She looks back to the man, who still hasn’t moved. It’s too dangerous to wake him, especially by herself. She backs away from the window and decides to keep moving.
As Maia heads across the lawn, she spots what appears to be an abandoned cottage in front of the shed. She briefly glances back to the window.
No. Run!
She hesitates, then despite herself, sprints across the yard to the cottage.
Standing in the dense, overgrown weeds just outside the front door, Maia grapples with an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia. The cottage’s faded yellow paint hangs off in curved, ragged sheets. The entire house is blanketed in a film of black grime and moss. Thick cobwebs and forest debris fill the dark entryway. She reaches through the tangled webs and grabs the knob—locked.
Piles of rusted tools sit propped against the building. She digs through them until she finds a blade. She’s become good at picking locks from years of rummaging through abandoned homes and shops for whatever may be left this long after The End.
Maia works the old rusted handle, peering every so often at the shed to make sure she hasn’t awakened the man. Jimmying the blade between the door and its frame, she works the lock until the door swings open with a drawn-out creak. She quickly steps inside, quietly closing the door behind her.
This house … something so familiar about this house.
She stands in the entryway of a large living room where dust has coated its contents in thick layers of muted grays. A whisper of a baby’s laughter echoes across the room, sending chills down her spine.
Wandering over to a large bookshelf, she absently runs her fingers along its contents, leaving a trail of parted dust in their wake. She comes across a glass tiger figurine. Picking it up, she examines it with a peculiar curiosity before setting it back down and continuing further.
Picture frames line the shelves, along with books and other various objects she’s never seen outside of magazines. Objects like what her grandfather said were used before The End, objects that contained a power within that she has never quite been able to understand. A power that had connected the entire world together but has long since died without the electricity and the humans who created it.
She picks up a novel, blowing the dust away as she flips through its pages, then sets it down next to a frame where a glint of glass catches her eye. She slowly pulls the frame from the shelf, breaking the grasp of a knotted cobweb. Gently wiping the layers of dust from the glass, her breath catches in her chest as she finds her mother staring back at her.
She frantically rubs off the rest, uncovering her mother smiling at the camera, her dark auburn hair blowing across her face. Her smile is radiant, happy—in love. A handsome young man stands with his arms wrapped around her. His eyes are closed and his face is buried into the side of hers.
Dad.
“What the—”
Startled, Maia looks up as a wobbling drunken man stands at the door, half-propped against the frame with a handgun swinging at his side. It’s the same man from the photos. He’s a much older version than the man she holds in her hands. His beard lies crooked across his sunken face and his clothing hangs from his bony frame.
Still grasping the photo, Maia turns towards him, absently brushing the dirt from her clothes. Gathering what little dignity she has left, she lifts her chin.
He looks shocked—horrified. “Ghost,” he mumbles with glassy, terrified eyes.
“No.” Her voice sends him stumbling against the wall. “Not a ghost, although I bet you wish I was.”
He points his gun at her while reaching for the door. “No, stay away from me!” His face panic-stricken, he frantically searches the air behind him.
Maia holds out her hands, tears filling her eyes. “I’m not a ghost! I’m your daughter.”
He lowers his gun. “What did you say?” He steps towards her with a trembling, outstretched hand. “That necklace…”
She grasps her mother’s carving and backs into the shelf, knocking the tiger figurine to the floor.
“Ah!” Her father lunges and Maia jumps to the side, shielding her face. The tiger tumbles across the floor.
Picking up the figurine, he grasps it between his palms and sighs relief. He examines it for damage, then wipes it off and returns it to the only spot on the shelf not buried in dust.
He turns to look at her, his hazy eyes darting between the photo in her hands and the woman standing before him. He stares at the jade carving on her chest. “Maia?”
She softens her gaze.
“No…” Her father shakes his head. “You left. You went to The Old Arctic Circle with your grandfather.”
“The Old Arctic Circle? What? No, I didn’t.”
“Your grandfather said he was taking you there,” he says as he shakes his head. “Twenty years ago.”
“He didn’t. We didn’t. The Old Arctic … you mean North? Like the Northern Islands?”
“NO!” His voice booms across the deserted room. “No. The Old Arctic Circle. The place we were going to go before your mother got pregnant!” He snatches the photo from her and wipes the rest of the glass with his tattered shirt, then carefully places it back on the shelf. His body swaying, he scans the room for any more discrepancies, then turns back to gawk at Maia. “You … you look just like her.” He shakes his head. “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know.” She gazes at her feet and folds her arms across her muddy shirt. “I got lost … I was looking for a change of clothes.”
“Your mother’s clothes? How long have you known I was here?”
“No—I didn’t know … I had no idea what this place was. I followed the smoke. I was cold … and hungry.”
“I have food. I have food! I can…” He points towards the open front door and motions her forward. “Come. I can give you some food in the other house.” His smile is awkward and twitchy.
Maia looks around. “I don’t know.”
He lowers his arm, and his body wavers as he struggles to focus on her. The smell of liquor from his fetid breath is overwhelming.
This may be her only chance to talk to him, so she takes a deep breath and agrees. “Okay. Food, yes.”
“Okay!” He quickly walks out the front door then immediately back in again, shuffling her out with his fingers in her back. Slamming the door behind him, he pauses as he surveys the broken lock.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I was just—”
“I know. Looking for food,” he says without turning around.
“I can fix—”
“Never mind!” He shoves past her. “Let’s get you some food.”
She trails nervously behind him.
The inside of the shed smells worse than it looks. Maia’s father bangs around the kitchen, pulling out old pots, rattraps, and a few odd shoes from the cupboards. She eyes the old boxes stacked against the walls. Sagging and molding, they appear as if they haven’t been touched in decades.
He staggers around. “Ah, here!” he proclaims as he pulls out a small bag from a pile of garbage on the table. “This is the best jerky you’ll ever have.”
She eyes the meat suspiciously.
“Go on, it’s safe. I just ate some tonight.”
“Tonight? It’s morning.”
“Whatever.” He tears a bit off with his few remaining back teeth and tosses the rest on the table. “It’s there if you want it, but don’t complain about being hungry.” He stumbles back to his chair and picks up a large bottle of hazy liquid. Swigging it back, he grimaces as he swallows. “I made it myself. Want some?”
Maia shakes her head.
“Sit down … if you want.”
Reluctant, she keeps her arms wrapped around her body.
“Sit!” He startles her. “Or leave. But wipe that smug look off your face. You don’t know anything about me.”
“You’re right, I don’t. And whose fault is that?”
He jumps out of his chair with his hand in the air and Maia cowers t
o cover her face. Horrified, he lowers his hand. “I’m sorry … I’m—I would never hit you. Please,” he begs, shoving the blankets and garbage off the couch. “Please, sit down? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispers as he rocks back and forth. He takes another swig of his liquor.
Maia gazes down at him, his sadness palpable. She quietly sits along the edge of the couch and flashes him an awkward smile.
“It’s like … you’re a ghost. I can barely look at you,” he says, averting his eyes to the floor. “Your grandfather—is he still alive?”
“He is. Better than ever.” She lies.
“That’s great,” he slurs. “I know you probably won’t believe me, but I was always comforted in my omission from your life because I knew you were with him. Well, I assumed you were still with him, off in some faraway land like The Old Arctic Circle.”
“The Old Arctic Circle … I’m sorry, I’m trying to wrap my brain around … where is this?”
He belches. “It’s exactly like it sounds, dear,” he sneers. “THE OLD ARCTIC CIRCLE. The … Old … Arctic … how many times I gotta repeat this?”
“I just … I don’t think—you’re slurring. You mean to tell me people, including my grandfather at one point, were traveling to this Old Arctic Circle?”
He looks confused. “Your grandfather—”
“Yes, but he didn’t. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He sighs. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“Anything. I’ll take anything.”
His eyes dart to the ground, nervously drumming his fingers together.
“Please,” she whispers.
He looks up at her and a flash of kindness crosses his face. “Okay,” he says. “Right before The End—”
The rubbish on the table shifts and a small rat peeks its head out from underneath. It sniffs into the air, then crawls into the bag of jerky. Maia’s stomach churns. Her father watches with a resentful look in his eyes.
“You were say—” she starts but her father lifts his hand.
The rat sticks its head out once again. Her father chucks an old leather boot at the table. It slides across the mess, pushing the bag of jerky onto the ground. The rat scurries under a closed door.
“Right!” Her father looks pleased with himself. “Where was I?”
“The End…” Maia mumbles, not taking her eyes off the door.
“Yes. Before The End, there was a lot of talk about this anomaly, this place on earth that for thousands of years had been covered in ice. A wasteland—no man’s land. Once the glaciers melted, there were these massive uninhabited pieces of earth at the beginning stages of what they were like millions of years ago. Eventually, they knew the area would become sub-tropical and full of life. Of course, it wasn’t like that yet, but it was starting. The oceans were much cooler up there than they had become everywhere else, so they still supported sea life.
“They called the area ‘The Old Arctic Circle.’ People tried traveling there to claim a bit of land, but the world powers began a war over it, so there was a tight restriction on travel. No one wanted anyone populating it until they knew who would own it. And then everything … fell apart.” He shakes his head. “Falling apart is an understatement.”
“I think I’ve read about that place … in old magazine articles and newspapers my grandfather had collected, but that was so long ago. You were going to go there?”
“Yes.”
“People are still going there?”
“Yes. Well, that’s what I’ve heard.”
“And my grandfather said he was taking me there?”
“Yes.”
“But instead, no one went?”
“Guess so.” He takes another swig.
Her mother’s face suddenly flashes before her, with the massive city rising behind her every night in her dreams. “The dream.”
“What?”
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“And you and my mother wanted to go there?”
“Where? The Old Arctic Circle?” He shrugs. “Sure, once upon a time.”
“How?”
“How were we going to go there? With a boat. We were building one.”
Maia jumps from her seat. “You have a boat?!”
Her father flinches, spilling liquor on his lap. He hugs his bottle and looks up at her with a disgruntled look on his face.
“Can you help me? Please! I have to go there. I have to … where? Where is the boat now?”
His jaw clenches and he glares at the ground. “I burned it.” He grips the glass bottle.
“What? Why?”
“Because it was all ruined!” He stands from his chair and whips the bottle across the room. Maia ducks and the glass shatters across the back wall. “Every plan I’ve ever made with the love of my life was ruined! She was everything and you took her from me! Everything is gone! GONE!” He falls to his knees, his bellow filling the room.
She races towards the open front door.
“Maia! No please, wait!”
But she does not wait. She sprints as fast as she can back into the forest. Her father screams out her name in the distance. She runs even faster.
Ten
Two days have passed since his darling girl had left in the dark, cold night. She needed to talk and he wouldn’t listen. Foolish. He had called her foolish just as he called her mother foolish, and now he has lost them both.
The old man sits quietly on the porch, trembling from the cool night air. A glass of carefully rationed whisky sits next to him while a very nervous Huck paces across the sagging wooden deck. The fireplace inside is dark and barren. A cold uneaten pot of soup with a thick layer of haze growing along the top still sits on the lifeless wood burner in the corner of the kitchen. He coughs violently, gasping for air, then pulls his blanket tighter around him.
He’ll die out here waiting. He will not go back inside that empty cabin, not without her.
Please come home. Oh, my darling, please come home.
Eleven
“Grandpa?”
Her shaking hand hovers over his, sticking out from beneath his tattered wool blanket. Terrified, her breath leaks out in spurts as she lightly brushes the top of his pale skin for warmth. He doesn’t move. His face is drained into the color of ash. She leans over and listens for breathing. When she hears it—short and shallow—she lets out her breath.
His eyes scrunch and peel open. A low mumble rolls from between his cracked lips.
“Oh my God, Grandpa.” She opens the porch door and rushes back to his side. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”
“Darl … darling.”
“Yes, Grandpa. I’m here. What have you done?” She peels open his wool blanket and wraps her arms around his hollow frame. He groans as she lifts him from his chair. “I know, Grandpa. Come on, help me out here, lift. Lift!” She pulls her grandfather to his feet as his trembling body doubles over, coughing and gasping for air. “Let’s get you inside.”
He struggles to place one foot in front of the other as they shuffle back inside the dark cabin. Maia piles his frail body into his chair and grabs every blanket she can to layer on top of him.
“Hold on, Grandpa.” She holds the sides of this ghostly face with shaking hands. “What have you done?”
She races around to the outside of the cabin and frantically fills a basket of wood from their storehouse. Grandpa has always been so prepared. Always something—there is always something that can be done. Every day has a schedule to be followed; check the calendar if unsure. Every day should be spent chopping wood, weeding, hunting, collecting, building, cleaning. Wood, there is so much wood in this shed. But they can never have enough, Grandpa would say. It’s not like they won’t use it.
After building a fire, Maia shoves his chair as close to the heat as she can, then unwraps his feet and places them on a pile of wool blankets. She runs to the kitchen and lights the wood oven, setting the moldi
ng soup aside and placing the kettle on top.
“Darling,” her grandfather’s voice cracks from the living room.
“I’m right here, Grandpa.” She runs back to him and unwraps his blankets, the fire now roaring behind her. “Let’s get you some more heat.”
He lays his head against his chair and she holds his icy hand against her cheek as he drifts off to sleep. Feeling hopeless and overwhelmingly guilty, Maia glances around the dark cabin in search of something to do. She fixates on the stacks of newspapers in the corner of the living room, glaring at them like unwanted houseguests. What a waste of space. She can only be grateful that her grandfather has finally agreed to use them for kindling.
There are scores of periodicals filling countless boxes in the library, the corners of the house, even the woodshed—a musty, dust-covered accumulation of papers with one glaring, painfully obvious subject in common.
The weather.
The changes were so small, so gradual, over such a long period of time. It only took a few degrees to change the world—but change the world they did.
Maia wanders to the sagging pile and grabs the top paper to feed the fire. She quickly glances through it. Sometimes the most tragic headlines were placed in the smallest spaces in the very back of the paper, like an afterthought added to fill an empty slot. Not this one. She unfolds the crinkled periodical. Ominous black lettering sprawls across the cover: Super Tsunami NYC: Millions Flee Inland After World’s Last Superdam Toppled. She rips the paper in half and tosses it into the flames, watching as the title is quickly incinerated: World Mourns as Ocean Claims Another Coastal City.
She grabs a few more papers and without looking, shoves them under the logs, watching as the flames devour the past. The quicker the fire burns these the better—no point dwelling in someone else’s hell.
The roaring fire quickly nips the chill in the air but she tucks her grandfather’s hands and feet beneath the blanket anyway. She spends the evening in the kitchen, making a fresh batch of vegetable soup as her grandfather sleeps. Every so often, she sneaks back to his chair and listens to his breathing, relieved to see the color of his face slowly returning to normal.
The Weight of a Thousand Oceans Page 6
