Water & Storm Country

Sinking, sinking, until the beach is up to mywaist and I’m at the perfect height for Hobbs to—

He swings, his blade slicing through the air,right for my neck—

—and I close my eyes—

—and I scream—

—but no sound comes out and I don’t feel myhead getting chopped off (can you feel your head getting choppedoff?), and when I open my eyes I’m not on the beach anymore, andHobbs isn’t there, and I’m laughing—of all thingslaughing—and gentle arms grip me from behind, holding meagainst the railing, letting the wind sweep over and around me.

My mother’s head slips in next to mine andshe kisses me on the cheek. “You know I’ll never leave you, right?”she asks.

But I don’t know that, because she did leaveme, and then it’s happening again—no, not again, please, please,please…

The ship lurches and she stumbles and therailing is too low to stop her momentum, cutting her at the waist,the heaviness of her upper body pulling her over.

In my desperation I grab at her hand, feel myfingers close around hers, every last bit of the weight of hermuscles and bones pulling against me, hating me, angry that I’mtrying to thwart their plans of pulling her into the sea.

I’m crying out, yelling for help—Get mesome bloody help!—but no one’s close enough, and I’m not strongenough, and she’s slipping, slipping, slipping away from my sweatyhand and my straining arm muscles, and when I look to the side,along the rail, he’s standing there, close enough to see but toofar to help.

My father. Darkness in his stare, because heknows.

He knows.

I’ll fail him, like I always do.

But I won’t—not again. I grip her tighter,and try to stand, to get some leverage. I reach out my other arm,because if I can only grab her with that one, maybe two arms willbe enough to pull her up, or at least hold her until help arrives.Surely my father will come.

I reach, and I’m almost there.

(Could I really save her this time?)

And that’s when she slips from my grasp.

And I scream.

And I won’t watch this time, not ever again,so I look away, right at my father, who hasn’t moved to help.

His eyes burn me, set me on fire, the flameshot and everywhere and on my clothes and skin. And again, Iscream.

Someone grabs me and I try to fight them off,scrabble with my hands, swing at them, but they’re strong, toostrong, and they hold me down, saying “Shhh, you’ll hurt yourselfmore than you’ll hurt me, lad.”

I keep straining, but not as much, and onlybecause I don’t know the voice.

Eventually, however, I relax, slump onsomething warm and soft, open my eyes.

Daylight streams through the glass portalabove my bed, warming the plump pillow beneath my head. I squint,seeing spots, red and blue and orange, like the fire that nearlyconsumed me in what I now know was another nightmare. My father’sfire.

Firm hands continue to press against my arms,holding them at my sides, but not hurting me. “’Twas a dream,” thevoice says. “Nothing more.”

Blink, blink. My mother slipping, falling:blink her away. My father glaring, burning me: blink him away,too.

A face appears, hazy at first, but then crispand defined around the edges. Lined but no older than my father.Late thirties, maybe forty. A beard, uncombed and disheveled, brownand patchy like the hair on his head. Somber, gray eyes, like theclouds that encroach on the sea from storm country. A nose that’sbigger than most.

“Lieutenant Jones,” the man says.

“Who are you?” I say. It sounds a littlerude, although I don’t mean it to be.

The corner of his lips turns up in amusement.I haven’t offended him. “Barnes,” he says, “although around heremost folks call me Barney.”

“Why are you…” My voice fades away as Irealize I’m being rude again.

“Here?” he says, winking. “Well, firstly, Iheard you screaming like the Deep Blue had grown hands and wastrying to pull you into its depths, and secondly, I sleep a cabinover. I’m your steward. I’ll be doubling as Hobbs’ steward,too—he’s a rather grouchy fellow, isn’t he?—because we didn’texpect him. I’m here to take care of your every need, so you canfocus on leading the men.”

Everything comes tumbling back: the bilgerat’s challenge; my weakness; the captain showing me to my cabin,asking if I was ready to meet my steward. I had begged off, blamingthe need for sleep, although I was wide awake. Pulling the coverstight around me, I had squeezed my eyes shut and held back thetears as long as I could, but eventually they’d broken free,coating my cheeks and lips.

But eventually I must’ve fallen asleep, andthen—

“It was just a nightmare,” I say, lifting mychin, rubbing at my cheeks, half-expecting them to still be wetwith tears. Surprisingly, however, they’re dry, although my skinfeels grainy. I hope Barney can’t see the white tear tracks.

“I know, sir,” Barney says, releasing myarms.

“I have them sometimes.”

“We all do, Lieutenant.”

“What time of day is it?” I ask. (What day isit?) I flex my arms, which have gone numb.

“It’s tomorrow,” Barney says with a grin.“Morning still. Not early, not late. Breakfast is still available.Would you like some?”

“Can you bring it to me here?” I ask,realizing right away how that sounds. Like the spoiled son of anadmiral. Like the coward who’s scared to leave his cabin.

“Of course, sir,” Barney says, unblinking,although I can hear it in his voice: he heard about what happenedyesterday. He knows the sort of man I am.

With a quick bow, he leaves, closing the doorbehind him, leaving me to my thoughts and the strained and scaredface of my mother, which flashes in and out of my memory like asignal beacon from a passing ship.

Chapter Ten

Sadie

“Your father had avision,” Mother says, and then I remember why I ran out. Myinterest, my curiosity piqued at the mention of the Soakers as myfather started to tell us about what he’d been writing on thestrips of bark. Then of course I just had to dredge up age-oldmemories of Paw’s death, which led to our fight and my abrupt exitinto the storm. My run to the ships.

When I returned, they didn’t say anything, asif I’d never left in the first place. Mother held a blanket up so Icould change my clothes, and Father prepared a warm, herbal tea.Although I could see the question in his eyes, my father didn’t askme where I’d gone, probably because my mother had forbidden himfrom asking it. It’s all part of her approach to my training. Shegrants me a lot of independence—and based on what Remy said, morethan some of the other Riders get—and I don’t abuse it, use it onlyto further my stamina and strength.

“A vision about the Soakers?” I say.

“Yes,” my father says solemnly. “There willbe a battle.”

I roll my eyes. There’s always a battle.That’s the dramatic vision from the Man of Wisdom? I look at thetent wall.

“Sadie!” my mother snaps, and my head jerksback to her. She rarely raises her voice at me.

“What?” I say, knowing I’m about to treadover the line of insolence, but not caring. “I’ve heard this allbefore. His visions, scribbles on countless pieces of bark, talesof blood and bones and how the world’s ending.” Although I won’tlook at him, at the edge of my vision I see my father’s head dip,his eyes close. The truth is hard to hear sometimes, but thatdoesn’t change that it’s the truth.

My mother’s hand flashes out so fast I don’teven have time to flinch before it snaps across my face. My headjolts to the side and I grimace, but don’t cry out. Showing pain isweakness.

Slowly—ever so slowly—I turn back to face mymother. My cheek stings and my pride feels bruised, but I don’tcry, don’t so much as let my eyes water.