Water & Storm Country

She seems calm since I spoke her name. Herhead even bows a little, and my mother said a wild horse will neverdo that. Already, our bond is special.

I reach forward to rub the white butterfly onher nose.

Her drooping eyes suddenly flash with angerand her head bucks as she leaps forward, butting me, throwing mebackward, nearly stomping on my leg as I skid across the grass.

Passion.

Chapter Nineteen

Huck

Every day theperformance of the ship improves. Norris has been undeniablyhelpful, urging the men to work harder and faster. Budge, Ferris,and Whittle have led by example, the first ones up and the lastones to bed, toiling as hard as I’ve seen any sailors work, eventhose on The Merman’s Daughter. Every man, woman, and bilge ratdoes their part, following orders almost before they’re given.

Well, almost everyone. There are still theodd few who want the old days back, when they could sleep away halfthe day and drink away the whole night. Those ones have made thebrig their home, seeming to relish getting sent there again andagain, despite the ever-increasing awfulness of the conditions downbelow.

I’m sure they’re the ones spreading therumors about Webb. Barney keeps me abreast of the latest theories,how Webb is being held against his will to fulfill some fetish ofmine, or how he’s gone crazy and is strapped to a chair, neversleeping, spouting predictions of death to all who sail on theMayhem. Barney claims the men don’t believe these ridiculousstories, but I know based on the strange looks they give me, thatsome do.

The official story is that he drank too muchgrog and fell overboard, which is more plausible than the currentrumors, if less interesting. It seems the official story wasdismissed as fiction the moment it was issued. And so it is. Thereal truth is a heaviness on my soul that I scarcely bare.

(That I’m a killer.)

Because the sailors are doing their jobs, I’mfinding myself with more and more time to observe, to walk thedecks, to watch the girl.

Every day she climbs the mast to clean. Andevery day she pretends I don’t exist, even when I’m obviouslyspying on her. But then everything changes. She starts doing thingsto acknowledge me, when I least expect it, when I’m starting tothink 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’sgoing to throw her brush at me again, causing me to flinch and herto laugh; or she makes a face at me, like just looking at me makesher want to throw up, but then her smile gives her away. She’senjoying our distant moments as much as I am.

And I am, although I shouldn’t be. What am Idoing exactly?

I’ve seen my father a few times, when thefleet stops. We’re in the middle of the pack now, not the bestperforming ship, but not the worst either, and although my fatheris a

In fact, my father’s praise seems to fallflat at times. It’s what I’ve always wanted, right? To feel hispride in my chest, hear it in my ears, washing away the day Ifailed him and me and my mother.

(It’s because of the girl.)

(Because of what he’d do to her if he knewwhat she did to me.)

As I wonder how I’ve reached this point,marveling at the strange series of events that have made itpossible, the bilge rat girl scrubs ferociously at a mast that hasto be wearing away under her daily assault.

I pretend to scan the horizon, to watch theocean, to do lieutenant-like things, when really my attention is onher. Waiting, waiting, waiting, for her daily sign ofacknowledgement. Something that’s become a ritual for the both ofus, something to wake up for.

That’s when the ritual changes.

She looks right at me and I can’t pretend tolook at the ocean anymore, not when she’s looking at me. And I waitfor the sign—for the spitting or the faked brush throw or thevomit-face—but instead, she smiles and my heart stops.

(It really does.)

And then she slides down the mast, smilingthe whole way. My heart starts beating again, faster, faster,faster, because she walks toward me. She’s heading toward anothermast, surely, to climb and clean it, but I know it’s not true, andthen she passes by the wood column and moves toward the steps tothe quarterdeck.

She pauses for a moment at the bottom, butthen takes the first step. Every man, woman, and bilge rat stopswhat they’re doing to watch her, because everyone knows you must bea lieutenant or above, or invited by one, to climb those steps. Butshe’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 handand

(Because I’ve killed to save her life.)

The girl reaches the top. My heart races asshe walks toward me. I stand, nearly stumbling on the crate I’vebeen sitting on.

When she nears me, she stops. “My name isJade,” 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 asthe bilge rat girl.” I can feel the stares of the men on us, but atleast this bold girl—Jade, what a beautiful name—is speaking lowenough that no one else can hear her words.

And I have to do something or they’ll killher 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 sayLieutenant 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 quicksnap of my wrist, not because she mocked my name but because she’sleft me no choice.

I do it for her and it hurts me too.

She takes a step back, unsurprised, not somuch as raising a hand to her reddened cheek. Her eyes dance withthe smile she can’t show on her lips. “That’ll be a day in the brigfor your nerve!” I shout, plenty loud enough for every man andwoman watching to hear. “And the next time you dare to climb thosesteps you’ll swim with the sharp-tooths!”

But my words don’t match the smile I can feelin my eyes. Bowing slightly, she walks away, descends the steps,and allows herself to be marched to the brig by the two men who’vestepped forward to carry out my punishment.

It’s all I can do to hide the mixture ofastonishment and jubilation that stretches and pulls beneath theskin 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, forsending her to isolation? How could she be when she left me nochoice?

There it is, a quick glance in my direction,the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Notangry.

So I can keep on doing what I’m doing,right?

But what exactly is that? Stealing momentswith the bilge rat girl—Jade…so you can stop thinking of me asthe bilge rat girl—carrying on like we’re building some type ofa friendship? I laugh out loud.

“What is it, sir?” Barney says, approachingfrom the side.

Trying to pretend like I was generallysca

“Mmm,” Barney muses. “I’ve wondered why yourattention has been on the skies as of late.”