Water & Storm Country

Chapter Five

Huck

“My son!” my fatherbellows, his face beaming with something I’ve never seen before.Excitement? Sort of. Happiness? Definitely. Pride? Aye! There itis. My father’s face is full of pride. And I think it’s for me.

The crowd cheers, but my father, AdmiralJones, waves his hands to silence them. “Thank you all for coming.This is an important day for me, for my family, for my son.” Morecheers. “Today my son, Huck Jones, becomes a man!”

The roars are deafening but I barely hearthem because I’m basking under the glow of my father’s pride. Butthen I have a thought that makes me go numb:

Is it real?

My father once taught me that part of being aleader is being what people expect you to be. “Isn’t that lying?” Ihad asked, remembering how my mother always told me never to lie,no matter what the circumstances. “No,” Father had said, smilingbroadly, “it’s leadership.”

Is that what he’s doing now? Pretending to beproud of his son because that’s what’s expected of him on myfourteenth birthday?

But still.

It’s wonderful seeing him like this—the bestfeeling in the world. The numbness fades because I don’t carewhether he’s lying, or just being a leader, or whatever. For rightnow, he’s proud of me.

“May I present to you…my son…LieutenantJones!” He pulls his sword out, hilt branded with the mark of TheMerman’s Daughter, and I do the same, my sword matching his

(Except I lost the fight with the bilgerat.)

(And my father never loses.)

and we raise our swords above our heads, andI feel full of power and strength, and for the first time in mylife I’m fearless, and I can do anything, conquer anything, and I’mready,

(I think.)

ready to become a man.

No, I am a man. Lieutenant Jones.

Someone starts singing…

“Yo, ho, on land or at sea; yo, ho, getdown on your knees…”

…and soon we’re all singing, me and my fatherincluded, his proud arm around me—only no…no, it’s just me andCain.

“Yo, ho, we’ll fight to the end; yo, ho,we’ll fight cuz we’re men!”

My father’s gone.

But I don’t care because he was proud of metonight and he’s a busy, important man and I can’t expect him tostick around for a silly party that’s all for me. So I keep singingand smiling and my friends come up and shake my hand like I’msomething, someone bigger than them, because I am.

I’m a man.

And then the grog starts flowing and I’mallowed to have a few burning—and if I’m being honest, quitedisgusting—sips this time, because I’m of age and I’m a lieutenantnow, so who would stop me anyway?

But father’s not here.

But I don’t care because the grog has sentwarmth through my belly and the stars are shining even thoughthere’s lightning flashing off yonder in storm country. And thewhite sails are full and it’s a perfect night for sailing.And—and—

—father’s not here.

I take another sip of grog and force itdown.

Someone picks me up, Cain I think, and throwsme off onto the lower decks where eager hands await to catch me, tohold me up, to pass me around like a hero’s welcome. And I’mlaughing and my friends are fighting through the crowd alongsideme, laughing with me. Suddenly I realize: one of the worst days ofmy life has become one of the best nights of my life. Maybe eventhe best night.

A night to remember.

~~~

“Uhhh,” I moan the next morning, blinking inthe dark of my cabin.

Why is someone hammering on my head?

I reach up, swat at whichever friend isplaying the trick on me, waking me up with repeated knocks on myskull. But no one’s there and my hands whoosh through the emptyair.

I feel around for the dark drapes covering mycabin window, pull them aside, squint when the circular beam oflight hits me full in the face. The sun is way above the horizonand I’m late. Very late. Not a good start for my first day as aman.

And my head—oh, my aching head. I drank waytoo much grog, stayed up way too late. “Just one more song,” themen kept saying and I wasn’t about to deny them. Not on my night.Not when the jokes about me and the bilge rat had ended hoursearlier.

Someone knocks on the door. “LieutenantJones?” a voice says.

They’re looking for my father, but he’s not alieutenant. “Admiral Jones,” I correct, pulling my pillow over myhead to drown out the continued knocking by the confusedsailor.

“That’s your father’s name,” the voice says,and I realize it’s Cain and he’s talking about me, because

(Aye, I’m a lieutenant now, aren’t I?)

“Come in,” I say, my voice raspy.

I hear the cabin door swing open and I peekout from beneath my pillow to see Cain, dressed in his dirty blueuniform, smiling like he’s the one who just became a man. “Youalive?” he asks.

“Barely,” I say. “But I’ve got a headache thesize of the ship’s hull.”

“I bet,” Cain says. “I think you might’veoverdone it a little.” He’s still smiling like my headache is thefu

I groan in response. Then ask, “Why are youhere anyway?”

With those five words, his smile vanishes asif it was never there in the first place. He runs a hand throughhis long, dark hair. “It’s time,” he says.

“Time for what?” I mutter.

“Time to go.”

A shudder passes through me and I have toclutch my stomach because something’s roiling in there, threateningto come back up. Still wearing my clothes from the night before, Istagger to my feet, stomp past Cain, climb the stairs three at atime, smashing my shoulder into the wooden wall when the shiplurches and my stomach along with it.

The sun warms my skin when I burst out intothe fresh air, but it doesn’t help. I’ve got to get to the side. Irush starboard because the boat’s edge is closer on that side, andbecause my father is port and stops talking to the rudderman whenhe sees me, shooting glares in my direction that hold none of thefalse pride I saw from him last night.

Barely, barely, I make it to the railingbefore I throw everything up: last night’s supper, the obsceneamounts of grog I drank, my manhood. All of it splashes down theside of the ship, leaving a trail of pink in the water, which isquickly swallowed up by the sharp-tooths thrashing below.

My loss is their gain, I guess.

Hanging my thundering head over the side, Ijust breathe, holding back my hair with one hand so the stream ofdrool from my mouth doesn’t soil it, the endless rocking of theship doing little to help the nausea. Nearby, someone laughs. Thensomeone else. My ears open and I hear their jokes. “The little mancan’t even hold his ale,” one says, laughing loudly. “He won’t lasta minute on the Sailors’ Mayhem,” the other voice adds,chuckling.

My head snaps up, not from the jokes, whichI’ve grown used to, but because of what the second man said.Sailors’ Mayhem? A ship name, one I know all too well. Itsreputation precedes it. The worst ship in the fleet, requiringconstant repairs, the Mayhem, as it’s known, is home to theoutcasts of the outcasts, the sailors who can’t seem to fit in onany of the other ships.

But I won’t be going there.

My father wouldn’t do such a thing.

(He would.)

He wouldn’t.

(He would.)

As if in response to my i

I stare at the fins cutting circles in theocean, take a deep breath. Wipe the drool off my lips with myshirt. Comb my dirty-blond locks away from my face. Turn to facehim.

“Father,” I say, feeling horriblyunderdressed in my vomit-stained shirt and three-quarter-lengthbritches. His pristine blue uniform gleams with metal medallions.So does his sword when he slides it shrieking from itsscabbard.