Текст книги "Water & Storm Country"

Автор книги: David Estes

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“Fine,” I say, “as long as you don’t speak.”

Ignoring me, he says, “What do you think about your father’s vision?”

I can’t stop myself from flinching. Was I the last to know? Probably, considering the first time my father tried to tell me, I started a fight with him and ran away.

“I’m going with them,” I say, snapping my mouth shut as soon as the words come out. Why did I say that? I don’t even have a horse yet. I haven’t finished training.

“You are?” Remy says. “But I thought your ceremony wasn’t for another few months.”

“They’ll make an exception,” I say, firming up my voice, as if I’m on my way to discuss it with Remy’s father right now.

Remy laughs, grabs my hand, stops me. “You’re so full of horse dung, Sadie. My father doesn’t make exceptions.”

I grit my teeth and wrench my hand from Remy’s grip. Anger bursts through me like a crashing wave.

Because I know Remy’s right.

Chapter Eleven

Huck

When I finally leave my cabin, full of brown gruel that tasted even worse than it looked, the sun is well beyond its peak, the sky a dark bloody red. Right away, I wish I hadn’t hidden in there for so long.

It only made things worse. Now everyone stares at me as I walk along the quarterdeck, trying to look like a leader. But no matter how high I raise my chin or how straight I keep my back, I feel like a boy pretending to be a lieutenant, all the way to the clean, blue uniform, which feels more like a costume than a sign of my position.

A test, I remember. Maybe my last chance to prove myself to my father.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hobbs watching my every move, his usual frown-smile plastered on his face.

I ignore him and look around, taking it all in. The scene is consistent with when I arrived: men and women alike, sleeping, some sipping bottles of grog, some telling jokes, laughing and slapping their knees. One woman struggles to clip wet clothes to a line strung up between two masts. A few men are working, too, swinging the tattered sails around to catch the wind properly, but they’re struggling because the wind is swirling, changing direction so quickly that using sails is a near-impossibility. Why doesn’t anyone say something? I wonder. The captain, one of the other lieutenants, somebody…

“Where’s the captain?” I ask myself.

“In his favorite spot,” a voice says from behind.

I shudder and turn quickly.

Barney stands nearby, looking off at the far end of the quarterdeck, near where Hobbs is standing, still watching me. But my steward isn’t looking at Hobbs, his gaze is locked on a swinging bundle to the left of him. A salt-yellowed hammock rocks back and forth in the wind, wisps of smoke curling up from where the captain lays, pipe in his mouth, eyes closed, either oblivious or disinterested in the complete lack of competence on the decks of his ship.

Ignoring Hobbs’ dagger-stares, I march on up to the captain and tap him on the shoulder. He awakes with a start, his pipe falling from his lips and onto his grungy uniform. He scrabbles for it, manages to pluck it off his chest, but not before it leaves a black circle burned into his shirt.

“What in the Deep Blue?” he says, his tired eyes flashing to mine. So he was asleep, setting a good example for his men. “Something I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Well, I, uh, I just thought…”

“Spit it out, boy!” he says, not too nicely.

When he calls me boy, something snaps in me, something that evens my words out, allows them to flow with confidence. “We’ve fallen behind the other ships,” I say. I add, “Sir,” as an afterthought.

“And?” he says.

Dumbfounded, I gawk at the captain in his hammock, not a care in the world, except maybe not getting burned by his bloody pipe. We sail for our livelihood, to fill our nets with fish, to reach our next safe landing zone to find fresh water to sate our dry throats. We’ve done it for years, since the time that the first Soakers constructed the first ships out of driftwood, broken from homes during what everyone believed was the end of days. We sail to survive. Doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t he care?

“And…we need to catch up,” I say.

“Then catch up!” he says, sticking his pipe between his lips before rolling over.

I want to kick him, to pound my fists against him, to tell him he’s the worst captain ever and that his ship is the laughingstock of my father’s fleet. But that’s the tantrum of a child. For the first time in my life I wonder if it’s all worth it—the ships, the sailing, the fishing. We could settle down somewhere, like the Stormers, live off the land. There’s plenty of uninhabited land along our fishing route. We could pick a spot and just take it, leave the ships behind forever.

But even the thought sends my heart sinking into my stomach. Leave the ships? Leave the sea? Settle down? It’s just not in us—it’s not in me. My people were made for the sea and I know we’ll never leave it. So that means…

I glance over at Hobbs, who’s laughing. He makes a crying motioning with his fists against his eyes. The captain’s words ring in my ears—Then catch up!—while Hobbs’ mocking burns in my chest.

If they won’t do anything, then I will.

I stomp across the quarterdeck, down the steps, enjoying the sound my boots make on the wood. Solid, confident. My footsteps have never sounded like that before.

I ignore the sleepers and the drinkers—for now, anyway.

First, I approach one of the men struggling with the sails. “Seaman!” I holler.

The man, a wiry fellow with yellow teeth that are showing as he exerts himself, stops suddenly, snaps around. “Are you talkin’ to me, boy?”

The burn in my stomach, in my chest, grows into a huge bonfire, not unlike the ones we build whenever we land on the beaches of storm country. Except the fire’s in me, crackling, burning, fueling me. I wonder if this is how my father feels all the time. Powerful.

“You will address me as Lieutenant or sir, or you will be sent to the brig, seaman!” My voice sounds different, almost like it’s coming from somewhere else, but the way it vibrates in my neck proves it’s me. I feel strong.

“We ain’t got a brig,” the man says. He breaks into a crooked smile, his whole face lifting and his eyes sparkling like the ocean. And then he laughs, right at me, like I’m some sort of a joke. (Am I?)

I feel my fire start to go out, as if someone’s dumped a bucket of water on it. Clenching my fists, I force the heat to rise again. I draw my sword.

“What’re you gonna do with that little toothpick, boy?” the sailor says, spitting a wad of tobacco at my feet. “Clean my teeth?”

What am I gonna do? Do I even know? Am I even in control anymore?

I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, but my feet march me forward, my arm whips back, and for a moment—just a moment—there’s fear in the man’s eyes and it feels so bloody good to be feared rather than mocked. The powerful, not the powerless.

I hit him. Hard, with the broadside of my sword.

Smack!

Right in the upper part of his leg, where it’ll hurt and bruise but won’t do any permanent damage.

There’s a commotion behind me, but I don’t turn to look, because the man isn’t too happy. He’s cursing like I’ve never heard anyone curse before, even in my thirteen long yars living amongst sailors.

Clutching at his leg, he says, “You shouldn’ta done that, boy. I’ll kill you.” He reaches down and slips a knife from his boot, tosses it from hand to hand. The way he wields it leaves no doubt in my mind: he’s killed with this knife before. Although the blood’s probably been cleaned away long ago, I can almost still see the stains on the shining metal blade.

I should be scared, terrified—of getting cut open, of dying—but I’m not. Peace washes over me, borne by the warm breeze that continues to swirl around us. If I die today, I’ll see my mother. And anyway, there are worse things than death—like my father’s disappointment.

“I warned you, Seaman,” I say, trying out the deep voice again, remembering words I’ve heard my father speak. “You have disobeyed a direct order by your superior officer, and therefore, you are sentenced to a day in the brig without food. Now give me your name, so it can be recorded in the ship’s annals.”

The man stops tossing the knife, stares at me like I’ve grown a merman’s tail, and then laughs again, but this time it’s less boisterous, almost forced. “Yer one crazy little boy,” he laughs. “I’ll give you something to stick up yer annal.”

He starts to lunge forward, and I’m already leaping back, when someone shouts, “Webb!” which stops the man dead.

He looks behind me, but I keep my eyes on him, my sword raised, ready to defend myself to the death if necessary. “Who said that?” he growls. “I’ll kill whoever said that.”

The same voice rings out again, and I realize it’s that of a woman. “Aye, aye, yer always saying you’ll kill everyone, Webb, but yer all talk. You only pick on those weaker than you. Yer just pissed our new lieutenant put you in yer place. Now take yer punishment like a man.”

The man now has a name: Webb. Simply having that knowledge makes me feel like I’ve got the upper hand, like there’s power in knowing he’s not just a mysterious, knife-wielding, yellow-toothed sailor, but a man named Webb.

It seems he feels the same thing, because his arm drops, and he releases the knife, which clatters to the wood. “This ain’t over,” he spits, glaring at me.

“This ain’t over, sir,” I say, meeting his eyes. “You just earned yourself another day, sailor.” Finally, I turn to the crowd, almost dropping my sword when I see how many people are gathered behind me. Men and women and children, all watching, some smiling, some with wide, surprised eyes and raised eyebrows, other with flat, unreadable lips. I point at three strong-looking men standing near the front. “You, you, and you, please take Mr. Webb to the lowest decks and find a safe place for him to stay. Preferably a place with a lock.”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” the man in the middle says, saluting.

Lieutenant. The word echoes in my head. By speaking that one simple word, this seaman on the Sailors’ Mayhem has changed my life.

I smile as they escort Webb away.

~~~

“Pull!” I shout, grunting with exertion and exhaustion, but not even close to giving up.

As usual, my father’s words are tearing a hole in my head. Earn the respect of your seamen by being one of them and above them.

This is the “being one of them” part. Definitely not as fun as the other part.

I push the oar forward as hard as I can, perfectly in sync with the other oarsmen. “Pull!” I shout, wrenching the wooden pole back into my chest where it smacks my uniform with a heavy thud.

The ship lurches forward and although we can’t see the bow cutting across the waves, can’t feel the wind through our hair, can’t watch the shores of storm country float past, there’s satisfaction in knowing the ship’s riding on our backs, on the strength in our sore muscles.

A few hours ago, when I ordered a few men to close and lash the sails, and all other men below deck to man the oars, there were more than a few grumbles and whispers, but grudgingly, the men complied. Two of them stank so badly of grog and couldn’t walk in a straight line, so I sent them to sleep it off in the newly established brig. I’ll let them out tomorrow with a warning to not show up for work drunk again.

“Pull!” I shout again, almost automatically as I start the motion back toward my chest. My throat is sore and my muscles burning, but I won’t stop, not while my men continue to toil. I’m not as strong or experienced as many of them, but I will work every bit as hard as I make them.

Do I have my father in me? Do I have what it takes to lead? For the first time in my life, I think maybe I do.

Another shout, another motion.

Footfalls clop down the steps. A face appears. A boy, a couple of yars younger than me, with hair as white as the sands on the beaches. Jacob. I’d ordered him to stay with the wheelman, Marley, who’s responsible for steering the ship while the captain focuses on dreaming the day away. Jacob’s job is to periodically tell me how things are looking above deck.

His last ten reports have been, “No change, sir.” And each time he’s reported, my muscles have ached just a little more than the last time.

“The fleet has stopped!” he shouts, all smiles.

A shiver of excitement runs through me, and although I’m already past the point of exhaustion, I manage a smile. “Halt!” I cry, and I’m surprised when amongst the creaking and clattering oars, a cheer rises up from the men. They’re as excited as I am.

I stand, ready to slap a few backs, to congratulate them on a job well done, but my smile vanishes when I see the looks on most of the faces: grimaces and glares. A few of them mutter under their breaths as they stomp past, brushing by Jacob as they slowly climb the stairs.

I just stare at them as they go, wondering what I did wrong.

“You made them work,” a man says. He’s not much older than me—maybe three or four yars. Long, lean, sinewy arms. Short dark hair. A thin beard. He’s smiling.

“That’s their job,” I say. Isn’t it?

The man laughs, extends a hand. “Norris,” he says. “I man the foremast sails. The men aren’t used to working, that’s all.”

I take his hand, which crushes mine in a firm shake. I try to squeeze back but his grip’s like iron. “Huck,” I say, forgetting myself. “I mean, Lieutenant Jones.”

“You did well today, Lieutenant,” Norris says, looking me in the eyes. “They’ll come around. They just have to get used to you. There are a few of us who’ve been waiting for someone like you.” He motions to three other men behind him. “Meet the real crew,” he says.

I shake each of their hands in turn, squeezing hard to avoid getting my fingers crushed. Budge, Ferris, and Whittle.

Budge is meant to be an oarsmen, built like an anchor, heavy and compact, but usually he can’t even get enough men to join him. Until today, that is.

Ferris is a lookout, small and thin, and apparently very good at climbing. The crow’s nest is his post.

Whittle stinks like tobacco and has a face that only a mother could love, with dozens of scars and pockmarks, and she’d have to be a pretty understanding mother at that. He manages the bilge rats, which is evidently one of the reasons they seem to do such a fine job keeping the ship clean.

“There’s no one to command us,” Norris says, “so we pretty much run things ourselves, with very little help from the rest of the crew. You’re very welcome here.”

I nod firmly. Although it feels good to have a few early advocates, I get no warmth from it. I’ll need the support of every man and woman if I’m to turn things around.

“Thank you, seaman,” I say. “If I could ask you a question. Who was the woman who shouted Webb’s name today?”

I’m surprised when Norris and the other three snicker. “She’s a real jibboom, alright. That was Lyla, my sister. She’s about your age. She’ll love you for putting Webb in his place. He’s hated by most of the women, always leering and groping at them. Sending him to the brig will have gone a long way with the ship women.”

My cheeks burn because of the way he says it, all wagging eyebrows and smirking. “Fine. Thank you, seaman,” I say.

I turn and head for the door, only now realizing what’s coming next.

It’s time to see my father.

Chapter Twelve

Sadie

I’m so angry I march right through the stables without stopping to see Shadow.

Remy’s right—too right. There’s no way Gard will let me ride to ice country with my mother.

Mother’s not there, so I skirt the edge of the camp, taking my normal route to our training area, along the western border, where Carrion Forest is but a stone’s throw away. The heavy clouds comb the green manes of the trees, turning them a deep shade of gray. The squeal-grunt of a wild boar shrills through the air. Perhaps he stumbled upon one of our traps. My father says the forest is an evil place, full of dark magic and sorcery, but I see it only as the place where we get our food. Conies and boar and plump fowl live there, the latter roosting high in the branches of the trees, where a well-placed arrow or a good climber can reach them quite easily. The forest is the lifeblood of my people.

We refuse to eat from the sea like the Soakers. My father says eating the sea creatures leads to madness.

A few of the men and women in the watch tents offer greetings as I pass, but, afraid that after my encounter with Remy my voice will come out filled with venom, I offer only a nod in response to each of them.

When I reach the broad, grassy area, I stop abruptly.

Mother is there already, as I suspected, and she’s practicing her sword work by herself. I duck behind a tent so I can watch without her knowing. Every motion perfectly fluid, like running water, she moves with a grace and litheness that cannot be taught. Again and again, her sword flashes out and back, blocking and attacking an invisible foe.

Paw’s killer, maybe?

Her feet are always perfectly balanced as she dances, spins, leaps around. If she is imagining herself fighting Paw’s killer, or some other Soaker enemy, you can’t tell from her face. Her cheeks are hard with concentration and her eyes flash determination, but there’s no anger to be found. Anger is weakness, she’s taught me. Of all her sayings, that one scares me the most, because I feel angry so often. At my father’s weakness, at the Soakers, at whichever one of them took Paw’s life before it really got started. How do I thrust off the anger?

I watch for a few more minutes, my awe growing at the perfection that is my mother.

When I step out of hiding, she spots me, stopping in mid-swing. I’ve just saved an invisible Soaker’s life. Pity.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” she says, which makes me lift my eyebrows. Why wouldn’t I come?

When she sees my confusion, she explains, “Because I slapped you.”

Oh. That. To be honest, I’d pretty much forgotten, but now the embarrassment comes back with the speed of a flash storm. I raise a hand to my cheek, remembering the sting. “I deserved it,” I say, meaning it. I was acting like a child, being exceptionally disrespectful to my father.

“You did,” she says with a smile, making me smile too. “But that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.”

And just like that, all is forgiven and forgotten. “Mother, do you think Father is right?” I ask.

“Defend!” she says, leaping forward with her sword. My blade is out before her feet touch the ground, blocking her attack, the swords ringing out in the early morning, as if welcoming the sun to the sky.

Excitement and energy courses through me as we battle across the plains, sword fighting, circling, jumping, kicking, swinging, faster and faster, until the world becomes only me and my mother, condensed into a circle around us, everything else a blur, melting away.

I deflect a blow to the right, to the left, above my head, backing up swiftly from my mother’s onslaught. And then she does something completely unexpected.

She ducks and dives, right at my feet, grabs me around the ankles, knocking me off balance. I whirl my arms and tumble to the ground, where she points her sword at my neck, breathing heavily, but laughing.

“New lesson,” she says. “Do something unexpected, surprise your enemy.”

I nod. “Again?” It’s a question I ask each time she defeats me, until she eventually has to decline, or we’d fight all day and all night.

She never says no after one fight.

“No,” she says, grinning.

“But, Moth—”

“Our orders are to burn as much of ice country as we can, to send a message, but to spare the innocents. Kill only the king and his men,” she says, cutting me off.

“And this is all because of Father’s prediction?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Have you forgotten your question?”

I have. “What question?”

“You asked whether I think your father is right.”

“And then you attacked me,” I say, grinning.

She laughs. “I needed time to think,” she says, which makes me laugh. While I’ve been completely focused on beating her, her mind’s been a million miles away, coming up with what to say to me.

“So do you…think Father’s right?” I ask.

“He’s never been…” Her voice catches, like she’s got something stuck in her throat. There’s a faraway look in her eyes, one I’ve never seen before.

“Mother? What has he never been?” I ask, sitting up.

“Wrong,” she says, more firmly. “He’s never been wrong.”

Although her words come out stronger this time, her eyes are filled with the morning fog, not scared, but uncertain.

And that scares me the most, because I’ve never seen her unsure of herself.

~~~

The Plague took another life today.

Jala, a Man of Wisdom, like my father. When my father lit his funeral pyre, his eyes were red and wet. Although I’ve been to many death ceremonies, this one hit me harder than most. Emotion swelled in my chest, and I felt like crying. I didn’t, but I felt like it.

I didn’t know Jala well, but I haven’t seen Father cry since Paw died, and though I’ve given him a hard time lately, between his crying and my mother’s uncertain words from earlier, well, I’m out of sorts.

There’s tension and sadness in the air as I carry two buckets of water to the stables. Men and women are scurrying about everywhere, helping the Riders prepare for their long ride and for battle.

As soon as I enter the stables, the walls and roof seem to close in around me. For the first time in my life, I feel uncomfortable around the horses. While I water Shadow and place a thin black cloth on his back, which my mother will mount, my unease grows and grows, until I want to scream. I spot Remy preparing his father’s horse, Thunder. He smiles at me but I don’t smile back, because seeing him reminds me of our conversation from earlier. I hate being told what I can’t do. To hell with waiting for my sixteenth age day.

Finished with Shadow, I rush from the stables, brushing past Remy when he steps in front of me. “Hey!” he says, but I don’t stop.

Even the open air outside the stables doesn’t ease the heaviness that is now draped over me like a pile of blankets. The air smells of rain, earthy and green and moist. A heavy storm might delay the Riders’ departure, but the darkest clouds are still miles away, so I can’t count on the weather. I pass Gard, who looks like a mountain next to me as he stomps by, his thick, black robe swirling around his feet. He wears a frown, but that’s not unusual for him. Frowning is expected of a war leader.

Just as I arrive at our tent, my mother emerges, wearing her own dark robe, which is open at the front as she clasps her sword belt around her waist. “Mother, I—” I start to say, but then stop when I see the expression on her face when she notices me approaching.

She looks sunken, like the earth has pulled every part of her face down a little. There are shadows under her eyes and tearstains on her cheeks. I’ve never seen my mother cry. Never. Riders don’t cry. She told me that herself. One of her many lessons. And now she’s crying, like some scared little child. She’s fought the Soakers a dozen times in her lifetime. Are the Icers so powerful they would scare my mother to tears? This woman, who I’ve idolized since the day I was born, who’s supposed to be the strong one, the person I want to be like, driven to tears by fear?

I can’t help the seed of anger I feel in my belly. It’s small at first, but then sprouts a stem, which shoots upward into my chest, splitting into several branches which yield red, hot leaves and burning fruit. The fruits of rage.

I’m so angry I’m trembling.

Her belt clasped, she reaches for me, both arms extended, beckoning me into their folds. “Mother, no—why are you doing this?” I say, backing away a step.

She flinches, as if surprised by my reaction to her affections—but she has to know how ridiculous she’s acting. “I want to say goodbye,” she says, her voice weaker than someone stricken with the Plague.

“Why were you crying?” I demand, my hands fisted at my sides.

She shakes her head. “Your father—he got upset.”

“Riders don’t cry,” I say, dimly aware that people are watching us now.

“It wasn’t—I wasn’t—”

“I thought you were strong,” I say. My voice comes out as a plea, and I feel the burning fruits of rage dropping like pinecones, bursting into a flood of emotion, welling tears into pools just behind my eyes. I grit my teeth and hold them back. My mother may be weak, but I won’t be. I’ll be better than my master.

“I am, Sadie,” she says. “You don’t understand.”

But I do. I do. “I’m coming with the Riders,” I say, keeping my voice even.

The most unexpected expression flashes across my mother’s face, there and then gone, like a falling star in the night sky. Not anger, or sadness, or surprise; no, none of the emotions that would make sense.

For her expression showed only one thing:

Hope.

~~~

The hope I see in my mother’s eyes is no more than a flicker of light on a distant horizon.

“No,” she says, and she’s back, my mother—the Rider. The wind has dried her tears and I’ve hardened her jaw, and she doesn’t reach out to me again.

This is my master, the woman who can’t be argued with, the woman with the power to give and take away. As much as I want to go with her, I don’t try to argue, knowing full well it’d be fruitless. “Be victorious,” I say, using the standard pre-battle Rider words.

“I will go with honor and strength,” says my master, who’s now also my mother again.

At arm’s length, we clasp each other’s shoulders. “I’ll train double for you while you’re gone,” I say.

She laughs, but it’s more airy than usual, more high-pitched too, but her face and eyes are still strong, so it might just be the water in the air. “Keep your father safe,” she says.

“I will.”

I watch her go, the last of the Riders to make their way to the stables.

“Come inside, Sadie,” my father, who’s emerged from our tent, says behind me. I turn, take in his wet face and bleary eyes, and I have to look away, because his sadness suddenly hits me like a punch to the gut.

I never realized Jala was such a good friend to my father.

~~~

With the rain misting down around me, I watch the Riders go, galloping north under heavy black cloud cover, dark shadows against the plains.

Just when I’m about to return to the camp, one of them turns, looks back. A fist squeezes my heart and my throat constricts, because I know—

–without a doubt in my mind—

–I know.

It was my mother.

I’ve watched her ride into battle many times before, and she’s never turned around.