Water & Storm Country by David Estes Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    “Uh.”
    “You haven’t learned to be a coward from me,
I hope.” His eyes lock on mine and then dance away, settling on a
painting mounted on the wall.
    A woman, pushing her blond hair away from her
face, holding a child in her other arm.
    “Father, I’m sorry—”
    “Admiral!” he explodes suddenly, rising to
his feet. His face is a web of veins, popping and red and violent.
He raises a hand and I close my eyes, tense for the blow. If this
is the only way I can prove my manhood, I will. I won’t run, I
won’t cry out, I’ll take every last bit of punishment he has to
give me for my weakness two yars ago.
    But the blow never comes and when I open
first one eye, and then the other, I find he’s turned away and is
looking out one of the portals. “You could have saved her,” he says
to a bird that’s hopping on the railing outside.
    I know he’s right because he was there—he saw
everything. I saw it too, but I just can’t quite…if I could
only…
    Remember.
    It’s as if the word is spoken in my head, a
soothing voice that sang gentle lullabies to me when I’d wake up in
the throes of a nightmare. Now my nightmares are about her, so
who’s going to sing to me?
    Remember.
    I can’t. I can’t.
    Blood, frothing and churning. The
image burns in my mind and I slam my eyes shut again, trying to
dispel the bubbles, red with…no! No more.
    My mother’s body, sinking beneath the
surface, jerking as the sharp-tooths tear her to shreds.
    Remember. No, dammit, I don’t want to!
I don’t want to see you die again and again, never living, never a
happy ending where I save you, where I become the man I’m meant to
be now, pull you up, up, up, stronger than ten men, stronger than a
Stormer’s horse, stronger than the raw pull of the ocean, embracing
you and never letting go. Not ever again.
    When I open my eyes my father is staring at
me curiously, and I wonder why. His gaze drops to my fists and I
follow it. My hands are clenched, splotched with red and white
amongst the little freckles that are always there because of the
sun and my fair complexion.
    “Yesss,” my father murmurs, drawing the word
out like the hiss of snake. “Yes, anger is good, but only if it’s
controlled. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
    I relax my hands and am surprised that they
ache when I stretch them out. Specks of fresh blood dot my palm
where my too-long fingernails cut into my flesh. I slide them
behind me and out of sight.
    “What now?” I say, keeping my voice as
impassive as possible. One of his lessons comes back to me,
finally. To show emotion is to be emotional. And emotions are
for women and the weak. If men are to be cold-hearted vapid
creatures, then that’s what I’ll become. I’ll do anything to prove
myself. But isn’t anger an emotion?
    I don’t have time to dwell on the question
because the Admiral smiles, strides to the bed and sits on it,
patting the bedcover beside him. Surprised at his sudden change in
mood, I hesitate, but then join him, keeping a healthy gap between
us. Although his expression has softened, there’s none of my
mother’s tenderness in the hard lines of his face.
    “Son,” he says. “I know things have been
hard, strained even, between us. But I want you to succeed. I want
you to become the man I know you’re capable of. You’re my son,
after all.” He pauses and I search his eyes for the joke, for an
insult, but there’s only truth in them.
    “Then