Free Water & Storm Country by David Estes Page A

my eyes.
    Daylight streams through the glass portal
above my bed, warming the plump pillow beneath my head. I squint,
seeing spots, red and blue and orange, like the fire that nearly
consumed me in what I now know was another nightmare. My father’s
fire.
    Firm hands continue to press against my arms,
holding them at my sides, but not hurting me. “’Twas a dream,” the
voice says. “Nothing more.”
    Blink, blink. My mother slipping, falling:
blink her away. My father glaring, burning me: blink him away,
too.
    A face appears, hazy at first, but then crisp
and defined around the edges. Lined but no older than my father.
Late thirties, maybe forty. A beard, uncombed and disheveled, brown
and patchy like the hair on his head. Somber, gray eyes, like the
clouds that encroach on the sea from storm country. A nose that’s
bigger than most.
    “Lieutenant Jones,” the man says.
    “Who are you?” I say. It sounds a little
rude, although I don’t mean it to be.
    The corner of his lips turns up in amusement.
I haven’t offended him. “Barnes,” he says, “although around here
most folks call me Barney.”
    “Why are you…” My voice fades away as I
realize I’m being rude again.
    “Here?” he says, winking. “Well, firstly, I
heard you screaming like the Deep Blue had grown hands and was
trying to pull you into its depths, and secondly, I sleep a cabin
over. I’m your steward. I’ll be doubling as Hobbs’ steward,
too—he’s a rather grouchy fellow, isn’t he?—because we didn’t
expect him. I’m here to take care of your every need, so you can
focus on leading the men.”
    Everything comes tumbling back: the bilge
rat’s challenge; my weakness; the captain showing me to my cabin,
asking if I was ready to meet my steward. I had begged off, blaming
the need for sleep, although I was wide awake. Pulling the covers
tight around me, I had squeezed my eyes shut and held back the
tears as long as I could, but eventually they’d broken free,
coating my cheeks and lips.
    But eventually I must’ve fallen asleep, and
then—
    “It was just a nightmare,” I say, lifting my
chin, rubbing at my cheeks, half-expecting them to still be wet
with tears. Surprisingly, however, they’re dry, although my skin
feels grainy. I hope Barney can’t see the white tear tracks.
    “I know, sir,” Barney says, releasing my
arms.
    “I have them sometimes.”
    “We all do, Lieutenant.”
    “What time of day is it?” I ask. (What day is
it?) I flex my arms, which have gone numb.
    “It’s tomorrow,” Barney says with a grin.
“Morning still. Not early, not late. Breakfast is still available.
Would you like some?”
    “Can you bring it to me here?” I ask,
realizing right away how that sounds. Like the spoiled son of an
admiral. Like the coward who’s scared to leave his cabin.
    “Of course, sir,” Barney says, unblinking,
although I can hear it in his voice: he heard about what happened
yesterday. He knows the sort of man I am.
    With a quick bow, he leaves, closing the door
behind him, leaving me to my thoughts and the strained and scared
face of my mother, which flashes in and out of my memory like a
signal beacon from a passing ship.
     
     

Chapter Ten
Sadie
     
    “Y our father had a
vision,” Mother says, and then I remember why I ran out. My
interest, my curiosity piqued at the mention of the Soakers as my
father started to tell us about what he’d been writing on the
strips of bark. Then of course I just had to dredge up age-old
memories of Paw’s death, which led to our fight and my abrupt exit
into the storm. My run to the ships.
    When I returned, they didn’t say anything, as
if I’d never left in the first place. Mother held a blanket up so I
could change my clothes, and Father prepared a warm, herbal tea.
Although I could see the question in his eyes, my father didn’t ask
me where I’d gone, probably because my mother had forbidden him
from asking it. It’s all part of her approach to my