Water & Storm Country

Darkness pours through the portal window,which makes me sigh with relief. Light means day. Day meanspunishment.

Can I do it?

Can I really do it?

There will be no blood in the water, forwhich I am thankful, but there will be blood; reflected inmy eyes with each snap of my wrist.

I rise to my feet, ignoring my boots lying ontheir side on the floor and my uniform hanging neatly on the wall.Tonight I’m ashamed to be Lieutenant Jones, not for my pastactions, but for my future ones.

Hastily, I exit and climb the stairs. Theship is asleep, its monstrous belly rising and falling on the DeepBlue’s breaths. Starlight rains down upon me, the beauty of whichis only dwarfed by the full moon that hangs big and bright and lowin the sky, casting a white pathway across the dark ocean, all theway to the land, which unrolls itself to the edge of theforest.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t see her, notwhen I’ll have to hurt her in just a few hours. But like Soakers tothe sea, I’m drawn to her, as if my every step toward her is asvital as breathing, as drinking fresh water, as the very beating ofmy shadowed heart, which cries bloody tears.

Be strong. Be strong for her.

Chained to one of the lesser, unbroken masts,she watches me descend to the main deck, her eyes as wide and awakeas mine. Despite the situation, the memory of the first time I sawher springs to mind—her glare, the anger rising off of her inwaves, almost taking physical form. Unwanted laughter bubbles frommy throat, defeated only when I clamp my jaw tight, allowing onlyan animal groan to escape my lips.

The look she gives me now almost seemsimpossible considering where we’ve come from.

“I was hoping you would come,” she says,sounding much older than she looks.

“How could I not?” I say.

“But I’m—I’m nothing.” Her words aredefeatist, but they don’t match the position of her chin, which isheld high. She doesn’t mean nothing at all, just nothingto the Soakers. Nothing to my people.

“You’re something to me,” I say, but eventhat sounds pitifully like nothing. “Not something,” I say,“someone. Someone important. Someone that matters.”

“You risked your life,” she says. It’s notthe risk of dying on the storm-angry ocean waters that I thinkshe’s referring to, but my life as a Soaker, as a lieutenant, as asomebody.

“All of that is nothing,” I say. That wordagain: so absolute, so final. And yet…I mean it with every part ofmy being.

“You can’t do this—not for me,” she says.

Do what? Then it hits me like a blast of icyocean water. Why I’m here. Why I awoke and came above. Not to seeher. Well, not just to see her. I’m here to run away withher. The realization fills me with more emotions than I candecipher in the moment. There’s exhilaration, a long-held desirefor adventure and for change that fills me to joy overflowing. Butthe fear and the dread are every bit as powerful, grabbing myheart, squeezing it so tightly I begin to worry it might burst,leaving me shaking and useless on the wooden deck.

I drop to a knee, trying to catch mybreath.

“I have to,” I say after a few minutes ofsilence and breathing. “I want to.”

“I won’t ask you to,” she says, lifting ahand toward me, rattling her chain. She won’t ask me to throw mylife away. But would I be throwing it away or reclaiming it?

“You don’t have to,” I say, inching towardher. I need to hold her hand, to draw strength from her seeminglyendless store.

She reaches for me, and I for her, my fingersbuzzing with excitement, a hair’s breadth from hers.

“Son?” my father says.

I jerk back, shuddering, clutching my hand tomy gut as if it’s been stung. I turn to face him, expecting theworst.

Instead, he says only, “Walk with me.”

Everything in me wants to deny him, to castaway the lifelong respect and admiration I’ve held for the man whoraised me, who taught me, who groomed me to be a leader, butI can’t. His simple request holds power over me, cutting thetethers that link me to Jade. I cast an apologetic glance back ather as I fall into step beside the admiral. Her eyes are flat andnoncommittal.

Together, father and son, we climb the stepsto the quarterdeck. Silent, we walk to the bow, my father’s fingersgrazing the unused wheel as we pass.

He rests his hands on the railing when wereach it, stretching his gaze out over the endless waters.Naturally, I do the same, mimicking his movements, like I’ve alwaysdone. When I realize it, I pull my hands away from the woodenbarrier, lean a hip into it, cross one leg over the other. Anythingto look different than him.

“I never had a chance to tell you that storyabout your mother,” Father says, raising his chin slightly, theball in his neck bobbing.

“No,” I say, dragging out the word, wonderingwhether I still want to hear what he has to say.

“You can’t be with a bilge rat,” he says,changing the subject quickly and drastically.

I snap a look at him, but he doesn’t returnit. He knows. Maybe he’s known since Hobbs first accused me, andyet…he hasn’t acted upon it—not yet anyway.

“I’m not who you think I am,” I say.

“You’re EXACTLY who I think you are,” myfather says, his tone and demeanor changing as quickly as the topicof conversation. His shoulders are rising and falling with eachbreath, the hard lines of his face quivering.

I say nothing, my skin cold and numb.

“I could’ve made you kill her, you know,” hesays after his breathing returns to normal. His tone is calm again,controlled.

“You couldn’t have made me do it,” I saybefore I can think better of it. But I’m glad for saying it. Thetruth seems to scrape the numbness away, spreading warmth throughme.

“One way or another, I could end her,” hesays matter-of-factly.

“Why didn’t you?” I ask, slicing the nightwith my words.

“Because I don’t want to lose you,” he says.I stare at him, and even when he finally meets my eyes, I don’t tryto hide my surprise. “It’s true,” he continues. “I know I don’tshow it often, but I care about you. I want the best for you. Andthe best is not her.”

His last words should anger me but theydon’t, because I’ve never seen this side of him—have neverfelt this side of him. Is it real?

“Then don’t make me punish her,” I say.

“Her crimes ca

No!

no!

no.

(no?)

Each time I think the word, more and moredoubt creeps into my mind, because my father believes in me now. Hetrusts me to continue the Soaker tradition, to lead our peoplesomeday. How can I deny him that? How can I deny him when I’vefailed him in the worst way possible? And then I remember how ourconversation started.

“What did you want to tell me about Mother?”I ask, shaking my head, because just speaking her name causesimages to flash in my mind: her panic-stricken face; my father’shardened, accusing stare; the swarming sharp-tooths.

The images are dispelled only when my fatherspeaks again. “Your mother’s death wasn’t exactly as you remember,”he says.

I close my eyes, try to remember that night.For once, when I actually want to, I can’t. I see only black,spotted with the memory of twinkling stars.

“I saw everything,” my father says, which iswhat scares me the most. He saw how I failed—he saw my weakness. Ialmost can’t believe we’re talking about that night after so manyyars of pretending it never happened.

“She didn’t fall,” he says, and I realizehe’s in as much denial as I am.

“Father,” I say, unsure of what I’ll saynext.

But I never find out, because he rushes on.“Your mother arrived early at the rail for a reason that night,Son. And it wasn’t to meet you. At first she thought she wanted tosee you, to say her goodbyes, but in the end she didn’t have thecourage.”