on
the Soakers’ ships, the true beast slides along the blue crests of
the sea untouched. We have lost many Riders, our protectors,
defenders of good and warriors against evil, but
WE
are not
lost. Not while we still have breath in our lungs, blood in our
veins, honor in our hearts.”

Gard pauses, scans the crowd. “We must
replenish our numbers earlier than we’d planned, but that is no
matter to us. Not when the next two generations of Riders are the
brothers and sisters standing before you today.” He motions to us,
and the crowd’s attention follows. Having this many eyes on me
would normally be embarrassing, but tonight I feel as tall and
strong as Gard, and nothing can touch me.

The people are a blur of faces, featureless,
a mob of flesh and bone and responsibility. Mine to protect. Mine
to honor. I cannot look any of them in the eyes knowing my mother’s
death has gone unpunished.

And then one face rises above the others and
it’s my father, weeping. Are his tears still for my mother? Or is
it joy, because I’m finally taking my rightful place among the
hero-filled fold, to a position he ordained for me fifteen long
years ago?

He mouths something, and I think it’s
Remember
, but I can’t be sure, and I can’t possibly
interpret his lips or the meaning of the word, not when Gard’s
calling my name, and I’m realizing I’m first, and Remy’s last, for
what it’s worth.

I pull my eyes away from my father’s wet face
and phantom word.

Remember.

I walk across to Gard, kneel before him as
the ceremony requires, having seen it done many times, each and
every year since I was old enough to attend.

Remember what?

I feel his hands on my head, pressing down
firmly, listen to him speak the sacred words—“The power is in you,
let it speak. The strength creates you, let it build. The fire
rages, let it burn. Fear nothing but failure. Seek nothing but
victory. Find nothing but honor. You are a Rider, like you’ve
always been. Claim your partner.”—feel the power and the strength
and the
fire
roar through me with his words and his
touch.

Remember my mother? Remember what the Icers
did to her? Remember that it was the actions of the Soakers that
caused it? Remember how my father ran the other way when Paw was
murdered?

Remember, remember, remember…
the word
strikes me to the heart like a lance.

When the weight of Gard’s heavy hands lifts
from the crown of my head, I look up and the war leader nods. I
stand to cheers and thunder from stomping feet, stride toward the
stables, invincible, where a horse is being led toward me.

With a sleek, black hide, long, black mane,
and fierce brown eyes, she’s everything I always imagined she would
be. Stamping her feet, pulling at the ropes, snorting heavy plumes
of breath out of her flaring nostrils, she’s unbroken. It takes
four strong men, Riders, to control her, and even then, she’s
uncontrollable. Wild. Hungry. Mine.

As I approach, I notice a mar on the complete
darkness of her coloring: A single patch of white sits high on her
nose, almost between her ears, shaped like a butterfly. White
wings.

Can she fly?

I’m still admiring her wild and untamed
perfection, wondering where she was found, how hard it was for the
Horse Whisperers to lure her close enough to capture her, whether
she put up a fight, when one of the ropes are thrust into my
hands.

Thankfully, I have enough sense to grab it
firmly, to hold on, to remember the words my mother taught me, let
them flow freely through my mind.
I am yours, you are mine, we
are one. A warrior and a steed become a Rider. Fight with me even
as I fight with you. Separate, our strength is breakable, matched
by many; combined, our power is above all, unstoppable.

The words roll over and over in my mind as I
take the second rope, walking my hands up the thick strands,
feeling them burn my palms as the horse bucks and strains against
the bonds that are so foreign to a creature that has known only
complete freedom while roaming wild on the plains.

Freedom is an illusion.
I’m surprised
to hear my father’s words in my head while I’m so focused on
approaching my horse. I shake my head and resume my chant, this
time out loud, first as a whisper and then louder and louder as I
get closer and closer. The horse isn’t calmed by my words, but I
know she hears them, because she’s completely focused on me now,
and I’m oblivious to the ceremony that continues behind me.

Passion.
The name occurs to me just
like my mother said it would, right when one of the Riders are
thrown down when the horse charges sharply to one side.

“Passion,” I say, and she stands perfectly
still, matching the intensity of my gaze. “Sadie.” She snorts, as
if my name is but a cricket under the stomp of her grand feet. And
so it is.

I shouldn’t be this close, not at the first
meeting. My mother told me, but it takes Passion to teach me.

She seems calm since I spoke her name. Her
head even bows a little, and my mother said a wild horse will never
do that. Already, our bond is special.

I reach forward to rub the white butterfly on
her nose.

Her drooping eyes suddenly flash with anger
and her head bucks as she leaps forward, butting me, throwing me
backward, nearly stomping on my leg as I skid across the grass.

Passion.

E
very day the
performance of the ship improves. Norris has been undeniably
helpful, urging the men to work harder and faster. Budge, Ferris,
and Whittle have led by example, the first ones up and the last
ones to bed, toiling as hard as I’ve seen any sailors work, even
those on The Merman’s Daughter. Every man, woman, and bilge rat
does their part, following orders almost before they’re given.

Well, almost everyone. There are still the
odd few who want the old days back, when they could sleep away half
the day and drink away the whole night. Those ones have made the
brig their home, seeming to relish getting sent there again and
again, despite the ever-increasing awfulness of the conditions down
below.

I’m sure they’re the ones spreading the
rumors about Webb. Barney keeps me abreast of the latest theories,
how Webb is being held against his will to fulfill some fetish of
mine, or how he’s gone crazy and is strapped to a chair, never
sleeping, spouting predictions of death to all who sail on the
Mayhem. Barney claims the men don’t believe these ridiculous
stories, but I know based on the strange looks they give me, that
some do.

The official story is that he drank too much
grog and fell overboard, which is more plausible than the current
rumors, if less interesting. It seems the official story was
dismissed as fiction the moment it was issued. And so it is. The
real truth is a heaviness on my soul that I scarcely bare.

(That I’m a killer.)

Because the sailors are doing their jobs, I’m
finding myself with more and more time to observe, to walk the
decks, to watch the girl.

Every day she climbs the mast to clean. And
every day she pretends I don’t exist, even when I’m obviously
spying on her. But then everything changes. She starts doing things
to acknowledge me, when I least expect it, when I’m starting to
think I’m invisible to her. Sometimes she spits in my direction,
leaving a wad of bubbly white at my feet; or she fakes like she’s
going to throw her brush at me again, causing me to flinch and her
to laugh; or she makes a face at me, like just looking at me makes
her want to throw up, but then her smile gives her away. She’s
enjoying our distant moments as much as I am.

And I am, although I shouldn’t be. What am I
doing exactly?

I’ve seen my father a few times, when the
fleet stops. We’re in the middle of the pack now, not the best
performing ship, but not the worst either, and although my father
is annoyed and frustrated that Cain and Hobbs were unable to
discover the identity of my attacker, he’s begun complimenting me
on what I’ve been able to accomplish on the Mayhem. Always these
accolades are issued in private, while publicly it’s Captain
Montgomery who receives his praise, at least when he’s vertical
enough to do so, but that doesn’t bother me as much as I’d
expect.

In fact, my father’s praise seems to fall
flat at times. It’s what I’ve always wanted, right? To feel his
pride in my chest, hear it in my ears, washing away the day I
failed him and me and my mother.

(It’s because of the girl.)

(Because of what he’d do to her if he knew
what she did to me.)

As I wonder how I’ve reached this point,
marveling at the strange series of events that have made it
possible, the bilge rat girl scrubs ferociously at a mast that has
to be wearing away under her daily assault.

I pretend to scan the horizon, to watch the
ocean, to do lieutenant-like things, when really my attention is on
her. Waiting, waiting, waiting, for her daily sign of
acknowledgement. Something that’s become a ritual for the both of
us, something to wake up for.

That’s when the ritual changes.

She looks right at me and I can’t pretend to
look at the ocean anymore, not when she’s looking at me. And I wait
for the sign—for the spitting or the faked brush throw or the
vomit-face—but instead, she smiles and my heart stops.

(It really does.)

And then she slides down the mast, smiling
the whole way. My heart starts beating again, faster, faster,
faster, because she walks toward me. She’s heading toward another
mast, surely, to climb and clean it, but I know it’s not true, and
then she passes by the wood column and moves toward the steps to
the quarterdeck.

She pauses for a moment at the bottom, but
then takes the first step. Every man, woman, and bilge rat stops
what they’re doing to watch her, because everyone knows you must be
a lieutenant or above, or invited by one, to climb those steps. But
she’s doing it, and I don’t know why and I don’t know what to do,
because I don’t want her to be punished, but she’s forcing my hand
and

(Because I’ve killed to save her life.)

The girl reaches the top. My heart races as
she walks toward me. I stand, nearly stumbling on the crate I’ve
been sitting on.

When she nears me, she stops. “My name is
Jade,” she says, in a voice that’s much less rough than I expected.
“I just wanted you to know that so you can stop thinking of me as
the bilge rat girl.” I can feel the stares of the men on us, but at
least this bold girl—Jade, what a beautiful name—is speaking low
enough that no one else can hear her words.

And I have to do something or they’ll kill
her and tell my father and it will all be over. The daily ritual,
the shared secrets, my father’s pride: gone in an instant.

Jade nods, as if encouraging me.

“Huck,” I say, wondering why I don’t say
Lieutenant Jones.

“What kind of name is Huck?” she asks,
turning her head slightly, exposing her cheek.

I slap her, not soft and not hard, a quick
snap of my wrist, not because she mocked my name but because she’s
left me no choice.

I do it for her and it hurts me too.

She takes a step back, unsurprised, not so
much as raising a hand to her reddened cheek. Her eyes dance with
the smile she can’t show on her lips. “That’ll be a day in the brig
for your nerve!” I shout, plenty loud enough for every man and
woman watching to hear. “And the next time you dare to climb those
steps you’ll swim with the sharp-tooths!”

But my words don’t match the smile I can feel
in my eyes. Bowing slightly, she walks away, descends the steps,
and allows herself to be marched to the brig by the two men who’ve
stepped forward to carry out my punishment.

It’s all I can do to hide the mixture of
astonishment and jubilation that stretches and pulls beneath the
skin of my face.

~~~

Jade’s out of the brig and back on the masts.
She won’t look at me. Is she angry with me for slapping her, for
sending her to isolation? How could she be when she left me no
choice?

There it is, a quick glance in my direction,
the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Not
angry.

So I can keep on doing what I’m doing,
right?

But what exactly is that? Stealing moments
with the bilge rat girl—
Jade…so you can stop thinking of me as
the bilge rat girl
—carrying on like we’re building some type of
a friendship? I laugh out loud.

“What is it, sir?” Barney says, approaching
from the side.

Trying to pretend like I was generally
scanning the ship, rather than focusing entirely on Jade, who
continues scrubbing, I say, “I was just having a chuckle at the
pathetic disrepair of the sails. It’s a wonder we sail at all.”

“Mmm,” Barney muses. “I’ve wondered why your
attention has been on the skies as of late.”

I give him a dagger-filled glance, but I
can’t hold it when I see the curved-sausage smile on his fat lips.
“You know, I have some experience repairing sails,” I say, “from
one of my apprenticeships on The Merman’s Daughter. My father
insisted that to be a captain one day I needed to learn every
aspect of a ship’s management.”