WATER & STORM COUNTRY
A Dwellers Saga Sister Novel
Book Three of the Country Saga
David Estes
Published by David Estes at Smashwords
Copyright 2013 David Estes
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Discover other exciting titles by David Estes available through the author’s official website:
http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com
or through select online retailers.
Young-Adult Books by David Estes
The Dwellers Saga:
Book One—The Moon Dwellers
Book Two—The Star Dwellers
Book Three—The Sun Dwellers
Book Four—The Earth Dwellers (Coming September 5, 2013!)
The Country Saga (A Dwellers Saga sister series):
Book One—Fire Country
Book Two—Ice Country
Book Three—Water and Storm Country
Book Four—The Earth Dwellers (Coming September 5, 2013!)
The Witch Wars:
Book One—Brew (Coming December 12, 2013!)
The Evolution Trilogy:
Book One—Angel Evolution
Book Two—Demon Evolution
Book Three—Archangel Evolution
Children’s Books by David Estes
The Adventures of Nikki Powergloves:
Nikki Powergloves—A Hero Is Born
Nikki Powergloves and the Power Council
Nikki Powergloves and the Power Trappers
Nikki Powergloves and the Great Adventure
Nikki Powergloves vs. the Power Outlaws (Coming soon!)
This book is dedicated to my Goodreads Street Team.
Your selfless, energetic, and unwavering support is a sign
of all that is good in this world.
I’m forever in your debt.
Chapter One
Huck
Standing on the deck watching the sunrise, I can’t hold back my smile. The air is crisp, a little colder than usual for this time of yar, numbing the tip of my nose, filling each breath with the distinct smell of salt and brine. While endless yellow clouds keep watch over the Deep Blue, the half-sun splashes purples, pinks and oranges on the ever reddening morning sky.
To the starboard side I can see the shoreline, sandy at first, and then green, rolled out like a welcome mat. Above the land, the yellow clouds darken to black.
In the waters surrounding the ship, I see the familiar dark triangles of sharp-tooth fins breaking the surface, patrolling the ocean, hoping for an execution or a natural death to give them the chance to taste human flesh yet again.
But even the constant presence of the sharp-tooths can’t wipe away my grin. Not today.
The ship lurches beneath me, riding the crest of yet another big rolling wave. But I don’t stumble, don’t lose my balance, don’t so much as sway from the ship’s movements or the tumultuous wind that whips my shirt in a frenzy around me.
Steady.
Balanced.
A seaman, through and through.
And smiling, bigger than the ocean, relishing the salt spray splashing my face as a wave crashes against the hull, living for the feel of the power rolling and throbbing beneath my feet, laughing when a flock of white-winged big-chins dive-bomb the water, each emerging with a nice-sized fish clamped tightly between its beak.
This is the life. The life of a Soaker. A typical morning in water country.
My life, all about to change. Because I’m fourteen now.
“Huck,” a deep voice rumbles from behind. Not a murmur, not a greeting: a command.
Startled, I turn quickly, my smile vanishing in an instant. “Father?” I say.
“Admiral Jones,” he says. Admiral Jones is what his shipmen call him.
“Sir?” I say.
“Son,” he says, taking two steps forward to reach my side. “Today you become a man.” His words are the truth but I know he doesn’t mean them. Not after what happened. Not after what always happens.
Today’s the start of my fourteenth yar, the yar I cast off my childish ways and become a real seaman, not just the son of one. “I’m ready,” I say, wondering if it’s true. I desperately want to look down, to look away, to escape the piercing stare of my father’s crystal blue eyes, which are startling next to his white, freckled skin, but I don’t—
—because men don’t look away for anyone;
—men aren’t scared of anything;
—men don’t cry.
My father’s creed, one I’ve heard a million and a half times.
And men don’t fail their fathers, like I have so many times before.
Resting a hand on my shoulder, my father—Admiral Jones—says, “Are you? Ready?”
Uh…I think? Maybe? “Aye,” I say, keeping my gaze on his but feeling his disappointment tremble through me.
“Hmm,” Father says, chewing on his lip. “I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?”
I hold my breath because the way he’s looking at me, so full of doubt, so uncertain, with one eyebrow raised, his nostrils flared slightly, his expression lopsided, seems to pick me apart from the outside in, like a big-chin tearing at the flesh of a fish. If I breathe I’m afraid it will come out in a ragged shudder, and then he’ll know.
He’ll know I’m not a man, even if I’m old enough to be one.
My face warms while I hold my breath for ten seconds, twenty, as he continues to stare at me, his eyes probing, closing in on the truth.
Just when I start to feel a little lightheaded, he looks away, turns, stomps off, his boots hammering the wooden deck like a funeral drum. I let my breath out as slowly as I can, closing my eyes. “I am a man,” I whisper under my breath, trying to convince myself. “I won’t fail you. Not anymore.” If only I had the guts to say it loud enough for him to hear.
“Walk with me, Son,” my father says without turning around.
“Aye, aye, Father,” I say.
“Admiral Jones,” he replies. By blood he’s still my father, but by rights he’s the admiral, and I’m one of his men, subject to all the same rules as anyone else.
“Admiral Jones,” I correct, wondering why saying it this time doesn’t feel nearly as good as it always did when I practiced in my cabin.
I hustle to catch up, trying to stride the way he does across the deck. Long steps, chin up, eyes sweeping the ship, taking everything in. As we walk aft, two of my father’s lieutenants are swashbuckling on the starboard side. Their swords ring out loud and shrill and practiced as they parry and slash and block. It’s a morning ritual for these two, Cain and Hobbs, one I’ve watched with boyish interest many times before.
When we approach, they stop, planting their blades point-first into the deck. Hands flat, they each raise the tips of their fingers to the arch of their eyebrows in a rigid salute. “At ease, lieutenants,” my father says.
They relax their arms but continue to stand at attention. “Mornin’, Admiral…Huck,” Cain says, his blue uniform turning dark with sweat stains beneath his armpits. He flashes a smile.
“Mornin’, Cain,” I say, smiling back.