Water & Storm Country

“Aye, aye, sir,” Webb says eagerly, finallyshowing me some respect. All it takes is giving him what hewants.

When we approach the helmsman—who’silluminated by the soft glow of three lanterns—he turns, his eyeswidening in surprise when he sees us. Still holding the steeringwheel, he nods in our direction. “Lieutenants,” he says. He frownswhen he notices Webb.

“Your shift at the helm is over earlytonight,” Cain says.

“I just started.”

“Then take the night off.”

The helmsman shrugs, allows Cain to take thewheel, and walks away, probably already pla

“I want you to feel the power of the ship,” Isay to Webb. “This is the best place to feel it. A lieutenant mustknow the ship under his command.” I’m stealing my father’s wordsagain, from a lesson when I was barely ten. More and more, hislessons seem to be all I know.

Webb stands next to me, his legs plantedfirmly, as he seems to take my request very seriously, moreseriously than anything I’ve said previously. I almost feel sorryfor him. Almost.

“Do you feel it?” I ask.

Webb nods, his eyes full of life. “Yes, sir.I feel it. It feels like a storm.”

I nod back. “Good. Now take that power timesten, and that’s what you’ll feel at the very front. Come.”

I lead the way to the front rail, feeling hispresence behind me like an unpleasant growth on my rear. Withoutturning, I say, “My father did this with me long ago.” I leanforward on the rail, stare out into the blackness of the Deep Blue,let my feet lift off the deck until I’m balancing on my arms, theship churning through the waves beneath me. One unexpected lurchand I’ll lose my balance, fall forward. The wind pushes my long,untied hair behind me.

After a moment, I rock back, feeling thesteadying kiss of my boots on the sturdy wood.

“Your turn,” I say, finally meeting Webb’seyes again. They’re wide and full of wonder, like I’m impartingsecrets known only to a fleet’s admiral.

Can I?

(Can I?)

Behind Webb, Cain’s got the wheel in a tightgrip, his knuckles white. He’s looking past me, into the Deep Blue,maybe searching…for what? Answers? Questions? My soul?

Webb steps forward and I step back.

Is there another option? I could send himbelow again, to the brig, keep him there indefinitely. But no, thatwill only kindle his anger, make him shout the truth to anyone whomight hear him. Eventually—maybe not right away, but in time—therumors will turn to gossip will turn to truth. And then there’ll bequestions and my father won’t sleep until there are answers, andthen they’ll kill her.

And Webb’s an awful human being, a murderer,a rapist. It’s a wonder he’s survived this long.

One of my father’s lessons springs to mind:There’s no right, no wrong, only action. Is he right?

Webb leans on the rail, mimicking mymovements, pausing for a moment to get his arms in position. Andthen—

Can I?

—he lifts off—

Will I?

—his worn and dirty boots hovering above thedeck—

Must I?

—his life at my mercy, just like the life ofthe bilge rat girl was at his, just a few minutes earlier.

I do.

(I do.)

Without thinking, I grab his feet and raisethem up, ignoring his startled exclamation—“What the—”—and throwhim overboard, his shout drowned out by the splash of the ship onthe waves and the wind in my ears.

There’s only one punishment for murder andtreason: death.

Now I have the blood of two on my hands:Webb’s and my mother’s.

And despite the exhilaration and the fear andthe sick feeling in my stomach, I know.

I know.

Today my life changed forever. Today I chosea bilge rat over a seaman.

And when I look out over the rest of theship, I spot her right away. A pair of eyes clinging to the mast inthe dark.

Watching me.

~~~

Cain gets me drunk that night. And himselftoo. He’s more experienced in the ways of death, but from thesourness on his face, I think he knows as well as I that grog isn’tthe answer to anything.

But soon death and life and blood in thewater pass out of mind, because I feel warm and there’s musicplaying from a few midshipmen with harmonicas and banjos and thenight is clear and starry and what could ruin it?

(Surely not a single man overboard.)

(Especially not a man like Webb.)

On the Mayhem, the men are rougher, lesspolished, more uncouth. Their songs are about fighting and plunderand women and drinking. Norris, Budge, Ferris, and Whittle teach methe words and I sing along with them, a chorus of men’s and women’svoices.

Yo ho, we drink the grog harder,

Yo ho, with Stormers we barter,

Their blood for our lives,

Their men for their wives,

Yo ho, like lambs to the slaughter!

My people.

We dance and we sway and we drink away Webb’sdeath, Cain and I. The women move in ways that are foreign, butalso exciting, to me.

Eventually, however…eventually, the worldblurs and I feel myself falling, falling, and something softcushions my fall.

I dream, my eyes fluttering open into a fog,thick as Stew’s fish soup, but I’m not alone. She’s watching me, alovely brown face with earnest brown eyes, devoid of anger and hateand all the things I’ve come to know her by. The bilge rat, myenemy, looking down at me, watching. Her pink lips open. Thankyou, she mouths.

~~~

My second ever grog-headache is worse thanthe first, worse than the pain caused by the girl’s well-hurledbrush. Severe.

“Get up!” Hobbs shouts, kicking me in theribs.

I groan and roll over, relishing the sharptweak in my bones that distracts me from the hammer blows to myskull.

I look up to see Hobbs’ face against a clear,red sky, the sun already a quarter of the way to its middaypeak.

“Where am I?” I say absently, intending theexternal question as an internal thought.

“In water country—on the Mayhem—on the planetEarth—in Hell—take your pick,” Hobbs says, kicking me again.

“What day is it?” I ask, still not learningmy lesson. Questions mean getting kicked.

Hobbs kicks me and I groan. “Well, it’ssupposed to be the day we lay anchor with the rest of the fleet,meet with your father, discuss our next moves in the war with theStormers…any of that ring a bell?”

“What’s the problem?” I ask, earning a stompto the chest. I gasp, clutch at myself, try to breathe.

“The problem is that the brave lieutenants,Jones and Cain, made a brilliant decision to lay anchor last nightso the men could have a party. While you and the rest of the crewdrunk yourself sick, the rest of the fleet moved further ahead.We’ll be lucky to catch them by the turn of the day.”

I groan again, but fearing Hobbs’ heavyboots, I manage to clamber to my feet, swaying for a moment beforegetting my legs under me.

I take in the scene before me. The bilge ratsare out in number, tidying up after the previous night’s events.The rest of the crew are up and moving, too, albeit slowly and likezombies, going about getting the ship ready for sail.

Norris and Budge are pulling on their shirts.Ferris and Whittle are rubbing their eyes and yawning. But all thathardly seems important now.

A man died last night. Because of me. Ikilled a man.

It seems no matter what decision I make,there’s no right answer. Only pain. Only death. Am I wrong? Is itme who’s to blame?

I killed a man.

The realization comes back like a lightningstrike on the plains of storm country, fierce and jagged, twistingmy insides, cutting, cutting…but then I see the girl’s brown eyes,stu