Ice Country (35 page)

David gleans inspiration from all sorts of
crazy places, like watching random people do entertaining things,
dreams (which he jots copious notes about immediately after waking
up), and even from thin air sometimes!

David’s a writer with OCD, a love of dancing
and singing (but only when no one is looking or listening), a
mad-skilled ping-pong player, an obsessive Goodreads group member,
and prefers writing at the swimming pool to writing at a table. He
loves responding to e-mails, Facebook messages, Tweets, blog
comments, and Goodreads comments from his readers, all of whom he
considers to be his friends.

A SNEAK PEEK

WATER & STORM COUNTRY

BOOK 3 OF THE COUNTRY SAGA

Available anywhere e-books are sold June 7,
2013!

S
tanding 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 patrol the ocean, 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-tooths 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 their beaks.

This is the life. The life of a Soaker. A
typical morning in water country.

My life, all about to change.

“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, but I don’t
understand. 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, 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
fourteen now.

I feel my face warm while I hold my breath
for ten seconds, twenny, 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, and I finally
understand. 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, toward the rear of the
ship, two of my father’s lieutenants are swashbuckling to the left,
or 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 a boyish
interest many times before.

When we approach, they stop, planting their
blades point-first into the deck. They each raise a flat hand to
their foreheads 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 me a
smile.

“Mornin’, Cain,” I say, smiling back.

“
Lieutenant
Cain,” my father corrects
sharply. I look up at him and he’s giving me those dark eyes again,
sparkling blue under the morning sun but shrouded in shadow from
the brim of his admiral’s cap.

“Lieutenant Cain,” I mumble, feeling stupid.
How can I be a man if I can’t even talk right?

“Mornin’, Huck,” Hobbs says with a sneer.
Unlike Cain, he’s never liked me.

I frown at his half-smirk. “Mornin’,” I say
under my breath.

“
Lieutenant
,” my father says
again.

Stupid, stupid. “Lieutenant,” I say.

“So you’re a man today,” Cain says, slapping
me on the back with a firm hand. It hurts a little but I’ve never
felt better.

“I am,” I say, beaming.

“That remains to be seen,” my father says,
wiping the grin off my face with his words. How do I prove myself
to him after what happened two years ago? My mother’s face flashes
through my mind: her quick smile, her green eyes, her long blonde
hair. The way she’d read to me at night. Tales of great battles
against the Stormers, our independence won and lost and won again.
Many years ago.

Her face again, not smiling this time: awash
with terror, twisted and stricken and looking up at me,
pleading—her eyes always pleading…

“Huck!” my father barks.

I snap out of the memory, shake my head.
Hobbs is snickering while Cain looks at me under a furrowed brow.
Father’s lips are unreadable beneath his thick salt-and-pepper
beard. “Wha—what?” I stammer.

“Lieutenant Hobbs asked you a question,” my
father says.

I glance at Hobbs, who looks smug, his hands
on his hips. “Aye?” I say. Catching myself, I add,
“Lieutenant.”

“Have you been practicing your sword work?”
he asks.

Not the question I expected. For a moment I
let the warmth of pride fill my heart, because I have. Been
practicing, that is. Every spare moment I’ve been practicing with
the wooden blade my father gave me when I turned seven. Fighting
the other young boys on the ship, parrying with masts, battling
heavy bags of potatoes and rice. Swinging and swinging my practice
sword until it’s become a part of me, an extension of my arm and
hand.

I stick my chest out and say, “Aye.”

“Show us,” Hobbs says, a gleam in his dark
brown eyes.

I look at him sideways, wondering what he’s
up to, but not wanting to disappoint my father yet again, I start
to pull my wooden sword from where it hangs loosely from my
belt.

“No,” Hobbs says. “Not with that. With this.”
He reaches down and picks up a sword, shorter than his, but shiny
and sharp and
real
. And the hilt…

—it has the Admiral’s markings on it, a
woman, beautiful and shapely, her hair long and falling in front of
her shoulders to cover her naked breasts. And beneath: the skin of
her stomach gives way to a long tail with scaly fins, like a fish.
A merwoman. Identical to the figurehead at the bow of the ship. The
ship’s namesake.
The Merman’s Daughter.

The sword is my birthright, the sword I will
wear until my father dies and I inherit his long blade. With a
slight bow, Hobbs holds it in front of him reverently, offering it
to me. Through his long blonde bangs, which hang over his eyes, I
see him wink at me as I take it.

Something’s up. Hobbs never winks.

In my grasp, the sword seems to gain weight
and I almost drop it, awkwardly bringing my offhand up to balance
it. I hear Hobbs snort, but I ignore him, because this is my time,
my day.

My right.

Slowly, I raise the sword to eye level,
watching in awe as it seems to catch every ray of red sunlight,
sending them shooting in all directions.

My right. My sword.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” Hobbs says,
and I sense something in his voice—a challenge.

“Hobbs,” Cain says sharply, sounding sterner
than I’ve ever heard him.

“Uhh, aye,” I say, looking between them,
wondering why Hobbs looks so mischievous and Cain so angry.

I move a safe distance away, raise my sword
to attack position, my feet planted firmly as I’ve been taught. I
start to swing, but stop when Hobbs laughs. “I mean against a real
opponent,” he says.

I look back, my prideful chest deflating.
“Sir?” I say. I can’t possibly fight him. He’s a man, and I’m….not,
regardless of my age and who my father is.

I can feel a crowd gathering, their boots
shuffling on the deck. I whirl around, taking them in, the eyes—so
many eyes—staring, waiting, watching. To see what I’ll do. A test.
This is exactly the kind of thing my father would do.

My chance—

To prove myself—

To him.

Maybe my last chance. My mother’s face,
open-mouthed and screaming. Pleading and pleading.

I grit my teeth, shake my head, nod firmly at
Hobbs. Raise my sword with two hands in his direction.

He laughs, deep and loud. “Me? You thought
you were going to fight me? Please, kid, don’t insult me. You’ll
fight someone closer to your own size.” At the same time as I feel
angry heat swallow my neck—because he called me
kid
on the
day I become a man—I breathe out a silent sigh of relief. Perhaps I
have a chance after all.

I look around, seeing a couple of the guys I
practice with, Jobe and Ben, looking almost as scared as I feel,
afraid they’re about to be asked into the circle with me to prove
their manhood in front of an audience. “Who?” I say, my voice
quivering around the single word.

“We don’t want to give you more than you can
handle for your first real fight,” Hobbs says, walking a lazy
circle around me. Meaning…
what?

“You’ll fight one of the bilge rats,” he
says, the edge of his lip turning up.

“What?” I say, more sharply than I intended.
What the hell is going on? “But I can’t possibly…”

“You can and you will,” my father interjects.
“Remember what I taught you, Son.”

I frown, remembering his lessons well. The
bilge rats are nothing more than swine, less than human, here to
serve us and be trodden under our feet. Nary better than animals,
they are. When I asked him where the bilge come from, he said,
“From nowhere,” like they just popped out of the ground or were
fished from the ocean or dropped from the sky. He wouldn’t say any
more than that and I knew better than to ask.

I nod. If this is what I must do to become a
man, I’ll do it.

“Bring him in!” Hobbs hollers and I sense
movement on the port side of the ship. The crowd parts and a
skinny, brown boy stumbles toward me, being half-dragged by a
strong man I recognize as one of the oarsmen. The bilge rat’s eyes
are wide and scared, darting around him, like at any moment someone
might hit him. I’ve seen the boy before but have never spoken to
him. Usually he’s on his knees, scrubbing the decks, his head
hanging in defeat and resignation.

Less than human.

The big oarsman shoves him forward and he
trips, nearly falls into me, but I catch his arm firmly, hold him
up. He stares at the sword in my other hand, his jaw tight. For a
moment I look at him—really look at him—like I never have before.
For this one time, he’s not just an animal, not just an object to
be ignored, like my father always taught me. He looks so human, his
skin browner than mine, aye, but not so different than me after
all.

He jerks away from my grip and a piece of his
dirty, tattered shirt comes away in my fist. I stare at it for a
moment and then let it drop to my feet. Hobbs hands the boy an old
sword, even shorter than mine and blunt and rusty around the edges.
Unblinking, the boy takes it, swallowing a heavy wad of spittle
that slides down his throat in a visible lump.

How can I fight someone like him?