“I love you, Mother,” I say, standing.
Then I turn to deliver the beating of Jade’s life.
~~~
Jade doesn’t meet my gaze as I approach, pushing through the crowd that has already gathered to watch. I want to punch them, to kick them, to shout at their carnal need to witness the punishment I’m being forced to deliver. I know she doesn’t look at me for both our sakes.
If my father hadn’t appeared last night, would I really have set her free? Would we have stolen a landing boat, slipped away into the night? My heart skips and stutters, out of rhythm, because I realize the answer:
Yes.
Even before my father shucked off his coat of lies and showed me his true colors, I would have left. The realization bends me at the waist, like I’ve been punched in the gut. I don’t need him to be proud of me anymore. I don’t need him.
Does that mean I’m really a man now?
Do men whip the ones they care the most about? If my father is any example, then yes, but he’s the last person I want to emulate.
He waits for me beside Jade, cat o’ nine tails in hand—a long leather whip that splits into nine thinner endings. Each stroke nine times more brutal. Each blow yielding nine times more blood, more scars.
Can I do this?
Do I have a choice?
As my father hands me the whip his eyes bore into mine, and I consider turning it on him, cracking, cracking, cracking it against his face until the casual smile he’s wearing is red with blood. His guards, three burly men with broken-nose faces, will be on me before I can snap the whip even once.
If I refuse to do this, what then?
My father leans in, whispers in my ear. “I’ll kill her if you don’t do this.”
With one hand gripping the whip, I reach my other hand to my neck, which is still tender. I picture my father’s hands surrounding Jade’s neck, choking the life out of her and then tossing her overboard like a bucket of fish bones. He’s not bluffing. He doesn’t bluff.
I have no choice.
The crowd jeers and taunts and stomps their feet. There’s not much entertainment on the ships and this is as good as it gets.
Although I’m gripping the whip so tightly my knuckles are splotched with red and white, I can’t feel it, like my fingers have gone numb. I take a deep breath.
One of my father’s guards spins Jade around, pulls the ropes attached to her hands tight around the wooden pole so she won’t be able to turn away to soften the blows. Her back faces me.
Sweat trickles down my spine.
I’ll kill her if you don’t do this.
Is beating her to save her life something to be proud of?
My father speaks, his voice instantly silencing the crew. There’s no doubt who’s in charge here. “For unlawful entry into the bird’s nest by a bilge rat and endangering my son’s life, this rat—”
“Jade,” I mutter under my breath.
“Excuse me?” he says.
I go to look at him, to repeat her name, but my gaze stops on Cain, who’s just behind the admiral. No, he mouths, shaking his head.
He’s right. Though I’m trembling with anger and fear and disbelief at what my life has come to, now is not the time for boldness. Boldness could end the life of the girl standing before me. And that can’t happen, not when I’ve begun to feel so much…so much what? What is it really? Caring? Concern? Righteous anger at her plight and the plight of her people? Something more?
I shake my head, tossing aside the thoughts that don’t matter right now. My father assumes I’m answering his question. He nods. “Good.” Motions to Jade. Continues: “This rat is sentenced to eighteen lashes, to be carried out by Lieutenant Jones. Are there any objections?”
Waves lap against the side of the boat. Big-chins swoop overhead, chased by gulls, chattering to each other. No one speaks. I am silent.
(Is my silence weakness or intelligence?)
(Is anything I’ve ever done right?)
“Carry on, Lieutenant,” my father says, as if I’m about to give an order to drop anchor or man the sails or swab the decks. As if I’m not about to change my relationship with Jade forever.
I raise the whip above my head.
The nine leather ribbons tickle my back.
I pause, thinking how easy it would be to chuck the cat o’ nine over the railing, into the sea. It would take my father a while to locate another one. But that would only delay the inevitable. And he might even take it to mean I won’t do it.
I can’t have that.
I can’t.
I swing my hand forward, not hard—but not soft either—just enough to bring the whip arcing over my head, dragging the nine endings through the air like bolts of lightning. When my arm reaches the point where it’s parallel with the deck, I snap my wrist.
Crack!
Jade grunts, but doesn’t cry out. Nine tears split the back of her shirt, showing her brown skin beneath. As I watch, the brown turns to red.
I did it. I really did it. Can I ever go back? Can things ever go back to how they were?
Then I realize the crowd’s booing, low and mournful, some of them spitting and shouting insults, like “Weakling!” and “Piss-ant!” My father steps forward, flush with anger.
Once more, he hisses in my ear. “If you embarrass me, I’ll kill her anyway. Swing like you mean it or the eighteen won’t count.”
My lips tremble, barely holding back my rage, barely stopping me from spitting in his face.
When he steps back, I focus on a spot above Jade, where the mast is stained white from the sea spray. It’s the type of uncleanliness Jade would normally go out of her way to remedy. I stare at that spot like it’s a beautiful sunset, like it’s Jade’s face in the bird’s nest, alive with near-joy as she tells me about fire country, about her sisters.
I swing, harder this time. Much harder.
CRACK!
The shrill sound echoes in my ears, slices through my skull, threatens to wrench tears from my eyes.
Jade is silent and I’m focused on the white-stained wood.
CRACK!
My breath is coming in ragged huffs and I’m on the verge of a breakdown. A low moan rumbles from Jade’s lips, but I pretend she’s someone I don’t know, stricken with the Scurve.
CRACK!
Finally, she cries out, and I almost drop the whip in surprise, because I’m not hitting her, I’m not doing it, I’m just watching the sunset with my mother.
I don’t stop. Can’t stop until it’s done.
CRACK!
She screams. I can’t look down, can’t see what I’ve done. It’ll break me as I’m breaking her.
CRACK!
Her cry has become distant, like a dream, fuzzy and fading and not real. The only thing reaclass="underline" Jade’s smile, her eyes, alive alive alive.
CRACK!
I’ve lost count, which I can’t do, because I have to know when to stop. I retrace my swings, try to work it out. Seven. I’m sure of it.
Again and again, cracking and snapping, just whipping a salt-stained mast, almost like I’m practicing for the real thing. Fifteen times already.
She’s stopped screaming with every blow, her reaction nothing more than a soft whimper now. Does that mean it doesn’t hurt anymore? Or has she simply screamed her lungs dry?
Three more.
My mind is red and orange and pink and yellow with a long-ago sunset as I bring the whip down once more. This time she shrieks, and I almost do it,
(I almost look down.)
but I remember myself at the last second and keep my chin tilted back, above the agony and pain and stark reality.
The second to last blow falls, but I don’t even realize my arm is moving, like it’s not mine anymore. Like my father has taken control, like he always does, forcing me to bend to his will.
She howls and my heart snaps in two.