Lost in my thoughts, I’ve forgotten about Hobbs. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself, boy?” he says, stepping forward, so close I can see the dark tobacco stains on his teeth.
I feel tears coming, but I hold them back, determined not to fall further into the deep sea of embarrassment than I already have.
Hobbs draws his sword and my eyes bulge out of my head, because this close it’s so shiny, so sharp, gleaming and glinting in the sun, glittering silver against the sandy backdrop.
Something doesn’t make sense. Where’d all the sand come from? It’s all around me, churning like waves, grabbing at my legs, pulling me under. I’m sinking.
Sinking, sinking, until the beach is up to my waist and I’m at the perfect height for Hobbs to—
He swings, his blade slicing through the air, right for my neck—
—and I close my eyes—
—and I scream—
—but no sound comes out and I don’t feel my head getting chopped off (can you feel your head getting chopped off?), and when I open my eyes I’m not on the beach anymore, and Hobbs isn’t there, and I’m laughing—of all things laughing—and gentle arms grip me from behind, holding me against the railing, letting the wind sweep over and around me.
My mother’s head slips in next to mine and she kisses me on the cheek. “You know I’ll never leave you, right?” she asks.
But I don’t know that, because she did leave me, and then it’s happening again—no, not again, please, please, please…
The ship lurches and she stumbles and the railing is too low to stop her momentum, cutting her at the waist, the heaviness of her upper body pulling her over.
In my desperation I grab at her hand, feel my fingers close around hers, every last bit of the weight of her muscles and bones pulling against me, hating me, angry that I’m trying to thwart their plans of pulling her into the sea.
I’m crying out, yelling for help—Get me some bloody help!—but no one’s close enough, and I’m not strong enough, and she’s slipping, slipping, slipping away from my sweaty hand and my straining arm muscles, and when I look to the side, along the rail, he’s standing there, close enough to see but too far to help.
My father. Darkness in his stare, because he knows.
He knows.
I’ll fail him, like I always do.
But I won’t—not again. I grip her tighter, and try to stand, to get some leverage. I reach out my other arm, because if I can only grab her with that one, maybe two arms will be enough to pull her up, or at least hold her until help arrives. Surely my father will come.
I reach, and I’m almost there.
(Could I really save her this time?)
And that’s when she slips from my grasp.
And I scream.
And I won’t watch this time, not ever again, so I look away, right at my father, who hasn’t moved to help.
His eyes burn me, set me on fire, the flames hot and everywhere and on my clothes and skin. And again, I scream.
Someone grabs me and I try to fight them off, scrabble with my hands, swing at them, but they’re strong, too strong, and they hold me down, saying “Shhh, you’ll hurt yourself more than you’ll hurt me, lad.”
I keep straining, but not as much, and only because I don’t know the voice.
Eventually, however, I relax, slump on something warm and soft, open my eyes.
Daylight streams through the glass portal above my bed, warming the plump pillow beneath my head. I squint, seeing spots, red and blue and orange, like the fire that nearly consumed me in what I now know was another nightmare. My father’s fire.
Firm hands continue to press against my arms, holding them at my sides, but not hurting me. “’Twas a dream,” the voice says. “Nothing more.”
Blink, blink. My mother slipping, falling: blink her away. My father glaring, burning me: blink him away, too.
A face appears, hazy at first, but then crisp and defined around the edges. Lined but no older than my father. Late thirties, maybe forty. A beard, uncombed and disheveled, brown and patchy like the hair on his head. Somber, gray eyes, like the clouds that encroach on the sea from storm country. A nose that’s bigger than most.
“Lieutenant Jones,” the man says.
“Who are you?” I say. It sounds a little rude, although I don’t mean it to be.
The corner of his lips turns up in amusement. I haven’t offended him. “Barnes,” he says, “although around here most folks call me Barney.”
“Why are you…” My voice fades away as I realize I’m being rude again.
“Here?” he says, winking. “Well, firstly, I heard you screaming like the Deep Blue had grown hands and was trying to pull you into its depths, and secondly, I sleep a cabin over. I’m your steward. I’ll be doubling as Hobbs’ steward, too—he’s a rather grouchy fellow, isn’t he?—because we didn’t expect him. I’m here to take care of your every need, so you can focus on leading the men.”
Everything comes tumbling back: the bilge rat’s challenge; my weakness; the captain showing me to my cabin, asking if I was ready to meet my steward. I had begged off, blaming the need for sleep, although I was wide awake. Pulling the covers tight around me, I had squeezed my eyes shut and held back the tears as long as I could, but eventually they’d broken free, coating my cheeks and lips.
But eventually I must’ve fallen asleep, and then—
“It was just a nightmare,” I say, lifting my chin, rubbing at my cheeks, half-expecting them to still be wet with tears. Surprisingly, however, they’re dry, although my skin feels grainy. I hope Barney can’t see the white tear tracks.
“I know, sir,” Barney says, releasing my arms.
“I have them sometimes.”
“We all do, Lieutenant.”
“What time of day is it?” I ask. (What day is it?) I flex my arms, which have gone numb.
“It’s tomorrow,” Barney says with a grin. “Morning still. Not early, not late. Breakfast is still available. Would you like some?”
“Can you bring it to me here?” I ask, realizing right away how that sounds. Like the spoiled son of an admiral. Like the coward who’s scared to leave his cabin.
“Of course, sir,” Barney says, unblinking, although I can hear it in his voice: he heard about what happened yesterday. He knows the sort of man I am.
With a quick bow, he leaves, closing the door behind him, leaving me to my thoughts and the strained and scared face of my mother, which flashes in and out of my memory like a signal beacon from a passing ship.
Chapter Ten
Sadie
“Your father had a vision,” Mother says, and then I remember why I ran out. My interest, my curiosity piqued at the mention of the Soakers as my father started to tell us about what he’d been writing on the strips of bark. Then of course I just had to dredge up age-old memories of Paw’s death, which led to our fight and my abrupt exit into the storm. My run to the ships.
When I returned, they didn’t say anything, as if I’d never left in the first place. Mother held a blanket up so I could change my clothes, and Father prepared a warm, herbal tea. Although I could see the question in his eyes, my father didn’t ask me where I’d gone, probably because my mother had forbidden him from asking it. It’s all part of her approach to my training. She grants me a lot of independence—and based on what Remy said, more than some of the other Riders get—and I don’t abuse it, use it only to further my stamina and strength.
“A vision about the Soakers?” I say.
“Yes,” my father says solemnly. “There will be a battle.”
I roll my eyes. There’s always a battle. That’s the dramatic vision from the Man of Wisdom? I look at the tent wall.
“Sadie!” my mother snaps, and my head jerks back to her. She rarely raises her voice at me.
“What?” I say, knowing I’m about to tread over the line of insolence, but not caring. “I’ve heard this all before. His visions, scribbles on countless pieces of bark, tales of blood and bones and how the world’s ending.” Although I won’t look at him, at the edge of my vision I see my father’s head dip, his eyes close. The truth is hard to hear sometimes, but that doesn’t change that it’s the truth.