“You still there?” he asks, and I take a few deep swallows of air, trying to catch my breath.
“Still here,” I say, managing to keep my voice steady in the way my mother taught me to command the horses.
“So you’ll be having your Rider ceremony soon?” he says, correcting his question from earlier.
I nod absently, then realize he can’t see me, not unless he’s…
Two big, brown eyes stare through the crack in the wall separating Thunder’s and Shadow’s stalls.
I flinch and half-jump behind Shadow, who gives me a strange look and snorts as if to say, Some Rider you are.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I spout.
The white teeth and curved lips of his smile flash through the crack. “The same thing you were doing a minute ago: looking.”
~~~
I leave after that. I don’t know what kind of game Remy’s playing, but I’m not in the mood to play it. Nor is now a good time in my life to be playing games of any sort.
I stride back across the deserted camp, ignoring the muddy puddles as I tromp right through them, dirtying my black pants. The rain is still coming down in sheets, but the lightning is streaking far away now, the thunder distant and no more than a grumble. The storm is passing.
Gritting my teeth, I shove my head into our tent, seeing my father’s head snap up from the piece of bark, which he’s once again poring over. Mother is sleeping, which is her favorite activity during storms. “I’m going for a run,” I say, and I hear my father start to protest, but I’m already gone, leaving the flap swinging in my wake.
Today I head south, opposite from where I ran yesterday, when I first spotted the Soaker ship. The storm has moved north, as they usually do, and although the clouds remain dark and gray, they’re slightly less dark and gray to the south, and down the coastline they almost look yellow, like the clouds out to sea.
I hear a shout from behind, and I know it’s my father, but I don’t look back, just start running, letting the slowing rainfall wash over my head, my face, my arms, every part of me, cleaning away my father’s choices and Remy’s smile—like the storm is a part of me, and me a part of it. My blood starts flowing, my heart pumping, and I feel warmth blossom through me, chasing away the chill I felt earlier in the stables.
For this is my time. Mine alone.
The camp fades away behind me as I gallop across the plains to the ocean. Just before the grass gives way to sand, I shuck off my black boots, discarding them haphazardly in a muddy pile until I return. Overhead, the gulls are back, playing and chattering, riding the back edge of the storm, which continues to blow the hair around my face. The ocean is restless, churning whitecaps in a seemingly random sequence of waves and swirls.
I run right for it, relishing the coolness of the thick wet sand on my feet. When I reach the point where the waves lap onto the shore, I cut hard south, loving the way my heel digs into the sand, changing my direction as quickly as a bird lowers a wing to change its flight path. The tide rushes around my feet and I splash through it gleefully, almost childishly.
My time.
I run and run, picking up speed when I know I won’t be coming back anytime soon, not for hours at least. No need to conserve my energy. Wherever I’m going, I’ll be stopping there to rest before I return. My parents will be worried—no, my father will be worried—but I won’t be punished. I’m a Rider, which gives me a certain level of independence that other children only dream of.
When a burst of sun shatters through the cloud cover, I realize I’ve left the storm well behind me. Although the wind has lessened, my clothes are nearly dry, save for the bottoms of my pants. The sun crawls up my dark skin, drying the beads of sweat already there and drawing more drops out from the little holes in my skin.
A huge bird swoops overhead, a fish in its mouth, dozens of white gulls around it, hoping for scraps. A big-chin.
I laugh and keep running, never tiring, feeling only strength in my taut muscles. “If you want to be a Rider, you have to be as strong as your horse,” my mother taught me when I was eleven. It was my first day of Rider training, starting earlier than the required age of twelve. “But don’t I ride the horse?” I asked. She laughed and said, “Yes, but your horse will be stronger knowing that you’re strong.” At the time I didn’t get it, but I do now. If a Rider is truly to be one with her horse, she needs to be every bit as strong, so they can each rely on each other, trust each other, protect each other. Die for each other, if necessary.
I veer out of the ocean water, still on the hard-packed sand, but not where the waves can reach. Although the last thing I want to do is stop—can I keep running forever?—I know I have to stop at some point, or I won’t be able to make it back before nightfall. And the ocean is calling to me in the way that it does, with whispers and swallows, in and out, in and out, almost mesmerizing.
So I pull up, breathing heavy but not out of breath, heart pounding but not wildly, body tired but not exhausted. As I start to pull off my shirt, I can already feel the ocean washing the sweat and anger off my skin, but then I stop, belly exposed.
Slowly, slowly, slowly, I lower my shirt, my eyes widening and my breath hitching.
Because further—much further—down the beach I can see it. A series of shadows, rising and falling with the ocean’s breathing, just off the shore.
Ships.
Chapter Seven
Huck
“You can’t do this!” I say, speaking to my father louder than I ever have before.
He gives me a look and I shut up, sink down on my bed, wondering if he’ll hit me. He doesn’t, although I can see the tension in his arms, in his hands. In his face. “Are you a child or a man?” he asks, surprising me. Not a rebuke or a command, a question.
A trick?
Am I a man?
If drinking grog and singing men’s songs makes you a man, then maybe I am. If having a pounding head and the bitter taste of bile in the back of your throat is the key to manhood, then I’ll wear my lieutenant’s uniform with dignity.
“Aye,” I say, reverting back to my typical method of dealing with my father: telling him what he wants to hear.
“Then quit acting like a child,” he growls. Then, turning, he says, “Come to my chambers when you’re ready.” He slams the cabin door behind him.
It’s only then that I realize the boat is moving differently than it has for the last few weeks. Back and forth, back and forth, but different. Still rolling, but calmer, slower and shorter.
The anchors are down.
~~~
My father’s chambers are lit by a dozen round portals, the sun streaming through each one with a yellowish-white glow. His bed sits in the center of the large cabin, which is ten times the size of mine. And mine’s three times the size of anyone else’s.
He’s not on the bed. I glance to the right to find him sitting in a large, finely carved chair with lion’s paws etched at the base of its legs. His arms are sitting calmly on the rests. His face is relaxed. His eyes are closed.
As I approach, he says, “Speak,” and I flinch, thankful his eyes are closed so he doesn’t see.
“Yes, Admiral,” I say, remembering myself.
“What have you learned from me?” he says.
My heart twitters because I didn’t expect the question. Blank. That’s the only word to describe my mind. It’s like everything’s gone white and then black, first like one of the pale-white sun portals that are surrounding me, and then like a dark chasm in the ocean, sucking all life and ships and men into its endless void. He’s taught me so much
(Hasn’t he?)
but I can’t seem to remember any of it, nor am I able to speak anyway.
His eyes flash open. “Bilge rat got your tongue?” he asks harshly, flicking his tongue out like a snake.