Free Water & Storm Country by David Estes

face,
probably kicked her to the deck, and had her thrown to the
sharp-tooths. Made an example out of her.
    The bilge rats will respect you if they
fear you , he once told me after I’d just watched him manhandle
a new rat who wouldn’t stop crying. The boy was no older than me at
the time, seven yars old. A child.
    And his words from earlier: Beware the
bilge rats…They’re not like us. They’ll do anything to bring you
down, to make you as low as they are. Don’t trust them. They are
tools to be used, nothing more.
    It’s almost like he knew I’d have trouble
with them. It took me all of a few seconds on my new ship to fail
at the hands of a bilge rat.
    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