Water & Storm Country

There’s a knock on my door and I look up,surprised. I asked not to be disturbed, choosing to take my eveningmeal in my cabin, rather than with the men, needing time tothink.

“Yes?” I say, stabbing a potato with myfork.

Barney pushes open the door, a strangeexpression on his face. It’s one I’ve never seen before, a mix ofwhat appears to be glee, embarrassment, and concern. The glee is inhis eyes, wide and dancing; the embarrassment is in theextraordinarily crimson flush of his cheeks; and the concern is inhis bent eyebrows and pursed lips.

“I asked not to be—”

“I apologize, sir, but I was sure you’d wantto hear this.”

I raise the potato to my mouth, think betterof it, and set my fork down with a clink, uneaten starch stillstuck to it. “Go on.”

“You should help repair the sails tomorrow,”Barney says uncertainly.

I stare at him. “Are you giving me anorder?”

“More like a message,” Barney says, turningto go.

“A message from whom...” Although thequestion is completed, it dies on my tongue, twitching at first,and then still. Barney closes the door softly behind him.

She talked to him?

To Barney?

No, not a question. She talked to Barney.

And I’ll be climbing the sails tomorrow.

~~~

When the red dawn creeps over the horizon,I’m high above the ship to watch it. I couldn’t sleep, so I came uphere, to the crow’s nest, to wait.

(For her.)

What does she want to talk to me about? Whynow? Maybe she feels bad and wants to admit everything she told mewas a lie.

More likely she wants to scream at me forthrowing that boy overboard.

The wind shrieks around me as I peer over thewooden sides of the lookout platform. The men are hard at work,turning the sails, catching the wind at just the right angle. Theship cuts through the choppy waters with ease, trailing theMerman’s Daughter by only the smallest of margins.

Are we really the second fastest ship in thefleet? I wonder, marveling at how quickly things can change. Belowme, the ship is alive, built with wood and sweat and humanstrength. And somewhere…Jade.

Later today we’ll lay anchor. If what Jadetold me is true, will I be able to look the admiral in the eyes,pretend like I don’t know?

I shake off the thought when I spot her. Ifshe sees me, she doesn’t show it, her expression flat and neutral.Jade crosses the deck, greeting the other bilge as she goes,reaching the main mast in long strides. Unlike me, she ignores thecrow’s nest ladder, frog-hopping up the wooden cylinder withease.

My hands suddenly feel sweaty and I rub themon my britches.

For the first time, she looks up, meeting mygaze with thoughtful eyes that seem to say, “You came.”

Three quarters of the way up, she stops atwhere there’s a gaping hole in one of the main sails. A majorrepair. One that could take all day.

She’s not coming to me, so I’ve got to go toher. I slip over the railing, stretching to take the ladder rungstwo at a time. When I reach her she’s already positioning a whitepatch on the sail.

“Can I help?” I ask, and when she doesn’tturn to look at me, doesn’t reply, I wonder whether Barney’smessage was really from her. Had I assumed too much?

But then she says, “I asked you to comebecause I needed…”—her statement hovers in the air, seeminglyoblivious to the swirling wind, and I find myself holding mybreath—“…your help—you know, with mending the sail.”

I let out my breath in a burst. “That’s alarge tear,” I say. “I hadn’t noticed it before. Is it new?”

She shrugs, pokes a needle through the patchand begins stitching it to the sail, just like I taught her, witheasy, practiced fingers. “New as of yesterday,” she says.

There’ve been no storms, no unusually highwinds, no projectiles in the air. Nothing that could have causedsuch serious damage. And the fabric around the rip doesn’t appearto be old or frayed. In fact, the gash itself appears to be almosttoo clean, like someone took a knife and just…

I swing around the mast as I realize Jadecreated a large repair so we’d have to work on it together. “Slowdown,” I say, amazed at how expert her fingers have become. “Atthis pace we’ll be done before the lunch bell rings.” I touch hershoulder and she stiffens, but her fingers slow.

I can feel the heat of her skin beneath thethin fabric of her old shirt, and I don’t want to pull my handaway, but I must, because someone will see, someone will tellHobbs.

What am I doing? I think as I retractmy hand sharply, as if I’ve been burned.

“Huck,” she says, and my name’s never soundedso good, so real. “Sear it, Huck!” When she turns to look at methere’s fire in the brown embers of her eyes.

“What?” I say.

“This. All of this.” She waves her handsaround, meaning…the ship? Me? Repairing the sails? “It’s allinvented. Made up. None of it’s real. You and me? Nothing more thana dream.”

Whose dream? I wonder.

But all I say is, “I know.”

She sighs, heavier than an anchor. “Thenwhy?”

Why are you here? Why am I here? Why do weget up every morning, play the same old game, do the same oldthings, and then sleep to the same old rocking of the ship?Although I imagine her simple question to be filled with all ofthose questions, I know it’s not. Those questions are mine, but Ican’t seem to pinpoint where they came from or when they entered mysubconscious, burrowing in like mice, gnawing away at everythingI’ve held true since the day I was born.

But even that’s a lie, because I do know. Ido.

(Since the day I met Jade.)

And I can’t help but wonder why she’sspeaking to me after everything I’ve done. “I’m sorry about thatboy,” I say.

Her eyes narrow. “Are you?” she asks, butthere’s no accusation in her voice. It’s just a question.

“Yes. I’m surprised you’re speaking to meafter that.”

“You did what you had to do,” she says.

“Did I? By throwing a boy overboard? Bykilling Webb?” I’m surprised by my own words. I’ve barely thoughtabout killing Webb, much less spoken of it out loud.

“You chose the lesser of the evils,” Jadesays. “If you’d gone against Lieutenant Hobbs you would have beensent away and the boy would still have suffered and died. If you’dspared Webb, I’d be dead and your father would know you protectedme. And trust me, Webb didn’t deserve life. He—the things he did tothe bilge rats…” She trails away.

She says it is so matter-of-factly that Ican’t think of a rebuttal. I change the subject. “Is what you toldme before true?” I ask, wishing I didn’t have to ask, because Iknow it’ll only make her angry.

To my surprise, her eyebrows don’t furrow,her lips don’t tighten. “Yes,” she says, turning back to herwork.

And in that single word is the truth and it’sgood enough for me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, apologizing for having toask the question and for my father.

Jade falls silent, her fingers pushing theneedle through the fabric and pulling it back out, securing acorner of the patch to the sail.

I step onto the rope bridge, moving as closeto her as I dare. Pluck my own needle and thread from my pocket.Start on another corner of the large patch. “What’s fire countrylike?” I ask, and although she doesn’t stop working, her eyestwitch in my direction.

For a few minutes the only sounds are frombelow: men shouting, whistling, singing; women calling for clothesto be cleaned, offering hot morning drinks; barrels being rolled,sacks being tossed, planks being scrubbed. There’s no awkwardnessin the silence, and somehow I know she’s not ignoring my question,just thinking on it, like it’s one of the wooden puzzles my motherand I used to work on together, requiring a precise solution.

Finally, she says, “It’s home,” and althoughit doesn’t tell me anything about what her country’s like, I canfeel what she feels for it in my bones, in my thoughts, in myheart. Warmth and security and familiarity—like The Merman’sDaughter has always felt to me.