Water & Storm Country

I stop a few feet from her, speak to her. Nota command, sharp and demanding obedience, but soft and withmeaning.

“You are perfection,” I say, receiving a lowgrumble that vibrates her lips in response.

Obviously, she seems to say.

“I am not.”

Again, her reply sounds like one of completeagreement.

“I need you.”

A soft whi

“What if we were meant to be together?”

No response. Does she understand me? Has shereally understood anything I’ve just said, or are the responsesI’ve inferred just a child’s imagination?

Unfazed, I say, “What if our strength lies inour bond?” No response. “What if apart neither of us are reallyfree, but slaves to not knowing what could have been?”

Her eyes, although as wild as ever, are fullyfocused on me. She has stopped straining against the ropes.

The wind, which was so strong a moment ago,has fallen silent, leaving us in a void of silence. Rider andsteed. Sadie and Passion. In my mind, our names melt together untilthey are not worthy of the combined being we have become. No nameis worthy.

“We can be invincible,” I say.

And I see it in her eyes: a change, anunderstanding, an agreement.

And she explodes forward, forcing me to jumpout of her path as she pulls up each and every stake, shooting theminto the air, galloping forward in a jumble of power and ropes andpride.

And I’m laughing and shouting and panting,watching her go. Watching her run across the plains away from me.Because I know.

She’ll turn around this time.

And she does.

She stops and turns, looking back at me withfrustration. Although she thinks she wants to, she can’t go.Because now she needs me too.

~~~

Coming to a tenuous partnership with Passiondoesn’t help things at home. Father is still Father, full ofunwanted advice and long periods of silence while he meditates,seeing visions that will cost other sons and daughters theirmothers and fathers. Calamity and fire and death and pain and fearand madness.

I’m becoming more cynical of the function ofthe Men of Wisdom with each passing day. Of what use arepredictions of the future if you can’t change them?

Sometimes just looking at him makes my chestburn with anger at the dual losses I’ve suffered. My brother andmother. My playmate and master.

But we suffer each other out ofnecessity.

When I see love and caring for me in hiseyes, I return it with a glare, not feeling bad about it untillater, when Passion chastises me by throwing me from her back. Sheonly seems to do that when I’ve been cruel to my father, as if shecan sense the anger inside me.

“I’m sorry, Pash, but you don’t know thehistory,” I say, brushing grass and dirt off my black riding robe.I crack my jaw a few times, feeling it click back into place.Passion allows me to ride her now, but only on her terms, and ifshe wants to discard me she does so with vigor and withoutregret.

He’s your father, her snort seems tosay.

“And he’s a coward.”

After that comment she won’t let me ride herfor the rest of the afternoon.

~~~

That night our tent feels more like a prison,such is the tension between us, thick and barred, twisted withbarbs and spikes.

When I make a move to leave, to go for awalk, my father stops me. “Sadie,” he says, his voice cracking.

I whirl on him, unable to hold back theclench I feel between my ribs. “Unless you’re going to admit yourfaults, the hand you played in Paw’s and mother’s deaths, I suggestyou let me go.”

His eyes are instantly clouded with tears,full of shame and self-loathing. The truth is in the heavy mist,raining from his eyelids and quickly forming into filthy puddlesmade dark by his deep brown eyes.

The light flickers like an omen.

I turn and he says, “Wait.”

“Admit the truth,” I say, not lookingback.

“Sadie, I can’t,” he says and I know thetears are falling, dripping from his chin, splashing his weaknessin his lap.

“You can’t or you won’t?” I say to the tentopening.

“Both.”

He can’t because he’s pathetically weak. Andhe won’t because he’s ashamed of himself.

“Right,” I say. “Of course.” My sarcasm onlyadds to the tension.

“I have something I have to tell you,” hesays, and a sharp breath whistles between my teeth. Is this it?Will he finally admit his wrongdoing, be a man?

“Does it have to do with Paw or Mother?” Iask.

Yes.

“No,” he says.

“Save it for someone who cares,” I say,pushing into the night.

“Wait,” he says again, but I don’t.

I’ve got no one to talk to. Remy’s tried tospeak to me a few times, but I’ve ignored him, and finally hestopped trying. Passion will only give me a hard time about the wayI’m treating my father and I’m really not in the mood for alecture.

With nowhere else to go, I run for the beach,nodding to the watchmen on duty as I pass the last few tents in thecamp circle. Although the air is dry, lightning crackles in thedistance, warning of an impending storm. Bumps rise up on my armsand I hug myself, rubbing them away.

The ocean is surprisingly calm, and I sit fora while, watching it breathe. They say Mother Earth’s hand extendsto the very edges of the sea, at which point the Deep Blue governsitself, but I don’t know if I believe that. There are too manysigns of the good Mother’s hand in everything. She paints theclouds overhead, lifts the seabirds on gusts and bursts of wind,heats the ocean with her fiery sun.

If anything, the Deep Blue is a footman toMother Earth.

The moon is bright tonight, rolling out acarpet of light across the ocean, shimmering anywhere the waterpops up. A small wave rolls onto the sand, reaching toward me,sending crabs scurrying out of the way.

The hairs rise on the back of my neck and Ileap to my feet, spi

Remy stands statue-still, eyes as wide as afull moon. “You’re not going to hit me, are you?” he says.

I’m surprised to feel contradicting desiresin my heart. On one hand hitting him sounds like a pretty decentidea, but a more mysterious, less-controllable part of me wants tobe close to him again, to have things be like they were before,when we were growing closer, back when my world wasn’t dead andburned, back before we were Riders. When we could swim naked in theocean.

Has he come to make peace?

I shrug. “I’ll hit you if you want me to,” Isay.

He laughs, and I realize how much I’ve missedit. My nerves, which have been so frayed and torn lately, seem totwist themselves back together.

Pain wells inside of me, gathering itself inbunches, aching like deep bruises.

“Would hitting me make you feel any better?”Remy asks.

Probably. “There’s a good chance,” Isay.

“Then do it,” he says.

But I can’t, not when I haven’t even told himwhy I’m so angry with him.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“My father sent me.”

What? “Why?”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me. I went toyour tent first and your father said you’d left. He seemed prettyshattered. Did something happen?”

If only. “Nothing happened,” I say. “Eversince my mother…” Why am I telling him any of this? “Should I go tosee your father?”

“Yes,” he says, and there’s a hitch in hisvoice that tells me he wishes it wasn’t one of his father’s errandsthat brought us to speak again.

I have to tell him. I have to. Even if itfails to quench the flames of my anger, at least he’ll knowwhy.

But I don’t. I walk away, leaving himstanding on the beach staring forlornly at the moonlit ocean.