Two
Racing along the ancient trail, Maia braces herself against the countless branches of ferns stretching awkwardly into the path. The long waves of her auburn hair swoosh behind her as she ducks and winces against the imposing limbs. She curses herself for not bringing her machete.
Her heart pounds as he gasps in spurts behind her, knowing any minute he could inch close enough to pounce. She jumps over another tree’s tangled, mossy roots, then dives under a large branch drooping stubbornly across the trail. “I’ll never hand it over!” she screams as she jumps over another fallen trunk.
The brush clears ahead and Maia knows what she must do. Breaking out from the thick covering of branches, the hot sun sweeps over her. She stops in her tracks and whips around.
He nervously watches her, his brown eyes twitching. She slowly steps back, holding it high above her head. He inches closer.
She flips around. Running to the edge of the cliff, she dives headfirst and plunges into the sparkling water below. Reaching the surface, her laughs echo off the rocky cliffs above.
His head peeks over the edge for a brief moment, then disappears, leaving nothing but a furry black tail waving against the stark blue sky.
“Come on, Huck, don’t be such a baby!”
His tail waves faster and he lets out a pitiful bark.
“Silly dog. If you want this stick, you’re going to have to come and get it!” She holds it above the water and his head peeks over the edge.
He disappears again, and an outpour of barking echoes off the cliff. She giggles as she treads the surface. He whimpers and paces the trail above, pausing every few steps to glance down at her and his precious stick.
“If you don’t come down here, I’ll come up there and throw you in!”
He disappears.
“Huck!” She begins her swim to the rocks, gliding through the warm salty water as she giggles to herself.
A large, circular blob floats in front of her and she stops. Holding her breath, she ducks her head beneath the water, watching as the massive jellyfish’s striated cap opens and closes, slowly propelling it along as its elongated tentacles flow delicately behind it.
What is that doing here? She lifts her head above the water. This space is netted off—she has spent years securing the area so she and Huck could swim in the ocean without fear of being stung. Another jellyfish catches her eye just beneath the surface, followed by two more below it.
There must be a tear.
Whipping around in the water, Maia eyes her surroundings. She ducks her head above and below the surface, searching for more. And that’s when she sees it.
A bloom.
Thousands of jellyfish encircle the thick nets, their sheer weight permitting them to slowly bulldoze through the massive netting as if the tightly braided enclosure were merely a suggestion.
Moving in a zigzag motion, Maia attempts to swim to shore, stopping every few strokes to dip her head below the surface and check her surroundings.
Eventually reaching land, she crawls on top of the large boulders lining the shore. Her knees knock together and her arms give out. The salty ocean water drips off the tip of her nose as she catches her breath, watching as hundreds of jellyfish slowly trickle in through the loose and broken netting.
This is not the first time this has happened and it won’t be the last. Jellyfish rule the ocean now. With limited predators, warm seas, and over 700 million years of evolution, they’ve become sly at adapting to the elements. She’ll have to wait for them to clear out to fix the netting … again.
She trails her way back up to the platform but by the time she reaches the top, her beloved pup is gone. Shaking her head, she peers over the once crystal blue waters, crushed by the severity of the situation below. Thousands of translucent, balloon-like creatures mindlessly stack on top of each other as they swarm the nets, slowly invading her once pristine swimming area.
She gazes past the nets to the horizon and lets out a disheartened sigh. Out there. She wonders what sort of worlds lie out there? A smile slides across her lips then fades just as quickly. Years of early morning prodding and late-night pleadings with her grandfather drum the banks of her memory like a migraine. Pounding, pounding, pounding.
“What if…”
“No, darling.”
“But maybe…”
“No, darling.”
“But—”
“No, no, NO.”
There’s nothing out there. The world is deserted, just like the oceans. She takes another deep breath and starts the trek home.
Back on the path, she brushes her hands along the broad flax leaves curving like explosions along the increasingly overburdened trail. Her ancestors used the long hardy leaves to make anything from woven baskets to rope to footwear. Centuries later, they are still invaluable to daily life. She’ll have to collect some again to fix her netting.
So familiar with these leaves and this land, Maia’s walked it thousands of times, from adventures as a child to even more repetitive adventures as an adult. She gazes around, loving this familiar bush as much as she loathes it.
Far off, a figure catches her eye. She looks up in shock as a strange man races down another trail. The fabric of his peculiar, one-piece suit swishes together as he runs. A long zipper stretches from his left ankle up to his dark beard, peeking out from the black netting sewn around his wide-brimmed hat. The netting has been tucked beneath his collar, hiding his face. Despite his obscurity, she knows he’s not from around here. There are only a handful of people around these parts and she has known them her entire life.
Distracted, Maia unknowingly hooks her foot beneath a tree root stretching across the path. She falls forward and the tree’s branch whips across the trail, slamming across her waist. She grunts as she doubles over the knotted arm and the limb lifts her back to her feet.
Maia stumbles back as the branch slowly moves above the path to its original position. Bewildered, her eyes dart between the dirt track and the branch. Back, forth, and back again. A few glistening streams of light flicker across the tree. She shakes her head.
A twig cracks in the distance, grabbing her attention once more. The stranger is far away now—she can’t lose him. What is he doing here? She trails behind him as quietly as she can, but not without stealing a few uncertain glances back at the branch sitting innocently above the trail.
The man comes to a clearing, slowing his pace as he breaks from beneath the line of trees. Maia watches from behind a row of bushes. A lone woman with a baby stands in the middle of the field. She is also wearing a wide-brimmed hat and the same simple clothing. The fabric isn’t something Maia has come across when rummaging through abandoned shops and homes. It appears light but protective, with an uninterrupted material stretching from the woman’s boots to her collar. Her netting has been folded back and now drapes across the top of her hat.
The woman smiles when she sees him. She looks relieved. He pulls the netting out from under his suit and removes his hat. She hands him the baby and he holds it against his chest.
“So?” the woman asks as she strokes the baby’s head.
“Nothing, just an old man living with his granddaughter. That’s all that’s up here.”
“Right.” A look of disappointment hangs heavy across her face.
“So, I guess we’ll have to stick closer to shore for now.” He rubs the side of her arm. “Maybe next to the boat graveyard we passed, outside of that flooded town? There are a few others that have set up there as well—plenty of abandoned homes to choose from.”
She grimaces.
“You don’t like that idea.”
“It’s just so eerie. Back in Australia, we had our family’s house; this is a new concept for me. It’s like the world has become one enormous ghost town full of abandoned homes, skeletons from a world that no longer exists. It’s haunting.”
“I know, but we’re here now. We’ve found a better life for ourselves.”
“I h
ope so.”
“You should see the setup that old man and his granddaughter have up there. It’s brilliant. I want to make us something like that.”
“That could take years. What will we do until then? This is exhausting.”
He pulls her to him and wraps his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. “We’ll figure it out. It will be okay, I promise.”
Back from behind the bushes, Maia plans her escape. Hunched over, she delicately guides each foot into the leaf-littered ground. Just a few more steps and she can sneak off along the trail.
“Hello?”
Maia winces, stopping in her tracks.
“Excuse me?”
She stands and forces a smile. “Hello.”
“Hi.” The young man is now facing her. He hands the baby back to the woman and steps towards her. “I’m Collin. This is Sarah, and our boy, Henry.”
Maia walks towards them, extending her hand. “I’m Maia.”
“Maia. Hello! You live with your grandfather?” Collin cups her hand between his with an enthusiastic shake. Up close, the details of his burns stretch across the lower part of his face and neck. The scar tissue has caused the skin to pucker and crease in rumpled swirls.
“Yes.” She averts her eyes. “Welcome to New Zealand. I assume you’ve traveled here from somewhere else? I haven’t seen you around.”
“Yes, we’re from Australia. We’ve come with a few others. Conditions over there are pretty deadly. The droughts and fires are out of control … we’ve lost everything.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” She scratches the back of her head. “Others? You’ve come with others?”
“Yes, my parents.”
“Right.”
“We don’t mean to bother you. We were just trying to figure out our next step. It seems pretty nice here, a bit cooler too … and abandoned. Where is everyone?”
“Everyone? What do you mean? Are there many where you are?”
“Not many, but more than this.”
“Our population has always been relatively small from what I’ve heard. There are people left here, not many, but they’re here,” Maia says.
“Right.”
“I think your best bet would be to find an abandoned place. There are a ton farther down the coast.”
“Yeah, that’s what I think we may have to do for now … not a whole lot up here,” Collin says.
“There is a small tribe in the closest Northern Island—”
“No. Not north. Not on this side of the equator, at least. We are trying to get as far south as possible. We thought it might be a bit cooler still on your Southern Islands, especially up here in the mountains.”
“Oh, it’s still cool, especially since we’re in the middle of winter. The evenings are a bit chilly but the days can heat up quickly if the sun is out.”
“Snow?”
“No. Not in my lifetime—not anymore.” Maia shrugs.
“Hmm, disappointing.” Collin flashes a sympathetic look towards Sarah. “I’ve done quite a bit of research and thought for sure all the way up here you’d still have snow, at least in the winter, but things just keep heating up, so I guess I should have known.”
“Yeah, you can see the remnants of some rusty ski lifts and lodgings around the area but those all closed down years before my grandfather bought the land to build up here, and that was when he was a young man.”
Sarah tugs at Collin’s sleeve. “Maybe we should keep moving?” she whispers. “I thought our goal was to find snow. The heat here will be quite intense by the time we’re old—”
Maia brushes the side of the cooing baby’s cheek. “I haven’t seen one of these for a while.”
“Are there not many young ones here?”
“Not many. The few that were here have grown and left.”
“Left? And gone where?”
“I’m not sure. Out there. To find other life, start over. I guess exactly what you’ve done.”
“Yes, but we didn’t have a choice.”
Maia fidgets with the waist-high weeds at her side.
Oblivious, Collin smiles at Sarah. “This place seems perfect—albeit secluded.”
“Hmm.” Maia kicks the stones beneath her feet. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”
“Well, those young ones are brave.” Sarah puts Henry on the ground and he crawls forward, grabbing at the long grass around him. “I wouldn’t dare head out there yet. What if it’s terrible?”
Maia looks up at her. “Sure…” she says. “But what if it’s not?”
Three
Maia enters a small grassy clearing where a modest log cabin sits tucked back in the corner. Ancient pines and ferns surround the home, forming a wall-like labyrinth of green. Thick smoke pours from the home’s brick chimney, half-devoured by moss. The smell of cooking onions and garlic fill the air. The front doors have been left open to a small covered porch, where Huck sits waiting between wooden rockers on an outdoor rug. His tail wags as he watches her approach from the corner of his eye, too lazy to lift his head.
A little black bird sits on the fence just outside the cabin and starts squeaking when he sees her.
“Well, hello there. Back again?” Maia asks.
The bird hops along the mossy wood, tipping his body forward and back while spreading his black and white tail in a beautiful, fanlike display. The white markings on his face resemble a pair of bushy white eyebrows and a beard. His rounded brown chest could pass as a vest under a black dinner jacket, giving him the look of a distinguished old man. He squeaks repeatedly, sounding more like a pet’s chew toy than a bird.
Maia walks past, shaking her head at Huck as she approaches the stairs. “Traitor.” She pats his head and walks inside.
She smiles as she enters their home. The living room fireplace roars inside the large, blackened hearth, and an array of homemade candles have been lit, making their one-room cabin feel warm and inviting. Large mats cover the worn wooden floor, and a few sheepskin rugs have been placed between the fire and their two faded leather recliners. Countless framed photographs of her mother and deceased family and friends blanket the cabin walls. Two beds sit tucked in separate corners, their heavy privacy drapes pulled back and tied around the large wooden posts. Her grandfather’s pride and joy, an antique mahogany grandfather clock, is nestled in the corner by his bed, chiming four o’clock.
Maia’s grandfather stands next to the wood stove in the kitchen with a large pot of vegetable stew steaming on top. He turns around and smiles, his spectacles fogged from the steam. “Hello, darling.”
She laughs.
“How was the hunt?” With a quivering hand, he wipes his glasses on his flannel. “Find anything today?”
“Nothing.”
“You look a little wet.” He sets his glasses back on his face, eyeing her suspiciously through his cracked frames. “I know you didn’t fish in the ocean, nothing but jellies in there.”
“The nets broke again.”
“You didn’t go in and fix them, did you? You know you need a spotter for that.”
“No, I was already in when I noticed.” She hesitates and then adds, “There was a bloom.”
“And you were in there?”
“It happened out of nowhere! Anyway, I’ll wait for it to clear and maybe you could spot me again?”
“Sure. In the meantime, please be more careful, aye?”
“Of course, Grandpa.”
“There’s a bowl of potatoes sitting on the table. Could you cut them into cubes for me?”
Maia takes a seat at the table and grabs a knife. A large painting of a tiger hangs on the wall across from her. Not the whole tiger—just his head, off-center, with the image cutting off at the tear duct of his second eye. When she sits at the table, she’ll often drift into a daze, mesmerized by the mirroring black lines painted across his face and his furry, rust-colored nose. It looks so soft. What would it be like to touch it? To run her finger down its broad, flattened surface and th
en back up the opposite direction between his eyes to his forehead. It’s always been Huck’s favorite spot. She can almost always lull him to sleep this way.
This leads her back to the tiger’s eye. Always back to his eye, the color of limes, haloed with yellow. So detailed … she can nearly count the individual striations that lead into his pupil before abruptly disappearing into a black hole. There’s a whole universe located inside that pupil. So focused. So sad.
His face is like an old friend Maia has known her entire life. The painting has always transfixed her, not only because her mother painted it, but for some other reason … maybe it was the way he looked at her. It was like he knew. And when she looked at him, she knew too.
That same familiar squeak interrupts her thoughts, this time just outside the dining room window. “That fantail has been here quite a bit lately, hasn’t he?” Maia asks as she watches the bird flitter about, catching countless microscopic bugs.
“Ah, the pīwakawaka. My favorite.” Her grandfather chimes in from the kitchen. “He must have something to tell us.”
“As long as he doesn’t come inside, he can talk all he wants.”
“Maia, a fantail coming in the house doesn’t mean anything.”
“You taught me quite the opposite, Grandpa. Can’t take it back now.”
“Excuse me? I taught you the traditions of our land—which include a belief that fantails are spiritual messengers and an old superstition that there may be a death in the family if they come into your home. I also taught you the myth that before the North Islands flooded, they were one main island that was plucked out of the sea by the God, Māui, while fishing. So please keep that in mind.”
Maia watches the bird from the corner of her eye as she reaches for another potato. “Like I said, I’m happy as long as he doesn’t come inside.”
The fire crackles and the table’s candles flicker. As the sun begins to slip into sleep for the night, countless chirping birds scatter among the woods beyond the window. Maia watches the glow from the fireplace, then looks at her grandfather and smiles.
The Weight of a Thousand Oceans Page 2
