Water & Storm Country

“I tried,” Father says. “We started for theforest, but Paw said his stomach hurt, and then it was his leg, andthen he was scared of the lightning flashing in the distance. Herefused to walk. When I tried to carry him, he kicked and screamedand fought me every step of the way. But I persevered, brought youto the edge of this very wood. We tried to enter it, but every pathwe took was blocked, by brambles or thickets, or trees packed sotightly you’d swear they were a fortress.

“We could have stayed at the edge of theforest, but I already knew they’d find us. By the will of MotherEarth, they’d find us anyway. And then you wouldn’t be inthe tent like in my vision. I thought maybe they’d get you, too,Sadie. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So you took us back so Paw could die and Ilive?” I can’t keep the pulsing, throbbing anger out of my voicethis time. There had to be another way. We could’ve started ru

Ignoring my question, he continues. “So wewent back. I put you both in the tent, sat you in the corner,watched you. But you were so fidgety, so squirmy, two little wormsunwilling to be tethered. You insisted to go outside and play yourgame, with the rocks and the sticks. I told you no over andover, but you wouldn’t give up, until finally I relented, becauseat that point I knew: you would be in the yard playing when theSoakers showed up. No matter what I did, you would be there; evenif Mother Earth had to work magic before my very eyes and cause youto disappear from the tent and reappear in the yard, you would bethere.

“So I let you go, but stayed with you, rightnext to you, watching you play. You were so happy. So happy.” Hisvoice falters and he looks away, reaches out a hand, palm up, as iftrying to catch the rain. When he pulls his hand back to his lapit’s dry. “When they came, I grabbed you both, one under each arm.I ran for the tent. Because I could stop it from happening. I couldchange the future. They’d have to kill me to get to either ofyou.”

He pauses and I realize my fingernails aredigging into my legs. I’m fighting with my father’s memory, everystep of the way, trying to remember. Trying…

“And then suddenly he was gone. Paw. Onesecond he was under my arm and the next he was on the ground.Before I even knew he was gone, I’d run another few steps. The tentwas so close, but when I looked back, Paw was watching us,laughing, as if something was so fu

“Shhh,” I say, touching his face. “No more.No more, Father. You’ve said it all.”

“No,” Father says. “Sadie, he was alwaysgoing to die. Always. He had to die so you could live. That’s why Icouldn’t tell you. I thought it would destroy you.”

Too much. It’s too much. “It should’ve beenme,” I say.

“No, Sadie. You have to go on. You have to bestrong. You have to change things for us all.”

And in that moment, I know I will. Whatevermy destiny is, I’ll live it for Paw, for Mother, for Father.

“I love you, Father,” I say, feeling his bodyshake with pain and the Plague as I hug him.

“I…love you…too, Sadie,” he says, his voicegetting weaker with every word. And I hold him and hold him andhold him until the shaking slows and slows and slows, even as therain falls harder and harder and harder, and then his body goesstill, so still.

And the rain falls and the ground around usgrows wet, but we are dry; in a perfect circle around the base ofthat tree, no rain can fall.

And in that circle, a great man dies.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Huck

We talk until thesun sets, and I pretend to motion to the sails, as if I’m teachingher about the finer art of sail repair. I’m conscious of theoccasional stares from below and very aware when Hobbs pays us aninordinate amount of attention for longer than normal. But today Idon’t care.

She teaches me about fire country, aboutstrange spiky plants called pricklers that are filled with juiceand that have skin that’s tough until you cook it. She tells mestories of the Hunters, of the enormous beasts they would bringback, of wild animals called Killers, with razor-sharp teeth andmonstrous claws. I could listen to her stories all day.

But eventually she tires of talking andbegins asking me questions about life on The Merman’s Daughter. Howit’s different than the Mayhem. What it was like growing up as theadmiral’s son. About my mother. I tell her about the pride I usedto feel marching around with my father, like I was somebody. Howlistening to him barking orders to the men, laying down appropriatepunishment and dealing out deserved praise, would stir my heart insuch a way that I wanted nothing more than to be just like him, tofollow in his footsteps.

“And now?” Jade asks.

Now? “I am following in hisfootsteps,” I say. “I’m a lieutenant. I’m ru

“And me?” she asks, and I finally realizewhere she’s going with it. Would he approve of me talking to abilge rat as I would speak to a friend?

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I just don’tknow anymore.”

She nods. “Thank you for not lying.”

Her arm’s so close I can feel the hairs onher skin touching mine. I shiver as the last rays of sun flash redand then orange and then purple before disappearing below thehorizon.

“Why does your father send children here?” Iask, before I can stop myself. And in my mind: Why did hesend you here?

She swallows hard and I see I’ve upset her.Her fingers squeeze the wooden railing. “It has something to dowith seaweed,” she says.

Ready to laugh, I look for the joke on herface, but her expression’s as flat as the deck planks below.“Seaweed?” I say. “You mean the stuff we’re forced to eat almostevery day?”

“Yeah, but not the weeds we pull from theocean, the stuff that washes up on shore and gets all dried out inthe sun.”

“They make tea from that, don’t they?”

“Some of it,” she says. “But the rest theyput in huge bags. There’s a lot more than what they need fortea.”

I scratch my head. “I’m sorry, I don’tunderstand what that has to do with bilge rats.”

“Why do you call us that?” she asks sharply,pain apparent in her eyes. “We’re humans, you know. Not searin’rats.”

I feel a flush on my cheeks. “I’m sorry, Ididn’t—”

“You didn’t think, did you?” she snaps, andthe old Jade is back, the one who throws scrub brushes as well asshe throws glares.

“I didn’t. It’s just what we’ve alwayscalled…”—I pause, struggling to find a way of saying what I meanwithout being offensive—“your kind of brown-ski

Then, to my absolute shock, she laughs. “Youcan just call us Heaters from now on. But you better not do so infront of your father or he’ll know you know the truth. And if Iever find out who came up with the name bilge rats, watch out.” Ipicture a hailstorm of brushes raining down from above.

“So back to the seaweed…” I say. “How is itlinked to…the Heaters?”

She squints, although there’s no sun left tobe in her eyes. “I’m not sure exactly. All I know is that sometimeswhen we’re anchored, a few men leave with the big bags of driedseaweed and then come back with a new lot of children.”

“And the seaweed?”

“They never come back with that.”

~~~

We make it down from the crow’s nest justbefore we lay anchor. Jade goes first, sliding all the way to thebottom in a show of remarkable grace and agility, striding off insearch of food from the ship’s stores as if a day spent with me wasnothing to her.