Текст книги "Water & Storm Country"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Chapter Seventeen

Huck

The man in Cain’s cabin is Webb. The same Webb who I sent to the brig for insubordination. Yellow-toothed and crooked-smiled and chewing a thick wad of black tobacco that mixes with his spit and dribbles down his chin, getting stuck in his brown stubble.

“What’s he doing here?” I ask, glancing at Cain, who seems very tired all of a sudden.

Cain remains silent while Webb says, “I’m a witness, sir.” The last word is spoken with a mockery that contradicts the very essence of the word.

“A witness to what?” I ask, but then my eyes widen when it dawns on me. Inadvertently, my eyes close. He saw.

Webb spits on the floor and Cain kicks him hard in the back of the legs. Rubbing himself, Webb says, “I mighta saw a certain brown rat chuck a filthy ol’ brush at the admiral’s son. How embarrassing.” He spits again and this time Cain doesn’t kick him, although I can tell he wants to.

“What do you want?” I ask.

He smiles wickedly, the corner of his lip upturned into a sneer. “Just my due,” he says. “A bigger cabin—like this one.” He motions with a hand around Cain’s temporary living space. “Oh, and a small promotion. Lieutenant should do just fine.”

My jaw drops. Either request is impossible, would raise too many questions, would call into question my ability to lead, to make wise choices. But if I don’t…

“You’re bluffing,” I say.

“Try me.” And I know I can’t try him. After I sent him to the brig, he’ll spill the beans without giving it another thought, maybe directly to my father. And then he’ll kill the girl. The only thing keeping Webb from shouting the crime from the tops of the masts is the dream of promotion.

Cain says, “You’ve been kicked off of every ship you’ve been on, Webb. I’ve asked around about you. The rumors aren’t good. They said you’ve killed people—bilge rats.”

“Bilge rats ain’t people,” Webb says, spitting again. I bite back a retort, wait for Cain to continue the questioning.

“There’s talk of a little girl, too. Found raped and murdered.” I stop breathing, for just a second. I knew Webb was bad, but has he really done all this?

Webb wipes a bit of black drool from his lips. “No one can prove anything,” he says.

“So you’re saying you’re not scared of the other men—the ones who think you did it?” Cain asks, staring at Webb.

“They’re just rumors,” Webb says with a sneer.

“People talk about it like it’s the truth,” Cain says. “I think I have enough witnesses and testimony to end you.” My heart gallops two beats forward. Will this really work?

But Webb doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t back down, even leans forward a little. “You try and I’ll tell Admiral Jones all about what really happened to Lieutenant Huck here. I’ll have nothing to lose.”

I look at Cain and I don’t need to read his thoughts to know what he’s thinking. There’s only one choice, one destiny for the murdering rapist standing before me. But I can’t, can I?

“I think we can work something out,” I say, faking a smile. “Let’s discuss the details above, on the quarterdeck. You should get used to the view from up there anyway.”

Webb’s smile widens, the bottom half black with tobacco.

As we climb the steps, I rationalize the decision I’ve already made. If I do nothing, Webb will run right to Hobbs or my father, and the girl will die. She’s done nothing to deserve my help, but I can’t watch her die, not when I need to know why she is the way she is, why she hates me so much. There’s more to her story than a life in servitude.

We reach the quarterdeck, where night has descended on the Mayhem.

“Right this way, future Lieutenant,” I say, extending a hand toward the ship’s helm.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Webb says eagerly, finally showing me some respect. All it takes is giving him what he wants.

When we approach the helmsman—who’s illuminated by the soft glow of three lanterns—he turns, his eyes widening in surprise when he sees us. Still holding the steering wheel, he nods in our direction. “Lieutenants,” he says. He frowns when he notices Webb.

“Your shift at the helm is over early tonight,” Cain says.

“I just started.”

“Then take the night off.”

The helmsman shrugs, allows Cain to take the wheel, and walks away, probably already planning his evening activities now that he doesn’t have to work.

“I want you to feel the power of the ship,” I say to Webb. “This is the best place to feel it. A lieutenant must know the ship under his command.” I’m stealing my father’s words again, from a lesson when I was barely ten. More and more, his lessons seem to be all I know.

Webb stands next to me, his legs planted firmly, as he seems to take my request very seriously, more seriously than anything I’ve said previously. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

“Do you feel it?” I ask.

Webb nods, his eyes full of life. “Yes, sir. I feel it. It feels like a storm.”

I nod back. “Good. Now take that power times ten, and that’s what you’ll feel at the very front. Come.”

I lead the way to the front rail, feeling his presence behind me like an unpleasant growth on my rear. Without turning, I say, “My father did this with me long ago.” I lean forward on the rail, stare out into the blackness of the Deep Blue, let my feet lift off the deck until I’m balancing on my arms, the ship churning through the waves beneath me. One unexpected lurch and I’ll lose my balance, fall forward. The wind pushes my long, untied hair behind me.

After a moment, I rock back, feeling the steadying kiss of my boots on the sturdy wood.

“Your turn,” I say, finally meeting Webb’s eyes again. They’re wide and full of wonder, like I’m imparting secrets known only to a fleet’s admiral.

Can I?

(Can I?)

Behind Webb, Cain’s got the wheel in a tight grip, his knuckles white. He’s looking past me, into the Deep Blue, maybe searching…for what? Answers? Questions? My soul?

Webb steps forward and I step back.

Is there another option? I could send him below again, to the brig, keep him there indefinitely. But no, that will only kindle his anger, make him shout the truth to anyone who might hear him. Eventually—maybe not right away, but in time—the rumors will turn to gossip will turn to truth. And then there’ll be questions and my father won’t sleep until there are answers, and then they’ll kill her.

And Webb’s an awful human being, a murderer, a rapist. It’s a wonder he’s survived this long.

One of my father’s lessons springs to mind: There’s no right, no wrong, only action. Is he right?

Webb leans on the rail, mimicking my movements, pausing for a moment to get his arms in position. And then—

Can I?

–he lifts off—

Will I?

–his worn and dirty boots hovering above the deck—

Must I?

–his life at my mercy, just like the life of the bilge rat girl was at his, just a few minutes earlier.

I do.

(I do.)

Without thinking, I grab his feet and raise them up, ignoring his startled exclamation—“What the—”—and throw him overboard, his shout drowned out by the splash of the ship on the waves and the wind in my ears.

There’s only one punishment for murder and treason: death.

Now I have the blood of two on my hands: Webb’s and my mother’s.

And despite the exhilaration and the fear and the sick feeling in my stomach, I know.

I know.

Today my life changed forever. Today I chose a bilge rat over a seaman.

And when I look out over the rest of the ship, I spot her right away. A pair of eyes clinging to the mast in the dark.

Watching me.

~~~

Cain gets me drunk that night. And himself too. He’s more experienced in the ways of death, but from the sourness on his face, I think he knows as well as I that grog isn’t the answer to anything.

But soon death and life and blood in the water pass out of mind, because I feel warm and there’s music playing from a few midshipmen with harmonicas and banjos and the night is clear and starry and what could ruin it?

(Surely not a single man overboard.)

(Especially not a man like Webb.)

On the Mayhem, the men are rougher, less polished, more uncouth. Their songs are about fighting and plunder and women and drinking. Norris, Budge, Ferris, and Whittle teach me the words and I sing along with them, a chorus of men’s and women’s voices.

Yo ho, we drink the grog harder,

Yo ho, with Stormers we barter,

Their blood for our lives,

Their men for their wives,

Yo ho, like lambs to the slaughter!

My people.

We dance and we sway and we drink away Webb’s death, Cain and I. The women move in ways that are foreign, but also exciting, to me.

Eventually, however…eventually, the world blurs and I feel myself falling, falling, and something soft cushions my fall.

I dream, my eyes fluttering open into a fog, thick as Stew’s fish soup, but I’m not alone. She’s watching me, a lovely brown face with earnest brown eyes, devoid of anger and hate and all the things I’ve come to know her by. The bilge rat, my enemy, looking down at me, watching. Her pink lips open. Thank you, she mouths.

~~~

My second ever grog-headache is worse than the first, worse than the pain caused by the girl’s well-hurled brush. Severe.

“Get up!” Hobbs shouts, kicking me in the ribs.

I groan and roll over, relishing the sharp tweak in my bones that distracts me from the hammer blows to my skull.

I look up to see Hobbs’ face against a clear, red sky, the sun already a quarter of the way to its midday peak.

“Where am I?” I say absently, intending the external question as an internal thought.

“In water country—on the Mayhem—on the planet Earth—in Hell—take your pick,” Hobbs says, kicking me again.

“What day is it?” I ask, still not learning my lesson. Questions mean getting kicked.

Hobbs kicks me and I groan. “Well, it’s supposed to be the day we lay anchor with the rest of the fleet, meet with your father, discuss our next moves in the war with the Stormers…any of that ring a bell?”

“What’s the problem?” I ask, earning a stomp to the chest. I gasp, clutch at myself, try to breathe.

“The problem is that the brave lieutenants, Jones and Cain, made a brilliant decision to lay anchor last night so the men could have a party. While you and the rest of the crew drunk yourself sick, the rest of the fleet moved further ahead. We’ll be lucky to catch them by the turn of the day.”

I groan again, but fearing Hobbs’ heavy boots, I manage to clamber to my feet, swaying for a moment before getting my legs under me.

I take in the scene before me. The bilge rats are out in number, tidying up after the previous night’s events. The rest of the crew are up and moving, too, albeit slowly and like zombies, going about getting the ship ready for sail.

Norris and Budge are pulling on their shirts. Ferris and Whittle are rubbing their eyes and yawning. But all that hardly seems important now.

A man died last night. Because of me. I killed a man.

It seems no matter what decision I make, there’s no right answer. Only pain. Only death. Am I wrong? Is it me who’s to blame?

I killed a man.

The realization comes back like a lightning strike on the plains of storm country, fierce and jagged, twisting my insides, cutting, cutting…but then I see the girl’s brown eyes, stunning and mysterious in the fog, her mouthed Thank you, and my actions don’t feel so…wrong.

Would my father agree? Not a chance.

I push past Hobbs, suddenly eager to do the only thing I really, truly know how to do: be a sailor. The orders fly out of my mouth without thought: “You four, Norris, Budge, Ferris, Whittle—raise the anchor!” “Hurley, Key, Toadstool—raise the sails!” “Breakfast can wait, you dogs. We have miles to make up!”

Although the words feel good and right and like the words of a lieutenant, it’s not until the men snap to attention and begin scurrying about the ship that I realize: I’m one of them and they know it, and they’ll work for me.

Chapter Eighteen

Sadie

Torrents of rain lash my skin, soaking my clothes through in an instant. But I don’t turn back—won’t turn back.

I have everything I need to avenge my mother’s death: the anger, spilling through me and around me and out of me like a molten stream, scorching my words and my actions; the strength, coursing through my lean and toned body, built for fighting, for killing—my mother ensured that; and the opportunity, foretold by a Man of Wisdom whose visions have come to pass time and time again, in the form of a battle that will include Soakers and Icers, my two most hated enemies.

There is only one thing I’m missing: the horse. To be a full-fledged Rider, the war leader must grant you a horse and declare your training complete during the Ceremony of Lightning and Thunder. All I want is the horse. Surely Gard will understand that?

The bodies are in neat rows, blanketed by thick coverings usually used to build tents. Despite the heaviness of the rainfall, the dead will remain dry tonight. Too bad the dead don’t care either way.

I give the corpses a wide berth, gritting my teeth as I count down two rows and across five bodies, the location of my mother, which I memorized earlier. Under the sheet, she’s just a bump, but in my mind I can still see her spouting blood from the mortal wound in her side, her head cradled in my father’s arms. And I can still hear her last words to me: Listen to your father, for he is wise.

Not that, Mother. Anything else, please.

Hunt down my killers and avenge my death.

Fulfill your legacy as a Rider, Sadie.

Become the strong woman I’ve taught you to be.

I can think of any of a number of things she might’ve said to me in her last breath, and I would’ve easily and gladly obeyed. But listen to my father? Already I’ve failed in that regard, storming out into the rain when he needed me the most, even asked for it with a soulful plea that extended into the lines of his arms.

And I walked away.

Is my father wise? If sending my mother to her death is wisdom, then he has the knowledge of kings. If running from the fight like a frightened child and letting the Soakers slaughter my brother is wisdom, then he is Mother Earth in the form of a man. No, my father is not wise, and though it tears me through to the very fabric of my being, I cannot obey my mother’s final desperate command.

Damn Father for putting me in this position!

Remy is outside his tent, sitting in a brown puddle, head in his hands. What does he have to mourn? Aria? She was like a sister to him, but not a sister, not really. He has lost no one who is tied to him by blood, while I have lost the very person whose blood runs through my veins. Get up! I want to scream. Be a man, be a Rider! Get your father! For tonight we take the first steps toward revenge.

But all I say is, “Is Gard inside?”

Remy looks up slowly, rainwater tears dripping from his eyelashes, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. The memory of him smiling, shedding his clothes, ducking beneath the cool ocean springs to mind. A lifetime ago, when we were both people we’ll never be again. “Sadie,” he says in a heavy tone.

“No,” I say, because I know what’s coming next.

“I’m so sor—”

“No!” I shriek. “You’re a Rider—start acting like it.” The shock on his face is something I’ve wanted to see for a while, but somehow it’s not satisfying, not anymore.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it, motions for me to enter the tent behind him.

When I step inside, I’m not sure what to expect. Something…bigger, more spectacular, full of maps and miniature horses and Riders and Soakers, all laid out like a game, with Gard pouring over it, seeking out the weaknesses in our enemy’s defenses. But instead, the inside of the war leader’s tent looks much like our tent. The edges are lined with bedding, neatly folded and ready for use. Animal skins hang from a line that stretches from end to end. Remy’s mother, a Healer, is notably absent, most likely working tirelessly to save the few Rider’s lives that continue to hang in the balance.

Gard is sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, his big hands in his lap, folded, like two animals sleeping. Although I’ve always known him to be a big man, seeing him in such a confined space magnifies the effect, as he takes up nearly half of the tent which is but a fraction of the size of what I would expect a warlord to command.

I stand before him for a moment, considering whether to disturb his meditation or sleep or whatever it is he’s doing.

I flinch when, eyes still closed, he speaks. “Your mother was a great warrior,” he says. “She died with honor. She slew many of the enemy before and after receiving her fatal wound.”

No apology, no whispered sentiments, no sadness in his voice. Only pride and truth. His words warm me and I’m surprised to feel tears welling up. Never again, I command myself. I blink the budding drops away before they can grow to full size.

“Thank you for telling me these things,” I say.

“You did not come here for these words,” he says, his voice deeper than thunder. His eyes flash open with the statement, two black orbs flecked with fireflies from the flickering lantern. “You want to ask me a question, yes?”

How does he know? Or is he just guessing? A quiver of fear runs up my spine and I stiffen, squeezing my muscles to burn away the coldness seeping into my bones. I won’t ask the question, won’t leave the matter open for his judgment. I can’t risk it. My words will be similar, but different. Stronger. My will.

“I will receive my horse tonight. I will be a Rider with your blessing or without.” A statement, there and gone, but the feeling from it still lingering in the silence, broken only by a thunderclap so loud it rumbles the very earth under my feet.

“Yes. You will,” he says, and I can’t help my lips from parting and sucking in a sharp breath of surprise. “You have your mother’s eyes. And her strength. You will be a great and formidable Rider.”

“Thank you,” I say numbly, holding back my pride. Gard stares at me, unblinking, and I can’t help but feel awkward and un-Rider-like under his intense gaze.

I move to leave the tent, but his words stop me. “Revenge is only satisfying if the right adversary is punished,” he says.

I turn, but his eyes are already closed, leaving me to wonder whether it’s a coincidence that his words sound so much like my father’s.

~~~

There will be two ceremonies on this night of nights. First is the presentation of the lost Rider souls to Mother Earth atop a funeral pyre. Because there are so many, they will be burned as one.

The soggy ground squishes under my boots as I shift from side to side, uncomfortable. Not so long ago I wore my grief on my arms, which covered my face, on my cheeks, which were wet with tears, in my curled up body, which was wracked with sobs of hurt and longing. My grief was a luxury I no longer have available.

My father’s sniffs and sobs are enough for the both of us, as he stands at my side, allowing the other Men of Wisdom to conduct the ceremony. He tries to put his arm around me but I shrug him off.

My mother was a great warrior.

The names are called and I wait, blinking with each one. Remy is at his father’s side, thankfully tear-free now. He glances at me a few times, but I pretend not to notice until Aria’s name is called.

A shot of warmth plumes in my chest when I see his reaction. He’s stoic. Although, like me, he blinks, but his face is free of emotion, his eyes dry, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

A Rider must be stronger, more careful with their words and actions, a model of control of body and mind. Even from atop the burning pile of the dead, my mother speaks to me. I notice Remy’s head cock to the side, as if he hears her too.

When he looks at me, there’s understanding in his expression.

And yet I can’t forgive him. Not when he stayed my hand when it was raised to strike down the Soaker officer boy, the one from my father’s vision. The act that might have changed everything.

When Remy nods at me I look away.

My mother’s name is called and I shut my ears to my father’s wails, clench my fists, and watch her burn with the others, holding my breath to the charred odor of burning flesh.

When the names have all been called, I raise my head to the sky with the others, watch the souls rise to meet our Mother, to become the clouds that provide the water we drink, the food for everything that grows.

And when I raise a fist in the air, I don’t have to look to know that the other Riders are doing the same. My brothers and sisters.

My calling.

At least my father got one thing right.

The horses of the fallen—at least those which survived the battle—each receive a smack on the rump, and it’s like they know. They know. Their whinnies and nays keen the air, splitting it in half, and they run, free again, Riderless and lost.

Shadow is the fastest horse of them all.

~~~

The second ceremony will include every young Rider over thirteen years on this world. Although I’d like to think I influenced Gard’s decision, the reality is that he had already decided before I ever stepped foot in his tent with my demands.

We are beside the stables, as far from the human ashes as possible. The entire camp, save for the Healers and wounded, are here, waiting for Gard to speak. Hundreds of men and women and children. The night is unusually warm, as if the earlier bonfire has been infused into the air. Smoke curls above the camp, as if transporting the final lingering souls to the clouds.

I stand with nine others, my age or a year younger, in a line. Remy was already waiting when I arrived, and I chose a position on the opposite end. One of us is last and one first, depending on which direction Gard chooses to start from.

Gard begins by clearing his throat. “Stormers, we have faced a grave threat and have been victorious!” I stay silent while the camp cheers. “The Icer King is dead!” More cheers. “But the war is not yet won. Although we have cut off the head of the dragon that would deliver children to work as slaves on the Soakers’ ships, the true beast slides along the blue crests of the sea untouched. We have lost many Riders, our protectors, defenders of good and warriors against evil, but WE are not lost. Not while we still have breath in our lungs, blood in our veins, honor in our hearts.”

Gard pauses, scans the crowd. “We must replenish our numbers earlier than we’d planned, but that is no matter to us. Not when the next two generations of Riders are the brothers and sisters standing before you today.” He motions to us, and the crowd’s attention follows. Having this many eyes on me would normally be embarrassing, but tonight I feel as tall and strong as Gard, and nothing can touch me.

The people are a blur of faces, featureless, a mob of flesh and bone and responsibility. Mine to protect. Mine to honor. I cannot look any of them in the eyes knowing my mother’s death has gone unpunished.

And then one face rises above the others and it’s my father, weeping. Are his tears still for my mother? Or is it joy, because I’m finally taking my rightful place among the hero-filled fold, to a position he ordained for me fifteen long years ago?

He mouths something, and I think it’s Remember, but I can’t be sure, and I can’t possibly interpret his lips or the meaning of the word, not when Gard’s calling my name, and I’m realizing I’m first, and Remy’s last, for what it’s worth.

I pull my eyes away from my father’s wet face and phantom word.

Remember.

I walk across to Gard, kneel before him as the ceremony requires, having seen it done many times, each and every year since I was old enough to attend.

Remember what?

I feel his hands on my head, pressing down firmly, listen to him speak the sacred words—“The power is in you, let it speak. The strength creates you, let it build. The fire rages, let it burn. Fear nothing but failure. Seek nothing but victory. Find nothing but honor. You are a Rider, like you’ve always been. Claim your partner.”—feel the power and the strength and the fire roar through me with his words and his touch.

Remember my mother? Remember what the Icers did to her? Remember that it was the actions of the Soakers that caused it? Remember how my father ran the other way when Paw was murdered?

Remember, remember, remember…the word strikes me to the heart like a lance.

When the weight of Gard’s heavy hands lifts from the crown of my head, I look up and the war leader nods. I stand to cheers and thunder from stomping feet, stride toward the stables, invincible, where a horse is being led toward me.

With a sleek, black hide, long, black mane, and fierce brown eyes, she’s everything I always imagined she would be. Stamping her feet, pulling at the ropes, snorting heavy plumes of breath out of her flaring nostrils, she’s unbroken. It takes four strong men, Riders, to control her, and even then, she’s uncontrollable. Wild. Hungry. Mine.

As I approach, I notice a mar on the complete darkness of her coloring: A single patch of white sits high on her nose, almost between her ears, shaped like a butterfly. White wings.

Can she fly?

I’m still admiring her wild and untamed perfection, wondering where she was found, how hard it was for the Horse Whisperers to lure her close enough to capture her, whether she put up a fight, when one of the ropes are thrust into my hands.

Thankfully, I have enough sense to grab it firmly, to hold on, to remember the words my mother taught me, let them flow freely through my mind. I am yours, you are mine, we are one. A warrior and a steed become a Rider. Fight with me even as I fight with you. Separate, our strength is breakable, matched by many; combined, our power is above all, unstoppable.

The words roll over and over in my mind as I take the second rope, walking my hands up the thick strands, feeling them burn my palms as the horse bucks and strains against the bonds that are so foreign to a creature that has known only complete freedom while roaming wild on the plains.

Freedom is an illusion. I’m surprised to hear my father’s words in my head while I’m so focused on approaching my horse. I shake my head and resume my chant, this time out loud, first as a whisper and then louder and louder as I get closer and closer. The horse isn’t calmed by my words, but I know she hears them, because she’s completely focused on me now, and I’m oblivious to the ceremony that continues behind me.

Passion. The name occurs to me just like my mother said it would, right when one of the Riders are thrown down when the horse charges sharply to one side.

“Passion,” I say, and she stands perfectly still, matching the intensity of my gaze. “Sadie.” She snorts, as if my name is but a cricket under the stomp of her grand feet. And so it is.

I shouldn’t be this close, not at the first meeting. My mother told me, but it takes Passion to teach me.

She seems calm since I spoke her name. Her head even bows a little, and my mother said a wild horse will never do that. Already, our bond is special.

I reach forward to rub the white butterfly on her nose.

Her drooping eyes suddenly flash with anger and her head bucks as she leaps forward, butting me, throwing me backward, nearly stomping on my leg as I skid across the grass.

Passion.