by David Jurk
I was more than a little curious to find out what we thought.
“We don’t know what’s out there,” she continued. “We don’t know who might have lived through this, or if there’s anything left of anything.”
He started to speak, but she held up her hand. “Perhaps the three of us, sitting here, are all that’s left of the world. Perhaps there’s no point at all in risking our lives to cross more ocean only to encounter evil. Perhaps all we’ll accomplish in searching, in going on, is losing you, losing our family all over again.”
Again, she hesitated and glanced briefly at me then looked back at him.
“But if we surrender to this, we’re giving up on the world, giving up on people.”
“Let me tell ye aboot fowk,” he fired back. “Thir’s naught bit twa kinds anymair; th’ ones that ur deid, and th’ ones that wantae murdurr ye.”
She shook her head.
“There’s a third kind too,” she insisted softly. “There’s people like us, yes? People that want to start the world again, all anew, and make it a different kind of place than it was.”
“Lass, howfur wull ye ever dae that?” He shook his head in great arcs. “Thir’s na restarting this world. Tis ower. Ye’ll sail, the two o’ ye, oot intae a deid place ‘n’ it wull do naught but be th’ end o’ ye.”
“Perhaps so,” she replied calmly. “Perhaps we’ll die out there. Perhaps we’ll find only the dead and the wicked, as you say. Perhaps we’d be far better off staying here with you, living in comfort, warmed by your kindness and generosity. And love. We could live out what years we have on this little island, make it a home.”
“That’s whit ahm sayin’,” he responded eagerly. “That's exactly whit aam tellin' ye.”
“There were eight billion of us, Charlie,” she replied. “Eight billion, yes? Some must’ve been naturally resistant; it just stands to reason. Some must’ve been remote like you, or at sea like Owen. Some must’ve been able to avoid any contact with people, as I did. We’re not miracles, the three of us, we’re just survivors and I believe with all my heart that there must be others. Not bad people, good people. People who want the world to continue, to be made better than it ever was.”
She paused, taking a breath.
“Is the world as we knew it dead? Yes. All the technology, all the science, all the machinery, all the grand schemes of governments – all that is gone.” She stared at him with bright, wet eyes.
“But what of the people that are still left? What they do will determine what we become; it will shape this new world. All of them, wherever they are, in whatever little pocket they find themselves, wherever and however they’ve managed to escape this awful thing - they’re all exactly in the position we’re in right now; they must decide. Do they take a risk and reach out to others or withdraw inward, intent only on their own survival?”
We both watched her as she considered her words.
“I cannot accept that my only choice…” and she stopped and looked over at me, “that our only choice, is simply to survive. We can choose more than that, to be bigger than that. We can choose to look for the remnants of people like us, and work together to reshape this world. What’s left now – these little pockets of survivors that must be out there; they are like islands, yes? Like islands in an ocean world. There will be some large islands and many small ones, some will be only islands of one or two. But no matter their size, all these islands must now begin to live as the old islanders in the Pacific lived, isn’t that so? They nurtured the resources of their islands because that’s all they had. They learned they must, or they would die, as the people of Easter Island died when they forgot that the land and trees and animals and fish must be respected. All of us left now, all these scattered islands, we must now nurture the Earth so that like a good mother she will nurture us. Again, she paused to breathe and to choose her words.
“And we – Owen and I, we have this great gift he has built. We have Windswept. And we must take her, sail her, reach out to all the islands of people that we can find and help them bring about a new world, a new kind of world.”
She stopped, and we sat in silence. Beyond the softly glowing circle of light from the hurricane lamp, the room was dark, impenetrable. Embers popped within the wood stove, and remotely, beyond the house, I could hear the low rumble of the sea as it found the rocky headlands.
She sat quite calmly, hands together in her lap, lamp light dancing on her face, casting shadows that reflected, then hid, the streaks of tears on her cheeks. In the half-light, there was something ancient in her face, something distinctly Samoan, dark and primordial.
And what of this vision of hers, I wondered, this view of the new world as an island world? I thought of all these possible islands - places where one or two people, or a handful or perhaps even a small village survived in a forlorn landscape of violence, hunger and sickness. Humanity may have been altered, but had humans themselves changed at all, really? Were people any more likely now to act with kindness toward one another, to act with respect toward the Earth? How realistic was it to think that the two of us, sailing out across the globe on Windswept, could make even the slightest goddamn difference? And in any case, how much time did we have to find out? How long did all these pockets of people distributed around the globe have, in order to relearn the agrarian skills needed to survive before the grocery stores and the drugstores fell into complete ruin? A generation maybe? Probably much less. And then that would be the end of it. And even if they learned, the end would still come. It would come if the game and fish were hunted indiscriminately, come if the water was wasted or sullied, come if the earth around them were spoiled with garbage. And the end would come ultimately if they didn’t reach out to others, didn’t find a way to share, to exchange, to leverage and celebrate the differences of people.
And the devil’s advocate in me wondered why, exactly, I should give a goddamn. I considered the comfortable room around me, thought of the goats outside and the chickens, of Charlie’s marvelous garden. We could do the same, Aulani and I – cut some trees for timber, build a cottage. Plant a garden, split off a goat or two from Charlie’s herd, and the same for a couple of hens and a rooster. We had the perfect safe harbor for Windswept – we could explore the area, maybe scavenge coastal cities, find grocery stores, pharmacies, clothing stores. Find more seeds, maybe find pigs or even a horse. We could rob the dead cities for months at a minimum, maybe years for certain things, before rot and rust consumed it all. And if there were marauders out there that had survived, we had a perfectly defensible position, high on the rock. And the safest imaginable harbor in the caldera. If we needed more weapons, we could get them. We could be safe. We’d be happy and comfortable.
Ah, but that was all nonsense and I knew it. And of course, Aulani had seen it long before I did. Nurturing the Earth meant more than being defensive. The Earth itself was more than the land and the sea; it was a place of her creatures as well, and we, we poor humans, weren’t we also her creatures? Didn’t tending to her works mean tending to one another, mean being a good steward to each other? As lovely as it sounded, we could not stay here, however safe it would be and forsake those others that had found a means to survive. We could not ignore the responsibility we had to them. Aulani’s vision of the new world was a difficult one to live with, but it was undeniable.
And Charlie, I think, finally saw it, too. His face had grown calm, the pipe set pensively in his mouth as he watched us. I wondered what was in his mind. Did he wish he were younger, that he might go with us? Or did he see himself in another role; staying here as a rock we could always rely on, always return to for safe haven and succor? A place of family for as long as he lived.
“Ah wull tell ye this, lassie,” he said, pulling the pipe from his mouth. “Ah wid nae bet against ye.”
He stood up slowly, dropping the pipe into the ashtray.
“A’m needin’ some kip,” he said. “And ye’ll be wanting tae git up earlie, sae ah wil
l say guid nicht to the both of ye.”
We hugged him and together watched as he turned and headed to the little bedroom. I saw the hitching walk and the slightly stooped back, and he suddenly seemed so much older. I had a moment’s impulse to call him back, to say more, but sensing it, Aulani laid her hand on my arm.
“Give him some time,” she whispered.
We went up the stairs, perhaps for the last time, and lay in the darkness with our arms around each other. Neither of us spoke. Sadness welled up in me; for Charlie, for leaving him alone. Sadness for myself, for Rachel dying. Sadness for Aulani and the loss of her family and her island. Sadness for the world.
All she’d said, her vision of an island planet – it was wonderful and brilliant, but laying here in the dark, it felt like such an impossible journey. It seemed a hard thing to work toward; perhaps an impossible thing. But as sleepiness began to wrap me in its embrace, as I felt her head on my chest and smelled the fragrance of her hair, I knew it didn’t matter. Where she went, so I went too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
AS WE STOOD before the little window overlooking the north shore the next morning, Aulani took one long glance at the mare’s tails spreading across the eastern sky and turned to me with a look of concern.
“There’ll be a good blow by noon. From the northwest, I think.”
“Northwest?”
She nodded.
I knew it wasn’t the wind itself that bothered her – she was thinking about getting through that channel and away from the cliffs. Wind out of the northwest – we’d be clawing off a lee shore with very little sea room at all. The morning seemed fine to me, but I’d learned not to question her forecasts.
“OK,” I replied. “Breakfast, then let’s go.”
We’d risen early, both of us lingering in the little room that had become home to us. Standing together at the window, looking out at the sea, I thought about the cyclone that had brought us here, and before that, the red star whose glow had revealed the small speck of a canoe far off on the horizon. Fate? Fortuitous accident? Ocean spirits? Aulani interrupted my thoughts.
“Walk with me before breakfast?”
“That would be lovely,” I replied, and she smiled and rose on her toes to kiss me. I wrapped my arms around her.
“You’ve no clothes on,” I said. “I think you’ll be a bit cold.”
“You’ve none either,” she answered. “And I’ll not be cold as long as you’re holding me.” I slid my hands down her back, bent to nestle my face in the crook of her neck and inhaled her fragrance. And we weren’t quite as quick to leave as we’d planned.
A bit later, we found the downstairs still cold and dark, Charlie uncharacteristically sleeping late. As Aulani made coffee, I banked the stove with some pieces of kindling and in short order we were out on the cliff trail threading our way west along the shore. It was a path we’d not taken before, and we were surprised to come across the faint remains of an airstrip in the grass. The sight of it stopped me in my tracks, bringing back vivid memories of flying small planes over the forests and farmland of Michigan, gliding low above fields of corn and wheat, looking for grass strips to land on.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Just reminds me very much of the kind of flying I used to do.”
“Owen, you were a pilot?”
I smiled. “Just recreationally. An expensive hobby for a few years, that’s all.”
She eyed the narrow landing area.
“Could you land on that?”
“I think so, yes. Landing would be easy – it would the getting here from the mainland. It’s maybe six or seven hundred kilometers. That’s nearly twice the normal range of a small plane.”
She sighed. “I was just thinking,” she said, “wouldn’t it be wonderful to find a little plane and be able to come and visit so easily?” I raised an eyebrow at her.
“Are you having second thoughts about leaving?”
She took my hand in hers. “No, I just worry about Charlie. And wish there were a way to come and see him without it taking so very long to make the journey.” I nodded.
“I do, too. It will be hard on him, being alone again after all this.”
She glanced at me. “He could come with us.”
“You know he won’t. He’s been here for half a century. And he’s very frail in some ways – a sea voyage would be hard for him.”
She nodded, and we walked on, tracing the outline of the airstrip with our feet.
When we’d reached the western terminus of it, I stopped and looked out to sea. Aulani came up beside me and laid a hand on my shoulder.
“What are you thinking about?”
I turned to her. “Where are we going, Aulani? When we leave here?”
She sighed and looked away from me. I waited, knowing her well enough.
“How would you feel about staying with the idea of New Zealand?” she asked quietly.
I shrugged. “New Zealand, Australia, Indonesia – it doesn’t matter to me.” Then I had a thought and looked at her.
“The boy?”
She nodded, the anguish plain on her face.
“I know how foolish it is,” she said. “I believe he’s dead – I can almost feel it. But I… I’d like to know.”
I thought about it. “Well, it would give us a chance to see if the rumors about a sanctuary are true or not. So, two birds with one stone and all that, yes?”
She threw her arms around my neck.
“It’s no big deal,” I told her, laughing. “I really don’t care where we go.”
She pulled back to be able to see my face. “What about the things that Charlie heard? Do you think it’s safe for us to go to Auckland?”
I’d been asking myself exactly that question since the very first day with Charlie, when he’d been so adamant that it was nothing more than a trap. But I’d come to a different way of looking at it.
“Let me put it like this,” I began, “assume the worst – Charlie’s right and it’s all a ruse to get people there where they’re robbed and killed, or worse. If that’s true, then it’s unimaginable to me that they weren’t exposed to the virus.”
“And if that’s true,” she interjected, “then they’re all very likely dead by now.” I nodded.
“Exactly. And if there really was – or is – a sanctuary, then, well – we’ll find it and see what the situation is.”
I smiled at her and squeezed her hand.
“So, either way, it seems to me it’s pretty reasonable to assume that things are safe.”
I could see the relief wash over her face and bent and kissed her.
We turned, hand in hand, and began walking back to the cottage.
“Let’s not tell Charlie,” she said. “He’d just worry.”
“Yes. Let’s not.”
And I began to think of him as he watched us walking out the door, leaving him completely alone. It saddened me terribly. And then a thought came to me, so clear and perfect that it brought me up short. Aulani stopped, turning to look back at me.
“Owen? What is it?”
“Let’s leave him the cat. When we go, I mean.”
She searched my face. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I said. “He loves her, right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you OK with it?” I asked.
“I love her,” she replied, “but it’s such a sweet, kind thing to do. It will mean the world to him.”
Within hailing distance of the cottage, the fragrance of Charlie’s cooking came to us on the freshening breeze and we glanced at one another and raced for the door; a race I had no chance to win against the athletic, impossibly agile Aulani. By the time I made the door, she was already helping Charlie lay out the table and I assumed my role of fire tender and laid on more wood. It was warm and lovely; the fire snapped and Aulani’s laughter rang through the room as she and Charlie brought the fruits of his morning’s labor to the table. Again, a wave of sadness swept
over me as I stood there, so aware of the closeness of this little family we’d become.
As we ate, Charlie was a little subdued, perhaps, but calm – resigned, I suppose. Sitting in his chair with its commanding view of the sea, he sat pensively, his little buddy purring away on his lap. He half-heartedly tried to force further supplies on us, but now I had an easy way to refuse; we simply had no room left on board. Any more weight would put us in a dangerously overloaded state and he knew enough of boats to see the logic of this.
I was nervous, growing anxious about the weather and hurried through breakfast. Even so, I wondered when I’d next have fresh scones with homemade jam, and pretty much knew the answer; unless we found the ingredients and made them, it’d be never. And what about Charlie, would I ever see this kind old man again? I watched him petting the cat, pipe ablaze, and thought of him standing on the rocks watching until Windswept had slipped over the horizon. Perhaps, in time he’d come to think we’d been nothing but an old man’s dream; apparitions he’d conjured up against loneliness. What was there of us that would be left here? Nothing. No, I thought, not true; we would be leaving our little white ambassador. The thought lightened my spirits.
He rose to take the dishes away, gently depositing the needy kitten onto his chair. When he turned and saw us both standing at the table watching him, he stopped with stricken awareness on his face.
“Ye will be needin' tae gie underway.”
Not trusting my voice, I nodded.
Without a word then, he turned and with the cat tucked under an arm, led us from the cottage; we followed the familiar path toward the caldera and Blue Lake. At the top of the steep rocks leading down to the water he turned and did his utmost to smile, holding out the cat to me.
“Here's th' wee moggie, son. See 'at she comes tae nae harm.”
His hand was trembling, and I cleared my throat and stood there. I did not reach out for her.
“We were hoping you’d be willing to take the wee moggie, Charlie.” I looked him quite squarely in the eyes.
