Water & Storm Country

  When Remy nods at me I look away.

  My mother’s name is called and I shut my ears to my father’s wails, clench my fists, and watch her burn with the others, holding my breath to the charred odor of burning flesh.

  When the names have all been called, I raise my head to the sky with the others, watch the souls rise to meet our Mother, to become the clouds that provide the water we drink, the food for everything that grows.

  And when I raise a fist in the air, I don’t have to look to know that the other Riders are doing the same. My brothers and sisters.

  My calling.

  At least my father got one thing right.

  The horses of the fallen—at least those which survived the battle—each receive a smack on the rump, and it’s like they know. They know. Their whinnies and nays keen the air, splitting it in half, and they run, free again, Riderless and lost.

  Shadow is the fastest horse of them all.

  ~~~

  The second ceremony will include every young Rider over thirteen years on this world. Although I’d like to think I influenced Gard’s decision, the reality is that he had already decided before I ever stepped foot in his tent with my demands.

  We are beside the stables, as far from the human ashes as possible. The entire camp, save for the Healers and wounded, are here, waiting for Gard to speak. Hundreds of men and women and children. The night is unusually warm, as if the earlier bonfire has been infused into the air. Smoke curls above the camp, as if transporting the final lingering souls to the clouds.

  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.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Huck

  Every 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.”

  “It would be unusual for a lieutenant to be seen repairing sails,” Barney says.

  “Is there another?”

  “Unfortunately, the sad state of the sails is a direct result of an unfortunate accident involving the previous sail climber. While performing his work he fell to his death. His breath stank of grog.”

  “I must train a replacement immediately. Would that be acceptable to the men?”

  Barney winks. “Given the need, I suspect that will pass the men’s scrutiny. Did you have someone in mind?”

  I chew on my lip, wondering whether the words between my teeth are really as foolish as my brain is telling me they are. “The job is dangerous and I will not risk the life of one of the sailors. A bilge rat will do, someone good at climbing, like that nasty girl who’s always cleaning the masts and glaring at everyone. Bring her to my cabin when the sun is at its peak.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Barney says, the annoyingly contagious smile returning to his lips once more.

  ~~~

  “Get the scorch offa me!” The shout is just outside my door and I can’t help but cringe when I hear it. It’s her. Jade.

  And from the s
ounds of it, she’s putting up one helluva a bloody fight.

  I’mafoolI’mafoolI’mafool. What was I thinking?

  There’s a heavy thud on the door, and I suspect it’s from Jade’s foot, rather than one of my men’s hands. “Come in!” I shout.

  The door is thrown open and a pair of sailors—Sid and Monty—carry her in, trying to subdue her thrashing arms and legs. Sid’s lip is cut and dribbling blood and Monty’s eye is already showing purple from what I expect was a well-placed kick, for it was he who apparently drew the short straw and was forced to carry her legs.

  “You!” Jade screams when she sees me, and I want to step back at the ferocity of her verbal assault, but I can’t. Instead I step forward.

  “Leave her to me,” I say to the men.

  “Sir, I don’t think—” Sid starts to say, his knuckles white from pinning Jade’s arms to her side.

  “Leave her,” I repeat.

  When Sid hesitates for a moment, Jade twists her head back and tries to bite him. He yelps, dropping her. Because Monty is still clutching her legs, she tumbles face first on the wooden floor. Monty drops her legs and they both scuttle out of the room like crabs returning to their holes.

  The door slams and I’m alone with her.

  I reach down to help Jade to her feet, but she slaps my hand away, pushes up, kneels, and stands; shoves me back with a strength that’s disconnected from her slim build. Her eyes flash with the anger of a sea snake who’s been disturbed from its slumber.

  The backs of my legs hit my bed and I sit down.

  “What do you want with me?” Jade says, accusation in her voice. What does she think I’m going to do to her? Her eyes are flitting from me to the bed and back again. Oh no. She thinks I want to…that I’m going to try to…

  “No,” I say. “It’s not what you think. I only wanted to—”

  “To what? To make me another of your possessions? It’s bad enough that I’m chained to this ship. To be chained to you would be ten times worse.”