Water & Storm Country

“Sadie…” And when he speaks my name I knowit’s neither of those things. It’s not a riddle, not a vagueMan-of-Wisdom prediction that requires interpretation. For hisprevious words were the truth, as stark and bright as lightning inthe night sky.

“No, Father,” I say. And again: “No.”

“I have the Plague,” he says.

“No.”

“I’ve had it for a while now.”

“No.”

“I love you, Sadie,” he says, and thefloodgates open, and the tears bloom like flowers, falling fromtheir stems and down my cheeks. Mother Earth can’t do this. Notnow. Not when I’ve finally realized…

That my father’s a hero.

And then my head’s against his chest and Idon’t know how it got there, and my tears are soaking through tohis skin and I’m choking, sobbing like a child, as far from a Rideras I’ve ever been before. But I’m not ashamed—not this one time.Because every tear is an apology, and my father’s worth everyone.

When the pain and the pride and the sorrowgrow so big that I can’t feel them anymore, my body goes numb and Idrift to sleep, my father’s arms wrapped firmly around me.

~~~

My father’s still asleep when I leave, hisdeep breaths sighing in my memory with each step. On one side theocean screams at me, and on the other, the thick woods whisper andtaunt. You have no one!

I make for the forest, because I know it’sthe one place my father won’t come looking for me. Does he havedays? Does he have hours? Why am I hiding from him?

Inside the cool shroud of the trees, I feelcalm again. The tears are but a distant memory, washed away by acupped hand in a small creek I find along the way.

My back propped against a thick tree, I watcha small animal drink from the water, unaware of my presence. I’minvisible so long as I’m still. Filled, the creature moves on,scurrying into the underbrush.

A bird chirps somewhere above me, tweetingout a joyful song that doesn’t match real life. Does the bird notknow?

Life goes on around me as if nothing’schanged.

When he steps from behind a tree, I can’thide my surprise. My father’s in the forest.

“Father!” I say, leaping up. “You can’t behere. You need to be resting.”

He’s bent over, which makes him look like anold man. The birds sing his arrival as he limps toward me. “Sadie,I don’t have long now,” he says, his voice full of cracks andcrumbles.

“Don’t say that, Father,” I say, helping himto the ground, feeling how bone-thin his arms are. Thin even forhim. “You can’t know how long you’ve got.” But I know my words area false hope because: He’s never been wrong. A Man of Wisdomtill the end.

“I had to…”—he coughs into his arm, swallowshard—“…had to see you again, Sadie. Before it’s too late.”

As usual, I’ve been selfish, ru

He shakes his head, coughs again, massageshis forehead, which is etched with deep lines of age and decay. “Nomore apologies, my dear daughter. For you have been chosen forgreat things and deserve to know the truth.”

Great things? Like treating my fatherterribly? Like suffering the loss of my entire family? I saynothing.

My father’s face is red and melting—ragingwith a fever. Late stages of the Plague. Of course, he was right.He doesn’t have long. “I should’ve told you sooner, but I wasafraid…”—he fights off a half-sob—“…afraid you would blameyourself. Afraid it would destroy you.”

“What, Father?” I say. “Just tell me.”

He nods, places a hand on my shoulder, as ifto gain courage, or perhaps to comfort me. “That night, when Pawwas taken…” He shudders as a heavy blast of wind hurls itselfthrough the trees. Leaves fall like rain.

“Father, please. Tell me. Whatever it is, Ican handle it.”

He nods again, squeezes my shoulder. “I knowyou can, Sadie. You are strong, so strong. I’m so proud of you.”His voice hitches and tears stream down his cheeks. I’m filled withemotion and love—so much love—but something’s changed in me.Something powerful, like crying last night wasn’t a sign ofweakness, like I thought. It’s almost as if I’ve been cleansed,unburdened, strengthened. If only I could share thatstrength with my father.

I put my arms around him as he weepsopenly.

The first drops of rain drum on the treetops.More leaves fall. And still I hold him.

“Tell me the truth, Father,” I say.

Eyes wet, he looks up at me. “I had a visionbefore you were born,” he says.

This I know. I’m thankful every day for thatvision. “That I would be a Rider,” I say.

“Yes, yes. But that was only the begi

“Passion,” I say.

“Passion,” he agrees. “There will be a greatbattle with the Soakers. You will fight magnificently, maybe moreso than your mother.” His voice is gaining strength, growingclearer. Maybe he’s not as close to the end as he thinks. “You willsee him, the high-ranking Soaker boy in the blue uniform.”

“I know, you told me, Father. That I have todecide whether to kill him. But why wouldn’t I? Where’s thechoice?” My voice sounds u

“I don’t know, Sadie,” he says. “I just knowthat it’s your choice and your choice alone. And that it willchange everything.”

I look to the sky, which is a black blanketbetween the leaves. The rain is falling harder now, seeking to soakus through the gaps in the leaves, but failing, drumming all aroundus. We are dry.

“I don’t understand, Father. How can savingor killing a Soaker boy change things? What impact could itpossibly have?”

Father’s eyes shimmer with tears andknowledge. “That is for you to discover, my daughter.”

We sit for a moment, listening to the rain,waiting for it to pour down upon our heads. I wonder at my fate.You have been chosen for great things. Even the words makeme feel small, unworthy.

“I had another vision before you were born,”Father says suddenly. He reaches a shaking hand forward and I takeit, hold it, try to calm it.

“Tell me,” I say.

“It was of the night Paw would die,” hesays.

“You knew?” I say harshly, and the familiarheat surges through my blood. I take a deep breath. I can’t waste amoment of the time we have left in anger. “Why didn’t you take usaway from there? Why didn’t you stop it from happening?” I have tounderstand.

He laughs, but it’s a wheezing, coughinglaugh that breaks my heart. “If there’s one thing I’ve been taughtover and over again, it’s that you can’t change the future, onlyhow you’ll respond to it.”

“But what about my choice?” I say. “If thefuture is set in stone, do I even have a choice? Or is my choicepreordained?”

“A wise question,” Father says. “One I’vepondered often. But I don’t choose what future I see. It’s a giftfrom Mother Earth. And in this case I can only see to the pointwhere you face the Soaker boy. That is the future that ca

“And Paw’s future? That was set instone?”

His chin drops to his chest and he closes hiseyes. His voice comes out as a whisper, barely loud enough to beheard over the rain, which continues to thrum on our leafy door,almost begging to get to us. “I saw the night of the attack. Ididn’t know how the Soakers would break through, just that theywould. I saw you playing with Paw, laughing, having so much fun. Iremember smiling even as I was graced with the vision. And thenthey came. I saw you in the tent and Paw on the ground. I knew hewas dead.”

“Then why didn’t you do something? You sayyou can’t change the future, but I don’t understand. You could’vehid us in the forest, taken us away somewhere safe, somewhere theywouldn’t find us.” You can’t change the future. Just how yourespond to it. My response has always been anger andcondescension.