The Dead-Tossed Waves

by Carrie Ryan

  I can’t stop wondering how much time she has left. If she’ll ever recover.

  And then finally the silence between us is too much and I drop back, taking her hand from Catcher’s and holding it tight in my own.

  “Tell me again how it will be okay,” she says, her voice hoarse.

  There’s so much of her missing, so much of who she used to be—the spark and energy. “It’ll be okay,” I tell her, hoping she believes my words even if I’m unsure of them.

  She stops walking, causing me to stop as well, and smiles. She squeezes my hand and I realize how bony her fingers have become, how narrow her wrists. Tendrils of her hair are loose and limp around her face. Freckles scream against her pale skin.

  I glance down the path to where Elias and Catcher keep pushing forward. I tug on her to keep going but she holds me back. “I know the infection’s bad,” she says. She has to catch her breath as she talks and it hits me again how much effort this whole ordeal’s been for her. “I’m not even sure if I’ll make it to … wherever.”

  Her eyes are glassy. I swallow and shake my head. I feel the superhero pendant against my chest and I pull the necklace over my head. I step closer to her, reaching around her neck as I fasten the clasp. “You’re wrong,” I tell her. “Cira, don’t—” But she cuts me off by pressing her lips to my cheek, soft and dry.

  “I’m dying, Gabry,” she says, pulling away. Tears flood her eyes. “I’ll never fall in love. I’ll never have a family—get to be the kind of mother I always wanted. I’ll never know what it feels like to be everything to someone.” She smiles softly. “I’ll never even kiss a boy. Tell me what it’s like?” Her voice is nothing, quieter than a whisper.

  I shake my head. I refuse to admit that what she’s saying can be true. That she has any reason to worry about whether she’ll survive. I don’t even want to think about it but she puts her fingers on my wrist and says, “Please,” and I see the pleading in her eyes. How desperately she wants to know.

  I nod and think back to the night at the amusement park with Catcher. I think about the evening on the beach with Elias. I don’t know what to tell her, how to explain the feeling of wanting and yet being so scared it won’t happen. That moment when there’s no turning back and his lips land on yours. How different it can make you feel. So beautiful and needed and special.

  I start walking down the path and she walks next to me, her hand in mine. “It’s wonderful,” I finally say. “And also a little weird-feeling. I mean, not knowing what to do and how it works.” A laugh bubbles up and it feels so refreshing after spending so long thinking about death and infection and the Mudo. “You worry that you’re doing something wrong,” I tell her. And then I lean closer and whisper, “I couldn’t stop wondering what the last thing I’d eaten was.” I smile as she giggles.

  “I don’t want to hear the bad parts,” she says with a grin. “I only want you to tell me the good parts.”

  And so I do. As we wade through the late-day heat I tell her all of it, forgetting that we’re in the Forest, that we’re being chased and aren’t sure of where we’re going. Just feeling like friends sharing an everyday afternoon walk.

  We’re still giggling when I round a bend and see Catcher and Elias standing in front of a gate. Elias’s face is pale, his fingers drumming against his leg. I feel my smile falter; Cira’s hand goes limp in my own.

  “What is it?” I ask them.

  “Number eighteen,” Elias says. “X-V-I-I-I.”

  “Oh.” I just form the word with my lips. I don’t have to pull out the book to know the lines of this poem, the sonnet my mother carved into the lighthouse the day she left. This is the last gate. My heart thrums a little longer as if measuring the beat of the words in my head. As I walk toward the gate, Cira falling in step behind me, I whisper the final line of Shakespeare’s eighteenth sonnet: “‘So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.’”

  Beyond the gate the path continues, just like all the other paths. The fences on either side, the Forest beyond. The Mudo rising and stumbling toward us.

  I walk faster and faster, excitement building inside. My mother could be at the end of this path. And so could my history. So could all the answers. My heart hammers harder, my legs twitch and I break into a jog. Behind me I can hear the others as they follow but I don’t bother looking back.

  Until I come to another gate. Beyond it I can see the shadows of buildings, the fence opening up as it did for the last village. And suddenly I’m too terrified to take another step. Sweat slides down my cheeks, along my neck and between my shoulders. I’m afraid this village will be like the one before: empty and dead.

  Elias comes to a stop behind me. I can hear him trying to catch his breath. I swallow and turn to look at him. Even though we’ve both been running, his face is pale. He’s not looking at me but at the gate. His fingers tremble slightly as he rubs them over his head.

  I have this crazy giddy moment when I just want to laugh at us standing here after everything we’ve been through. Neither one of us willing to take that next step. What would happen if we just stayed here forever, never moving?

  And then, as if the Forest is exhaling, pushing me forward, I unsheathe my knife, put my hand on the gate and pull it open.

  I walk into the village slowly, my head cocked to the side to hear voices or moans—anything to let me know there’s someone or something here. I wait for some memory to trigger, for familiarity to wash over me, but it doesn’t. In front of me to the left sits the hulking burned shell of a building, charred stone walls toppled, decaying beams jutting out at awkward angles. Well beyond that I can see the outlines of small houses huddled together in the shade of a few tall trees with what looks like platforms strewn through them.

  Behind me the Mudo moan against the fences and the wind rustles the leaves in the trees. Crickets chirp and hum in the heat. I walk slowly past an old graveyard, my feet following a well-worn path that’s more of a rut in the ground.

  Nothing stirs. No one shouts or comes running. The village seems empty and my chest begins to ache with fear that we’ve hit another dead end. I walk a little farther, wondering if I should call out. I pause by what’s left of the charred building. It clearly used to be huge, an old cracked bell lying in the midst of blackened stones and scorched timbers.

  My foot slips on a board and a few rocks fall and shuffle, the noise barely anything but enough that I hold my breath. Something stirs off to my left. I turn and crouch, gripping my knife tightly.

  A large black dog lying in the sun lifts its head from the grass by one of the gravestones and examines us. I wait for him to bark or growl but he doesn’t. Instead he lumbers to his feet, his muzzle sprinkled white with age. He approaches slowly, his tail thumping in a lazy circle, and I hold a hand out to him. He sniffs and pushes his nose against my fingers.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. He clearly knows people, is obviously cared for. That means there must be someone else alive in this village and my heart begins to thunder in my body. The dog yawns as I scritch his ears, his tail beating against my legs.

  Just then Catcher and Cira make it to the gate and start walking toward me. Before Catcher can get too close I hear the vibrations of a growl deep inside the dog.

  “It’s okay, boy,” Catcher says, kneeling and holding out a hand.

  The dog nudges me away from Catcher, standing between us, the hair on his neck rising as he sniffs the air. I don’t understand his change, his instant dislike of Catcher. Suddenly he begins to bark, deep long brays that shatter the stillness of the afternoon. I cringe at the sound and instinctively look around for some place to hide, some place to get away from the dog.

  I lose my footing and something shifts in the ruins of the old building, a pebble falling through the debris. I hear voices and my breath catches, my throat suddenly dry. Beside me Elias tenses, pulling out his knife. I see someone moving through the shadows, skirts swishing around her legs as she picks her way through the c
rumbled mess. She’s caught off balance, something large and bulky wrapped in her arms, and she stumbles.

  Sunlight breaks through a hole in what used to be the roof and I see her face. I see her white and black hair. The wrinkles around her eyes that remind me of her smile. “Mother,” I say, the word gathering from every corner of myself and bursting into hot joy. I feel tears prick my eyes; just seeing her infuses me with the feeling that everything is now going to be okay.

  She looks up and her breath catches as she sees me standing at the entrance, the grass waving and bowing around my calves. “Gabrielle.” I don’t hear her but see the way her lips move, the look of love on her face. I can’t help but smile.

  She drops the book she’s holding and it breaks against a pile of rocks, thin delicate paper exploding into the air, drifting around her like feathers.

  And then she’s running through the debris and I’m running to her and finally her arms are around me. She still smells like salt and the ocean and the lighthouse. I bury my face against her shoulder as she pulls me tighter. I can hear her heart. It’s the feeling of home. Of safety and comfort and love and memories.

  She pushes me back, her palms on my cheeks. She stares into my face, searching to see if I’m okay. Her eyes are bright and I feel tears already coursing down my cheeks.

  “My baby,” she whispers before holding me tight again. It feels so right to be in her arms, as though I’m a kid whose mommy can fix anything.

  “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—” she starts to say.

  “I know,” I cut her off. “I’m sorry too. I love you. I’ve missed you.” I’ve been waiting so long to say those words, to put right the things I told her the night before she left.

  I hear her draw a shuddering breath. I can feel the smile breaking across her face and I want to laugh, giddy with relief to be with her again.

  Something flutters against my leg and I pull back to look at it. It’s a page from the book she’d been carrying, onionskin-thin and yellow. There are faded words typed down the center and then pinched black scrawl in the margins. I squint, trying to decipher what it says, but none of it makes sense to me:

  The Sisterhood has gathered. We have been discussing isolation. Cutting the village off from everything. Hoping that in doing so we may be safe from the continued assaults by those searching for a place to survive the Return. What we will ultimately decide will be in God’s hands as our survival has ever been in His hands.

  Similar pages float everywhere, catching in the grass, sticking to the debris, floating toward the fence. Elias steps forward, thick bunches of paper clutched in his fist where he’d plucked them from where they snagged on the gravestones.

  Just then someone else walks out of the ruins of the old building, his head bent over a few dusty bottles. “Mary, I think these might still be okay. The Sisterhood never said anything about—” He looks up as he eases out of the dark of the crumbled walls and into the light. He stops, one hand held over his eyes to block the sun, when he sees me standing there.

  His mouth opens and his gaze jumps to my mother’s face, confused as to what’s going on.

  My mother grasps my hand, her smile wide as if she’s the happiest woman in the world at this moment. I stare at her, realizing how few times I’ve seen her so unabashedly happy. Clearly this is someone my mother knows well.

  “Harry,” my mother says, squeezing my hand tightly. “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Gabry.”

  He starts to smile, tilting his head to the side a bit, as if he’s hearing the trail of a song in the air and trying to place it. He makes his way through the debris toward me and I try to remember if my mother’s ever mentioned his name before. If I should know him. I feel awkward standing here, dirty from so many days on the path, thirsty and hungry.

  Just then I hear a sharp intake of breath and I turn slightly. Elias stands just behind me. His face is ashen, his mouth open. The papers he’s been holding flutter from his fingers.

  “Elias, is something wrong?” I ask him.

  “Elias?” Harry speaks the name softly, delicately, as if afraid that saying it too loud would break it. He squints and turns back to me. There’s a question on his lips. A hint of recognition in his eyes.

  “Annah?” he asks, his voice nothing more than a whisper. I know that name. It’s Elias’s sister’s name. The one he’s been looking for; the one he joined the Recruiters for. I start to shake my head.

  But Harry is not done. “Abigail?”

  Everything inside me stops. My heart no longer beats. My lungs no longer breathe. My ears can hear only one thing: the echo of that name on Harry’s lips.

  I know that name. I know the sound it makes coming from this man. After all these years it comes back to me like a lullaby in a dream.

  And then chaos breaks. The dog barks again as Catcher tries to come near. Harry yells a command to him but he just keeps growling, his fur bristled. Cira collapses, retching into the grass. I pull my fingers from my mother’s grasp. She tries to reach for me but I step back.

  Behind me Elias bolts, sprinting toward the village. My mother reaches for me again but I brush her away. “Help her!” I shout at her, pointing to Cira. “She’s hurt and needs your help.”

  “Gabry …,” she starts to say, but I’m already running after Elias, questions burning holes through my memories.

  I try to call after Elias but I’m running so hard I can barely catch my breath. He sprints toward the cluster of houses, cutting between them as if he somehow knows where he’s going, which I don’t understand. He takes a hard left and I stumble chasing after him. The sun’s high in the sky, beating down hard and every footfall stirs up puffs of dust.

  I wait for people to call out to us, to see faces in the windows and doors of the cottages I pass, but there’s no one. Weeds spill from doorways and grasses grow from roofs caved in long ago. It’s as if the earth is slowly claiming what was once hers.

  Ahead of me down a narrow street Elias dashes into one of the buildings and I slow to a jog until I’m standing in the doorway. Inside sunlight filters through broken window shutters, illuminating the dust motes and causing them to glitter. I suck in a breath. It takes a moment for my vision to adjust to the dim interior and when I do I see Elias standing in the middle of a small sparsely furnished room. His back is to me, his arms limp by his sides. He barely moves, only his shoulders rising and falling.

  I want to say something but it feels as though this space is somehow sacred. He turns, his eyes skimming over everything in the room: the table under the window, benches arranged around the fireplace, the narrow bed shoved against the far wall.

  When he finally turns to me his eyes are wide, his lips parted as if he still feels the same shock I do.

  “That man,” I say, my voice quiet in the dim light. “How did he seem to know you?”

  Elias just stands there and I ease into the shadows, the cool of the darkness soft against my skin. His eyes follow my movement but he doesn’t reach out to me, doesn’t move at all.

  “Why did he think he knew my name?” Hearing the words out loud causes my skin to prickle and I realize that I’m more afraid to hear the answer than I thought I would be. But I have to know. “Why did he call me by your sister’s name?”

  He takes a step forward and I flinch a little. I don’t mean to but I don’t understand what’s going on and I don’t know if I should trust him. If I can even trust myself. He walks to the other side of the room and traces his finger across the table under the window. His touch marks a deep groove in the dust.

  I think about the night I first met Elias on the beach. I think about how stunned he looked when he first saw me, how he reached out to touch me as if he knew me. My breath catches as a sudden and absurd thought occurs to me: Did he know me?

  Everything in the room is so still. It’s as if I’ve walked out of time. Behind me outside I hear nothing, not even the moans of the Mudo.

  “Elias,” I ask, my voice shaking n
ow. “Do you know me?”

  He trails his finger off the table and along the top of a chair and then he stops, his knuckles white as he grips the back of it.

  And I break. Tired of his silence. Tired of not knowing if I can trust him. Tired of being so near to him every day and not knowing anything about him. “Tell me what’s going on!” I shout, lashing a fist out to my side and banging it against the wall. The sound startles both of us, his eyes snapping up to meet mine.

  My knuckles throb but I grit my teeth, refusing to let him know it hurts. I open my mouth to shout again but he cuts in before I have a chance.

  “Yes,” he says finally. His voice sounds as scared and dazed as I feel. “Yes, I knew who you were.”

  The room seems to swirl around me. I press my uninjured hand to my forehead and stumble toward the fireplace and fall onto one of the benches.

  “Tell me,” I say again before I lose the nerve.

  He keeps walking slowly around the room as if he needs something to occupy his body while he thinks. “The girl …” He clears his throat. “The woman I’m looking for … she’s not my sister,” he says. His voice sounds like water washing over broken rocks.

  He stops in front of me, staring at his fingers. “She’s yours,” he says, finally raising his eyes to meet mine.

  “I …” My mouth is suddenly dry. I feel a wrenching inside as though I’ve found the missing piece that holds everything together. Edges of memories blur and fade inside me. I feel as if the room’s grown too small, as if I’ve been buried too deep in the sand and the tide is cresting around my head. I find myself swallowing again and again and again as I try to make sense of it.

  I have a sister. So many emotions crash against each other at once that I don’t know what to hold on to. What does she look like? What does she sound like? What does she love and hate and care about? Who is she?

  One truth struggles to the surface of it all. “You’ve known,” I say. Of course he’s known. That’s why he’s still here. That’s why he was always there. At every turn when I was alone he was there. He’s known from the beginning while I’ve known nothing.