Water & Storm Country

The man, a wiry fellow with yellow teeth thatare showing as he exerts himself, stops suddenly, snaps around.“Are you talkin’ to me, boy?”

The burn in my stomach, in my chest, growsinto a huge bonfire, not unlike the ones we build whenever we landon the beaches of storm country. Except the fire’s in me,crackling, burning, fueling me. I wonder if this is how my fatherfeels all the time. Powerful.

“You will address me as Lieutenant or sir, oryou will be sent to the brig, seaman!” My voice sounds different,almost like it’s coming from somewhere else, but the way itvibrates in my neck proves it’s me. I feel strong.

“We ain’t got a brig,” the man says. Hebreaks into a crooked smile, his whole face lifting and his eyessparkling like the ocean. And then he laughs, right at me, like I’msome sort of a joke. (Am I?)

I feel my fire start to go out, as ifsomeone’s dumped a bucket of water on it. Clenching my fists, Iforce the heat to rise again. I draw my sword.

“What’re you go

What am I go

I don’t know the answer to any of thosequestions, but my feet march me forward, my arm whips back, and fora moment—just a moment—there’s fear in the man’s eyes and it feelsso bloody good to be feared rather than mocked. The powerful, notthe powerless.

I hit him. Hard, with the broadside of mysword.

Smack!

Right in the upper part of his leg, whereit’ll hurt and bruise but won’t do any permanent damage.

There’s a commotion behind me, but I don’tturn to look, because the man isn’t too happy. He’s cursing likeI’ve never heard anyone curse before, even in my thirteen long yarsliving amongst sailors.

Clutching at his leg, he says, “Youshouldn’ta done that, boy. I’ll kill you.” He reaches down andslips a knife from his boot, tosses it from hand to hand. The wayhe wields it leaves no doubt in my mind: he’s killed with thisknife before. Although the blood’s probably been cleaned away longago, I can almost still see the stains on the shining metalblade.

I should be scared, terrified—of getting cutopen, of dying—but I’m not. Peace washes over me, borne by the warmbreeze that continues to swirl around us. If I die today, I’ll seemy mother. And anyway, there are worse things than death—like myfather’s disappointment.

“I warned you, Seaman,” I say, trying out thedeep voice again, remembering words I’ve heard my father speak.“You have disobeyed a direct order by your superior officer, andtherefore, you are sentenced to a day in the brig without food. Nowgive me your name, so it can be recorded in the ship’s a

The man stops tossing the knife, stares at melike I’ve grown a merman’s tail, and then laughs again, but thistime it’s less boisterous, almost forced. “Yer one crazy littleboy,” he laughs. “I’ll give you something to stick up yera

He starts to lunge forward, and I’m alreadyleaping back, when someone shouts, “Webb!” which stops the mandead.

He looks behind me, but I keep my eyes onhim, my sword raised, ready to defend myself to the death ifnecessary. “Who said that?” he growls. “I’ll kill whoever saidthat.”

The same voice rings out again, and I realizeit’s that of a woman. “Aye, aye, yer always saying you’ll killeveryone, Webb, but yer all talk. You only pick on thoseweaker than you. Yer just pissed our new lieutenant put you in yerplace. Now take yer punishment like a man.”

The man now has a name: Webb. Simply havingthat knowledge makes me feel like I’ve got the upper hand, likethere’s power in knowing he’s not just a mysterious,knife-wielding, yellow-toothed sailor, but a man named Webb.

It seems he feels the same thing, because hisarm drops, and he releases the knife, which clatters to the wood.“This ain’t over,” he spits, glaring at me.

“This ain’t over, sir,” I say, meetinghis eyes. “You just earned yourself another day, sailor.” Finally,I turn to the crowd, almost dropping my sword when I see how manypeople are gathered behind me. Men and women and children, allwatching, some smiling, some with wide, surprised eyes and raisedeyebrows, other with flat, unreadable lips. I point at threestrong-looking men standing near the front. “You, you, and you,please take Mr. Webb to the lowest decks and find a safe place forhim to stay. Preferably a place with a lock.”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” the man in the middlesays, saluting.

Lieutenant. The word echoes in myhead. By speaking that one simple word, this seaman on the Sailors’Mayhem has changed my life.

I smile as they escort Webb away.

~~~

“Pull!” I shout, grunting with exertion andexhaustion, but not even close to giving up.

As usual, my father’s words are tearing ahole in my head. Earn the respect of your seamen by being one ofthem and above them.

This is the “being one of them” part.Definitely not as fun as the other part.

I push the oar forward as hard as I can,perfectly in sync with the other oarsmen. “Pull!” I shout,wrenching the wooden pole back into my chest where it smacks myuniform with a heavy thud.

The ship lurches forward and although wecan’t see the bow cutting across the waves, can’t feel the windthrough our hair, can’t watch the shores of storm country floatpast, there’s satisfaction in knowing the ship’s riding on ourbacks, on the strength in our sore muscles.

A few hours ago, when I ordered a few men toclose and lash the sails, and all other men below deck to man theoars, there were more than a few grumbles and whispers, butgrudgingly, the men complied. Two of them stank so badly of grogand couldn’t walk in a straight line, so I sent them to sleep itoff in the newly established brig. I’ll let them out tomorrow witha warning to not show up for work drunk again.

“Pull!” I shout again, almost automaticallyas I start the motion back toward my chest. My throat is sore andmy muscles burning, but I won’t stop, not while my men continue totoil. I’m not as strong or experienced as many of them, but I willwork every bit as hard as I make them.

Do I have my father in me? Do I have what ittakes to lead? For the first time in my life, I think maybe Ido.

Another shout, another motion.

Footfalls clop down the steps. A faceappears. A boy, a couple of yars younger than me, with hair aswhite as the sands on the beaches. Jacob. I’d ordered him to staywith the wheelman, Marley, who’s responsible for steering the shipwhile the captain focuses on dreaming the day away. Jacob’s job isto periodically tell me how things are looking above deck.

His last ten reports have been, “No change,sir.” And each time he’s reported, my muscles have ached just alittle more than the last time.

“The fleet has stopped!” he shouts, allsmiles.

A shiver of excitement runs through me, andalthough I’m already past the point of exhaustion, I manage asmile. “Halt!” I cry, and I’m surprised when amongst the creakingand clattering oars, a cheer rises up from the men. They’re asexcited as I am.

I stand, ready to slap a few backs, tocongratulate them on a job well done, but my smile vanishes when Isee the looks on most of the faces: grimaces and glares. A few ofthem mutter under their breaths as they stomp past, brushing byJacob as they slowly climb the stairs.

I just stare at them as they go, wonderingwhat I did wrong.

“You made them work,” a man says. He’s notmuch older than me—maybe three or four yars. Long, lean, sinewyarms. Short dark hair. A thin beard. He’s smiling.

“That’s their job,” I say. Isn’t it?

The man laughs, extends a hand. “Norris,” hesays. “I man the foremast sails. The men aren’t used to working,that’s all.”