The Weight of a Thousand Oceans

by Jillian Webster

  The fire is roaring now. With her glass of whisky, she sits in her grandfather’s chair, watching Huck’s stomach rise and fall as he sleeps. She absently takes another sip as her thoughts race.

  This is fine. It is. Just give it time. Life will find a new normal. This is fine.

  I can’t live like this!

  What am I going to do?

  Her grandfather’s smiling face flashes from her memory. His chuckle, his knotted-up old hands. She pulls up her legs and curls into a ball.

  Where did you go, Grandpa?

  She walks over to his bed and ties back the privacy curtains. Slowly moving her hand along the blankets, she smooths out the wrinkles before falling on top, grabbing the pillow and breathing in the fading scent of her grandfather.

  Her hand presses against something hard between the pillow and its cover. She reaches in and pulls out a notebook. Her heart skips. A notebook. She flips through it, finding pages filled with notes he’d written to himself, quotes from his favorite books, and checklists. In the very back, there is a letter to her. Sloppy, the handwriting does not look like the rest. He must’ve written it toward the end of his life. She devours its contents immediately.

  * * *

  My darling Maia,

  What I wouldn’t give to have another lifetime with you, to not leave you alone up here like this. I’ve worked so hard to make sure you could have everything you could ever need, but looking back, I didn’t work hard enough. I should have traveled with you more, tried harder to find a community where you felt safe. I would give anything for more time. Anything. But that’s life, and life never asks for our permission. I am so sorry. Please know that even when my body is absent, I am still here.

  In the chaos of The End, people said it was Hell on Earth, the apocalypse, Armageddon. They said it was the end for us, that humans and this earth were finished. But we’re not, Maia. We’re not finished because you’re still here. It’s not over. You are proof that miracles do exist.

  There is no greater travesty in this world than for a soul to waste his or her life merely existing. This one life we have is not to be taken lightly. It is a gift and a privilege now denied to billions. So, you are going to choose life, Maia. Whether you stay on this island, go to the next, or sail across the world, you are going to find the life written in the stars for you. I know this. You’ll find a way.

  As a recipient of this life, it is not only your responsibility—it is your duty. You are a child of the universe. Your heart was created from galaxies of stardust billions of years old. In your genes, you carry the souls of generations passed—you carry the soul of the world. Never forget what I’ve told you, Maia. You are not alone. Every step you take, you take while holding the hand of God.

  Go. Now. Be diligent. Be sound in mind and steadfast. Formulate a plan and if that plan fails, try again. The path you must take will make itself known to you. The law of the universe has always been, if there is a will, there is a way.

  Just don’t give up.

  Finish the plans we have made.

  Find a way.

  You have universal backing. Make your mother proud. Above all else, make yourself proud. I will be with you every step of the way.

  * * *

  Maia scans his messy writing as he rambles and repeats himself, until she arrives at his final message.

  * * *

  Our species has been plunged back into the Stone Age. There are no guarantees—there’s only life and death.

  Choose life, Maia.

  Eighteen

  Huck sits panting in the middle of the living room, watching Maia as she circles the inside of the cabin, lost in thought. She absently walks past her grandfather’s empty bed in the corner, running her fingers along the tucked-in blankets. She passes the fireplace mantel, layered with family photos and memorabilia. As she circles past his chair, she does not take her eyes off the letter.

  That letter.

  She wanders past the front door, now closed and locked, then past her messy bed in the opposite corner. She finishes the loop as she passes the dusty and neglected kitchen. She circles the house all night, always under the watchful eyes of her mother’s painting sitting crooked on the dining room wall, its glassless frame now nailed back together. Each time she walks by the painting, she keeps her eyes to the ground, unable to face the eyes of a creature long gone, painted by a woman long gone.

  Her grandfather’s words repeat themselves in ripples.

  Choose life, Maia.

  Go.

  Now.

  Be diligent.

  She stands in front of the stacks of books and plans she and her grandfather had been working on, now lost and forgotten in a dark corner of the kitchen. Grabbing an armful, she spreads the maps across the table as a few moldy apples roll off and hit the ground with a green, dusty splat.

  She paces before the papers while biting her nails and scanning the layers of lists, diagrams, maps, and drawings. Grabbing the table, she leans over the lists, willing a solution to present itself.

  A flicker of light catches Maia’s eye.

  Her head snaps up to the painting. The tiger stares back at her. She grabs the jade carving resting on her chest and walks over to the canvas. The tiger’s one eye briefly reflects hers, flashing pale blue for a moment before returning back to the bright green and yellow paint. She jumps back, glancing around.

  Reaching out to the painting, Maia’s fingertips hover over the corrugated canvas. Electricity surges between the picture and her hand, then up through her veins. Bright blue sparks ripple from her skin in waves. As the current courses through her body, her vision becomes clear as crystal and her auburn hair curls into red ringlets.

  The sensation is familiar, but one she’s always resisted—pushed down, wrangled into submission. She never wanted her grandfather to see or to fully see for herself. She’s never understood what it was or why it would happen, loathing the phenomenon as much as she’s loved it.

  But now she no longer has to worry about being seen. Tilting back her head, she closes her eyes as an intense, overwhelming force bubbles up from the ground through her feet, slowly flooding her entire body. Gratifying. Satisfying. Despite the continuous stream of current burning her from within, she smiles.

  A vision appears. No longer in her cabin, Maia watches as the tiger, alive, pads across an immense open room like a great hall of a castle. Tall windows stretch high into the vaulted ceiling and a gentle breeze sweeps clusters of leaves across the intricately tiled floors.

  In the middle of the room, Maia’s mother sits upon a throne made of ornately twisted tree branches that break through the ceiling, towering into the sky. The tiger approaches the throne as her mother extends her hand to him. He curls up at her feet and rests his head upon his paws.

  Maia’s mother stands to face her. Her mother? No … it’s Maia. It’s the same version of herself that she’s seen in her dreams. The same crystalline eyes. The same wild red hair with ringlets sweeping across her shoulders. The same long white gown.

  Looking down, it’s the white gown Maia also wears. The deep red of her hair hangs in her vision. She fingers a curl before looking at the reflection of herself, now standing directly before her. Maia holds out her hand and the mirrored version reaches hers in response. Electricity sparks between them as they lock eyes and a peculiar grin spreads wide across both their faces.

  Maia falls back, slamming her head against the kitchen table on her way down. The palm of her hand burns. Deep red ringlets of hair fall across her face. She sits up with eyes wide, wrapping a curl around her finger.

  The painting appears untouched on the wall. Huck is still sleeping soundly next to the fire. Maia’s ringlets slowly unravel into waves and she falls onto her back. Exhaustion falls over her like a black cloud. She succumbs to the pull of sleep as the early morning light seeps in from behind the curtains.

  Whimpers penetrate the blackness. Maia opens her eyes to Huck nervously pacing in front of the door.
He whines as he watches her rub her eyes, then barks, jolting her awake. She peels herself off the ground and stumbles to the door, unlocking all three bolts and sweeping it open. Huck races to the blackened grass to relieve himself. Maia squints into the sky as the sun begins its descent. It must be close to six o’clock by now.

  Stealing glances at the canvas, she holds her mother’s carving around her neck. Was it a dream? Drawn back to the painting, she takes a deep breath and braces herself as she slowly raises her hand to the tiger. One finger brushes the rough paint. Nothing. She presses her whole hand against it. Nothing. She grabs her wavy hair and frantically pulls it forward. Auburn—no ringlets. It must’ve been a dream. She sweeps her hair back and looks around the empty cabin.

  Grandpa’s letter still sits on his chair.

  Just don’t give up. Finish the plans we have made. Find a way.

  Find a way. She must find a way. After building a fire, she glances over the lists on the table, most of which were things to figure out and work on … answers that still needed to be found versus solutions that could help her now. It was such a big task. They were still only researching.

  The biggest point of discussion was finding a boat—or building one. They were going to possibly barter with the Northern Tri—the Northern Tribe. Her heart sinks.

  The deal.

  They are still coming for her.

  She rushes to the front door and slams it closed, bolting all three locks. Huck cocks his head as he watches from the living room. She yanks the curtains together, closing out the day’s remaining light. The fires are still going in both the living room hearth and the kitchen stoves. Life is always happening. Lock or no lock, it will be blatantly obvious she is here. And now her grandfather’s new grave sits in the corner of the yard. She slides down the wall with her head in her hands.

  She doesn’t have much time. Who does she know who can help? The only people she really knows on this island are Collin and Sarah … and her father, but that’s certainly not going to happen.

  Collin—boat graveyard. When she spied on them on the trail, he had mentioned a boat graveyard outside one of the flooded towns. She knows the one, although she hasn’t seen it since she was a child. She flips through the stack of papers on the table and pulls out an old map of New Zealand, back when it had only two main islands. The perimeter will be off but she can still gather where the town is. She negotiates a route and packs a bag.

  She’ll pick a boat and sail it back here. She’ll bring her boating books. Worst case scenario, she can always abandon ship and come back home. There must be a way. There’s always a way. It’ll work … it has to.

  It is her only option.

  Nineteen

  Two days.

  It has taken Maia two days trekking through the dense bush to get here. It has not stopped raining. Her feet are soaked, clothes are soaked, pack is soaked. It’s okay. It’ll be worth it. She will find shelter on a boat. It will work. It has to work.

  She drops her pack at her feet and mud splatters up her leg. The ocean air snaps at her face and blows her hair from her slumped shoulders as she overlooks the boat graveyard, too exhausted to cry.

  Only a handful of ships remain—skeletons tipped on their sides in the shallow, muddy water. Rusted, flooded … destroyed, they lie defeated. Smeared in green slime and ravaged by vines, the boats have been slowly swallowed by the mud. Planks and panels drift through the sludge. The only color outside of rot is the hint of an orange life preserver peeking out from the mire like an SOS.

  Another drop of rain hits the top of Maia’s head and with that, it begins to pour. She stands in the deluge, watching from the cliff as the dense rain obscures the scraps from view. Huck walks up behind her, whimpering as he nudges her hand.

  “Come on, boy,” she mumbles as she picks up her muddy pack and flings it across her back. She takes one last look as the rain soaks into her hair and runs down the tip of her nose, then starts the long trek back home.

  Night falls quickly in the densely shrouded bush. Maia lays the small tarp she’s brought with her across a few low-hanging branches and finds warmth next to Huck, who hasn’t left her side.

  For two days, Maia travels back home in silence, her mind endlessly reeling with options that one by one she determines impossible. The path is littered with ideas, falling to the ground like leaves in her wake. Her despair grows with each failed possibility until she finally arrives at her doorstep—drenched and depleted.

  So, she sleeps. She sleeps both in search of an escape and to find her mother again, but her mother never comes. Weeks pass but her dreams remain dark, endless, lost. No closure, no answers to be found. Just Maia, falling into a black abyss.

  Chores are still done—at a minimum. She makes sure she still has water to drink and food to eat. She checks the traps a few times, but with dwindling bait to lure anything, they remain empty.

  She does keep the fire going, mainly to keep warm on the long, lonely nights. She sits curled in her grandfather’s chair, watching the flames while she smokes his pipe. A machete lies next to her on the ground—it comes with her everywhere she goes. That and her grandfather’s gun.

  After weeks of jumping at every bump in the night, Maia has resolved herself to her new future. The Northern Tribe is coming for her and she will not go down without a fight. She’ll die before she goes back up there. She pushes the memories from her mind. Her grandfather passed away never knowing what really happened and she’s proud of herself for letting him die in peace.

  Her food normally consists of something small—a bird or rodent or rabbit, whatever she can hunt. She cooks her meat over the open fire. It’s harder this way, more time-consuming, but the kitchen contains too many memories, so it remains dark. Her grandfather spent so much time making sure they kept to the traditions of his time, and now here she is, swiftly moving back into the Stone Age. Just like the rest of the world.

  The last of her grandfather’s whisky sits in a glass next to her. She holds it in her hands for a moment before tilting it back and swallowing the last swig whole. She throws it against the back of the hearth and the glass shatters into the fire.

  Pulling the letter out from beneath her cushion, Maia reads it for the hundredth time. There’s just no way. No way will she settle up north in that crummy little village with some crummy old man. And there’s no way she can get off this island alone. So, there’s no point in considering it anymore.

  She holds the letter out to the flames and leans closer to the fire. Her grandfather’s handwriting glows through the paper.

  Choose life, Maia.

  Her hand shaking, she cannot stop staring at his sentence. What was he thinking? He knew he was dying. He knew he wouldn’t be here to help her. Maybe he was delirious. He must’ve been.

  Choose life.

  The fire pops before her, its flames dancing behind the paper.

  Just burn it. Let it be over now.

  Huck lifts his head from the rug. He jumps up and growls as he creeps towards the cabin’s locked front door.

  Maia pulls back from the fire and twists in her chair, watching the black fur on his back slowly lift. “Huck? What is it?”

  His growling intensifies. He lowers his head and snarls.

  “Huck—”

  The wooden porch creaks.

  Someone is out there.

  Maia abandons the letter on the chair and crouches down. This is it—they have come for her. Huck continues to growl, then barks as three knocks bang from the other side of the door. Her heart pounding, Maia pulls out her grandfather’s handgun.

  More knocking, answered with more barking from Huck. Maia runs behind the kitchen table and crouches down as she flips back the gun’s safety mechanism.

  “Maia? You there?”

  She grips the table and stands up, recognizing his voice immediately.

  You.

  She rushes to the door and unlocks it with a fury, pointing her gun at his face. Her father jumps back, h
orrified. Huck continues to bark.

  “Whoa. Maia, it’s … it’s me. Remember?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Her father cowers behind his hands. “Please, lower your gun. And get that dog under control. I haven’t come all this way to die.”

  Maia continues to point the gun as she catches her breath.

  He peeks out from behind his hands. “Maia. Please.”

  Reluctantly, Maia clicks on the safety and lowers her gun. She bends down to reassure Huck, never once taking her eyes off her father. “Good boy. Shhh.”

  Huck grumbles, sniffing in her father’s direction.

  “Well?” She shakes her head.

  “Maia … you don’t look good.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I see there’s a new grave in the yard … I’m so sorry.”

  “What do you want!?” she screeches.

  He stares at her in shock.

  “Have you come to tell me more about how I’ve ruined your life?”

  Her father lowers his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t believe I said that. I … I never thought I’d … I was drunk. I’m sorry.”

  Maia’s jaw clenches as tears brim her eyes. “You were drunk? That’s your excuse?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “No.”

  Huck begins to growl again.

  “Huck.” She snaps her fingers.

  “Listen, I didn’t come here to hurt you. Not any more than I already have. No amount of apologies will rectify that, I know. I came here to let you know a boat has arrived. A huge boat. They come every five years or so from around the world to barter.”

  “And?”

  “And … one of the sailors is an old man named Davies. He’s a known people smuggler. He … he isn’t friendly—at all. But I’ve made a deal with him, and he’ll take you on.”

  “What?”

  “Listen, you need to really think about this. You would be smuggled on board. The crew members are rumored to be criminals but they won’t know about you. It’s a dangerous decision but it may be your only decision. If you want to get to The Old Arctic Circle, this is your best bet. And … Davies says it does exist, Maia, that something is up there.”