Water & Storm Country

As usual, a storm is coming, and a fierce oneat that.

“Patience,” my mother says, and then leapsforward, the half-smile gone, her face hard with concentration. Herblade cuts toward me.

Clang!

I whip my own sword from the sand andnarrowly manage to deflect hers away. Not that she would’ve hit me.But she would’ve pressed the point tight against my skin andlectured me on always being prepared, never letting my guard down,or any number of her favorite “Rider Lessons.”

For a while we forget about the Soaker ships,forget about the cheers erupting from them as they passed, forgetabout everything but our own bodies, moving, slashing, blocking,fighting, preparing for…for what?

Finally, my mother puts down her blade.

“A storm is coming,” she says, but I don’tthink she means rain and lightning and thunder.

Though we both know we should run forshelter, for the camp, we sit on the sand for a while, justwatching the gulls play on the gusting wind. Seems the storm isn’tclose enough to scare them yet, and the birds are usuallyright.

“I hate them,” I say to the ocean.

“Who? The birds?” my mother says, and I canfeel her smile on my face. She can be intense during training, butwhen she’s just my mother again she’s different.

“The Soakers,” I say, looking at her quickly,matching her brown stare.

She knows why, so she doesn’t ask, doesn’tsay anything, just throws an arm around me and pulls me into herchest. Her heart beats firmly against my face.

“Don’t be so quick to grow up,” she finallysays.

I pull away, embarrassed that I gave myselfthe comfort of my mother’s tenderness. I’m not a child anymore.“I’ll be a Rider soon,” I say, frowning. “Is Father trying to delayit?”

“Your father loves you,” she says, “it woulddo you well to remember that.”

“Father’s a coward,” I say before I can stopmyself. But why should I stop myself? The words are on my tonguemost of the time, why shouldn’t I speak them? They’re the truth,after all.

“Your father’s a hero,” Mother says.

Something red and hot and sizzling withenergy tears through me, like lightning striking a lonely tree. Ishudder, breathing heavy, trying to control my anger like Motherhas taught me. I want to swallow the words in my mouth, if onlybecause I love my father, despite his weaknesses, despite all hiswise words and no action, despite the coward that he is. But Ican’t, because of Sorrow. Because of Sadness. Because of Loss.

Because of Paw. My brother. My lostbrother.

“He let him die,” I say through tightlips.

“He tried to save him,” Mother says.

“He was too weak.” My jaw aches from grindingmy teeth.

“No, you don’t remember. You were toolittle.”

I slam my eyes shut, squeeze them so hard,like maybe if I push enough, I can force my head to remember. Iwant to ask her to tell me, to tell me what happened that day, thecold, hard truth, but I won’t. I can’t. I have to remember it on myown so I know it’s real. Plus, I’ve asked before, and she wouldn’ttalk about it. Why won’t she talk about it?

Faint images flash in the darkness behind myeyelids. A cold, rainy night. From the little my mother hastold me, I was three, Paw was four.

I remember. I remember.

We are playing together, Paw and me. Somesilly game with stones and sticks. He tosses a stone, clapping andlaughing when it bounces and rests on the stick. I frown, stamp mylittle foot. “No fair,” I say, even though I know it was perfectlyfair.

I throw my own stone, but it clatters awayfrom the stick. “I win again!” Paw yells, his arms over his head invictory.

I cross my arms and refuse to look at him,but then he’s there, with an arm around my shoulders, saying,“You’ll win the next one,” and I can’t stop the smile, because Pawis the best big brother I could ever ask for, and because I lovehim, and want to be just like him, and because we’re both going tobe Riders one day…

Screams in the distance. Angry screams.Scared screams. Violent screams.

Torches surround us, flying through the air,carried by dark bodies. Riders, rushing to arms, to get theirhorses.

But it’s too late. Too late.

The Soakers are upon us with swords andknives and clubs, somehow managing to sneak in, already in thecamp, slashing, cutting, killing…

The memory starts to fade, like it alwaysdoes at this point, but I squeeze my eyes shut tighter still, smackthe heel of my hand against my forehead, forcing it to show me—

—Paw’s death.

I have to know why I survived and hedidn’t.

Thunder crashes, heavy and loud andclose.

“We have to go,” Mother says and my eyesflash open. When I look up, the gulls are gone.

~~~

We’re drenched by the time we reach our tent.I duck inside first, with Mother right behind me. Father looks upfrom a piece of wood bark, where he’s writing something with apiece of chalkstone. We’ve startled him.

Thunder booms overhead and his eyes flickupward, as if the tent might cave in on top of us. As if he’s justrealized there’s a massive storm.

I know what that means. He’s been gone. Notphysically, like how Mother and I were down at the edge of theocean, but mentally, spiritually—gone. Off in his own world,doing his Wisdom Man thing, discovering our fates by studyinggrains of sand in a water skin or herbs in a clay teapot. In otherwords, doing nothing, wasting time—while we trained for the nextbattle with the Soakers.

“A bad one?” Father says when we sit next toeach other on a blanket, drying off.

Mother shrugs. “No worse than the lastone.”

As the name suggests, storm country is aplace where nature fights against itself constantly, warring in theskies—not with swords and shields and horses and ships, but withlightning and dark clouds and—

Boom!

Another heavy clap of thunder shatters thebrief silence, momentarily drowning out the drum of the rainfall onthe tent. Father twitches slightly. Mother and I stay as still asstones.

“What are you doing, Father?” I ask,motioning to the marked tree bark.

His eyes meet mine and I see the fear in themas they widen. “I had a vision,” he says, and it’s all I can do notto laugh out loud. He’s always having visions, but none of themever seem to make any sense. Just because one Man of Wisdom said hewould become a Man of Wisdom when he was a baby doesn’t mean it’strue.

“Tell us,” Mother says seriously. I shoot hera frown, which she returns with a clear warning on her parted lips:don’t.

I turn back to my father, sigh, say, “Yes,tell us, Father.”

“It involves the Soakers,” he says, whichisn’t at all what I expected, and suddenly I find myself inchingforward, lifting my head, interested—actually interested—in what myfather has to say.

“Are we going to fight them? Are we going tokill them?” I ask eagerly, forgetting that his visions don’t mean adamn thing.

Now it’s his turn to frown, turning our happyfamily gathering into a frown party. “Sadie,” he says, and I canfeel the lecture in the way he speaks my name. “Our existence isnot all about killing Soakers. Sometimes the more important choiceis not when to take a life, but when to spare one.”

Spare one? Is he talking about theSoakers? Because I refuse to offer any of the wave riders my pity.“Is that the choice they made when they killed Paw?” I say, myvoice rising.

“Sadie, I—”

“When you let them kill Paw?” Ipractically shriek. Bright lights flash through our tent aslightning bursts all around us.

“Sadie!” my mother snaps, but I’m notlistening to her, not seeing the lightning, not caring about theway my father’s face has drooped like the wax on a meltingcandle.

Wet or not, storm or not, I don’t care. Ibash through the tent flaps and out into the thunder andlightning.