Water & Storm Country by David Estes Read Free Book Online

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
     
    “Y ou 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