Ice Country

To the starboard side I can see theshoreline, sandy at first, and then green, rolled out like awelcome mat. Above the land, the yellow clouds darken to black.

In the waters surrounding the ship, I see thefamiliar dark triangles of sharp-tooths breaking the surface,patrolling the ocean, hoping for an execution or a natural death togive them the chance to taste human flesh yet again.

But even the constant presence of thesharp-tooths can’t wipe away my grin. Not today.

The ship lurches beneath me, riding the crestof yet another big rolling wave. But I don’t stumble, don’t lose mybalance, don’t so much as sway from the ship’s movements or thetumultuous wind that whips my shirt in a frenzy around me.

Steady.

Balanced.

A seaman, through and through.

And smiling, bigger than the ocean, relishingthe salt spray splashing my face as a wave crashes against thehull, living for the feel of the power rolling and throbbingbeneath my feet, laughing when a flock of white-winged big-chinsdive bomb the water, each emerging with a nice-sized fish clampedtightly between their beaks.

This is the life. The life of a Soaker. Atypical morning in water country.

My life, all about to change.

“Huck,” a deep voice rumbles from behind. Nota murmur, not a greeting: a command.

Startled, I turn quickly, my smile vanishingin an instant. “Father?” I say.

“Admiral Jones,” he says, but I don’tunderstand. Admiral Jones is what his shipmen call him.

“Sir?” I say.

“Son,” he says, taking two steps forward toreach my side. “Today you become a man.” His words are the truthbut I know he doesn’t mean them. Not after what happened. Not afterwhat always happens.

Today’s the start of my fourteenth yar, theyar I cast off my childish ways and become a real seaman, not justthe son of one. “I’m ready,” I say, wondering if it’s true. Idesperately want to look down, to look away, to escape the piercingstare of my father’s crystal blue eyes, but I don’t—

—because men don’t look away for anyone;

—men aren’t scared of anything;

—men don’t cry.

My father’s creed, one I’ve heard a millionand a half times.

And men don’t fail their fathers, like I haveso many times before.

Resting a hand on my shoulder, myfather—Admiral Jones—says, “Are you? Ready?”

Uh…I think? Maybe? “Aye,” I say, keeping mygaze on his but feeling his disappointment tremble through me.

“Hmm,” Father says, chewing on his lip. “Isuppose we’ll find out, won’t we?”

I hold my breath because the way he’s lookingat me, so full of doubt, so uncertain, with one eyebrow raised, hisnostrils flared slightly, his expression lopsided, seems to pick meapart from the outside in, like a big-chin tearing at the flesh ofa fish. If I breathe I’m afraid it will come out in a raggedshudder, and then he’ll know.

He’ll know I’m not a man, even if I’mfourteen now.

I feel my face warm while I hold my breathfor ten seconds, twe

Just when I start to feel a littlelightheaded, he looks away, turns, stomps off, his boots hammeringthe wooden deck like a funeral drum. I let my breath out as slowlyas I can, closing my eyes. “I am a man,” I whisper under mybreath, trying to convince myself. “I won’t fail you. Not anymore.”If only I had the guts to say it loud enough for him to hear.

“Walk with me, Son,” my father says withoutturning around.

“Aye, aye, Father,” I say.

“Admiral Jones,” he replies, and I finallyunderstand. By blood he’s still my father, but by rights he’s theadmiral, and I’m one of his men, subject to all the same rules asanyone else.

“Admiral Jones,” I correct, wondering whysaying it this time doesn’t feel nearly as good as it always didwhen I practiced in my cabin.

I hustle to catch up, trying to stride theway he does across the deck. Long steps, chin up, eyes sweeping theship, taking everything in. As we walk aft, toward the rear of theship, two of my father’s lieutenants are swashbuckling to the left,or starboard side. Their swords ring out loud and shrill andpracticed as they parry and slash and block. It’s a morning ritualfor these two, Cain and Hobbs, one I’ve watched with a boyishinterest many times before.

When we approach, they stop, planting theirblades point-first into the deck. They each raise a flat hand totheir foreheads in a rigid salute. “At ease, lieutenants,” myfather says.

They relax their arms but continue to standat attention. “Mornin’, Admiral…Huck,” Cain says, his blue uniformturning dark with sweat stains beneath his armpits. He flashes me asmile.

“Mornin’, Cain,” I say, smiling back.

“Lieutenant Cain,” my father correctssharply. I look up at him and he’s giving me those dark eyes again,sparkling blue under the morning sun but shrouded in shadow fromthe brim of his admiral’s cap.

“Lieutenant Cain,” I mumble, feeling stupid.How can I be a man if I can’t even talk right?

“Mornin’, Huck,” Hobbs says with a sneer.Unlike Cain, he’s never liked me.

I frown at his half-smirk. “Mornin’,” I sayunder my breath.

“Lieutenant,” my father saysagain.

Stupid, stupid. “Lieutenant,” I say.

“So you’re a man today,” Cain says, slappingme on the back with a firm hand. It hurts a little but I’ve neverfelt better.

“I am,” I say, beaming.

“That remains to be seen,” my father says,wiping the grin off my face with his words. How do I prove myselfto him after what happened two years ago? My mother’s face flashesthrough my mind: her quick smile, her green eyes, her long blondehair. The way she’d read to me at night. Tales of great battlesagainst the Stormers, our independence won and lost and won again.Many years ago.

Her face again, not smiling this time: awashwith terror, twisted and stricken and looking up at me,pleading—her eyes always pleading…

“Huck!” my father barks.

I snap out of the memory, shake my head.Hobbs is snickering while Cain looks at me under a furrowed brow.Father’s lips are unreadable beneath his thick salt-and-pepperbeard. “Wha—what?” I stammer.

“Lieutenant Hobbs asked you a question,” myfather says.

I glance at Hobbs, who looks smug, his handson his hips. “Aye?” I say. Catching myself, I add,“Lieutenant.”

“Have you been practicing your sword work?”he asks.

Not the question I expected. For a moment Ilet the warmth of pride fill my heart, because I have. Beenpracticing, that is. Every spare moment I’ve been practicing withthe wooden blade my father gave me when I turned seven. Fightingthe other young boys on the ship, parrying with masts, battlingheavy bags of potatoes and rice. Swinging and swinging my practicesword until it’s become a part of me, an extension of my arm andhand.

I stick my chest out and say, “Aye.”

“Show us,” Hobbs says, a gleam in his darkbrown eyes.

I look at him sideways, wondering what he’sup to, but not wanting to disappoint my father yet again, I startto pull my wooden sword from where it hangs loosely from mybelt.

“No,” Hobbs says. “Not with that. With this.”He reaches down and picks up a sword, shorter than his, but shinyand sharp and real. And the hilt…

—it has the Admiral’s markings on it, awoman, beautiful and shapely, her hair long and falling in front ofher shoulders to cover her naked breasts. And beneath: the skin ofher stomach gives way to a long tail with scaly fins, like a fish.A merwoman. Identical to the figurehead at the bow of the ship. Theship’s namesake. The Merman’s Daughter.

The sword is my birthright, the sword I willwear until my father dies and I inherit his long blade. With aslight bow, Hobbs holds it in front of him reverently, offering itto me. Through his long blonde bangs, which hang over his eyes, Isee him wink at me as I take it.

Something’s up. Hobbs never winks.