WATER & STORM COUNTRY
A Dwellers Saga Sister Novel
Book Three of the Country Saga
David Estes
Published by David Estes at Smashwords
Copyright 2013 David Estes
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personalenjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away toother people. If you would like to share this book with anotherperson, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Ifyou’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was notpurchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.comand purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard workof this author.
Discover other exciting titles by David Estesavailable through the author’s official website:
http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com
or through select online retailers.
Young-Adult Books by David Estes
The Dwellers Saga:
Book One—The Moon Dwellers
Book Two—The Star Dwellers
Book Three—The Sun Dwellers
Book Four—The Earth Dwellers (ComingSeptember 5, 2013!)
The Country Saga (A Dwellers Saga sisterseries):
Book One—Fire Country
Book Two—Ice Country
Book Three—Water and Storm Country
Book Four—The Earth Dwellers (ComingSeptember 5, 2013!)
The Witch Wars:
Book One—Brew (Coming December 12, 2013!)
The Evolution Trilogy:
Book One—Angel Evolution
Book Two—Demon Evolution
Book Three—Archangel Evolution
Children’s Books by David Estes
The Adventures of Nikki Powergloves:
Nikki Powergloves—A Hero Is Born
Nikki Powergloves and the Power Council
Nikki Powergloves and the Power Trappers
Nikki Powergloves and the Great Adventure
Nikki Powergloves vs. the Power Outlaws(Coming soon!)
This book is dedicated to my Goodreads StreetTeam.
Your selfless, energetic, and unwaveringsupport is a sign
of all that is good in this world.
I’m forever in your debt.
Chapter One
Huck
Standing on the deckwatching 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 ofmy nose, filling each breath with the distinct smell of salt andbrine. While endless yellow clouds keep watch over the Deep Blue,the half-sun splashes purples, pinks and oranges on the everreddening morning sky.
To the starboard side I can see theshoreline, sandy at first, and then green, rolled out like awelcome mat. Above the land, the yellow clouds darken to black.
In the waters surrounding the ship, I see thefamiliar dark triangles of sharp-tooth fins breaking the surface,patrolling the ocean, hoping for an execution or a natural death togive them the chance to taste human flesh yet again.
But even the constant presence of thesharp-tooths can’t wipe away my grin. Not today.
The ship lurches beneath me, riding the crestof yet another big rolling wave. But I don’t stumble, don’t lose mybalance, don’t so much as sway from the ship’s movements or thetumultuous wind that whips my shirt in a frenzy around me.
Steady.
Balanced.
A seaman, through and through.
And smiling, bigger than the ocean, relishingthe salt spray splashing my face as a wave crashes against thehull, living for the feel of the power rolling and throbbingbeneath my feet, laughing when a flock of white-winged big-chinsdive-bomb the water, each emerging with a nice-sized fish clampedtightly between its beak.
This is the life. The life of a Soaker. Atypical morning in water country.
My life, all about to change. Because I’mfourteen now.
“Huck,” a deep voice rumbles from behind. Nota murmur, not a greeting: a command.
Startled, I turn quickly, my smile vanishingin an instant. “Father?” I say.
“Admiral Jones,” he says. Admiral Jones iswhat his shipmen call him.
“Sir?” I say.
“Son,” he says, taking two steps forward toreach my side. “Today you become a man.” His words are the truthbut I know he doesn’t mean them. Not after what happened. Not afterwhat always happens.
Today’s the start of my fourteenth yar, theyar I cast off my childish ways and become a real seaman, not justthe son of one. “I’m ready,” I say, wondering if it’s true. Idesperately want to look down, to look away, to escape the piercingstare of my father’s crystal blue eyes, which are startling next tohis white, freckled skin, 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 millionand a half times.
And men don’t fail their fathers, like I haveso many times before.
Resting a hand on my shoulder, myfather—Admiral Jones—says, “Are you? Ready?”
Uh…I think? Maybe? “Aye,” I say, keeping mygaze on his but feeling his disappointment tremble through me.
“Hmm,” Father says, chewing on his lip. “Isuppose we’ll find out, won’t we?”
I hold my breath because the way he’s lookingat me, so full of doubt, so uncertain, with one eyebrow raised, hisnostrils flared slightly, his expression lopsided, seems to pick meapart from the outside in, like a big-chin tearing at the flesh ofa fish. If I breathe I’m afraid it will come out in a raggedshudder, and then he’ll know.
He’ll know I’m not a man, even if I’m oldenough to be one.
My face warms while I hold my breath for tenseconds, twenty, as he continues to stare at me, his eyes probing,closing in on the truth.
Just when I start to feel a littlelightheaded, he looks away, turns, stomps off, his boots hammeringthe wooden deck like a funeral drum. I let my breath out as slowlyas I can, closing my eyes. “I am a man,” I whisper under mybreath, 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 withoutturning around.
“Aye, aye, Father,” I say.
“Admiral Jones,” he replies. By blood he’sstill my father, but by rights he’s the admiral, and I’m one of hismen, subject to all the same rules as anyone else.
“Admiral Jones,” I correct, wondering whysaying it this time doesn’t feel nearly as good as it always didwhen I practiced in my cabin.
I hustle to catch up, trying to stride theway he does across the deck. Long steps, chin up, eyes sweeping theship, taking everything in. As we walk aft, two of my father’slieutenants are swashbuckling on the starboard side. Their swordsring out loud and shrill and practiced as they parry and slash andblock. It’s a morning ritual for these two, Cain and Hobbs, oneI’ve watched with boyish interest many times before.
When we approach, they stop, planting theirblades point-first into the deck. Hands flat, they each raise thetips of their fingers to the arch of their eyebrows in a rigidsalute. “At ease, lieutenants,” my father says.
They relax their arms but continue to standat attention. “Mornin’, Admiral…Huck,” Cain says, his blue uniformturning dark with sweat stains beneath his armpits. He flashes asmile.