Daniel Keohane - Margaret's Ark

On the table in front of him, the long, plastic compass remained stable, the needle’s position unchanged from yesterday, and the day before. He would do these final measurements today, log them, email them to Francois, pack and go home. The flight was booked –

The compass needle shifted. Damn , he thought. Don’t screw up on me now you piece of...

The needle stopped. Greg leaned over the table. He was fairly certain the letter N still faced geographical north. But the needle pointed almost due West. “That’s just wrong,” he sighed.

Someone in the crowd turned towards him. Greg swore under his breath. The last thing he needed was to become a spectacle for anyone so bored even this work seemed interesting.

He ignored the sudden, interested stares and took out another, palm-sized compass from the inside pocket of his parka. He needed to compare measurements, see how off the table reading was. The man who’d overheard him was speaking to Dora. The large waitress walked nervously to where Greg still hunkered over the table.

Both compasses, the one on the table and the one in his palm, pointed due west. “Something wrong with your compass, Hon?”

Yes, there’s something wrong. What he needed was... the needle on the large compass slowly righted itself. Greg’s heart had been beating so fast the back of his neck was cool with perspiration. Damn you, Francois. You’re making me as crazy as you .

The needle stopped. He did a quick calculation in his head, one done so often he rarely needed the calculator tucked in his other pocket. Roughly an eighteen percent declination. That was impossible !

“Your needle keeps moving,” Dora whispered. People began to crowd around the table.

“Please,” he said, trying not to sound irritated, “let me alone for a minute. I need to fix this.”

“Look!” Someone pointed. “It’s moving again!”

Mutters in English and French. Someone began praying in Inuit, at least Greg assumed it was a prayer since the old woman had fallen to her knees.

“It’s not moving,” he shouted. “Back away, please!” But it was moving. Westward. When it again hit due West, the needle stopped. Not possible. Not possible. The needle spun around in a full circle, two complete revolutions before coming to a stop East-North-East. Behind him someone screamed, loud voices adding to the sudden explosion of sound.

Dora grabbed his arm. “Greg, what is it doing?”

He opened his clenched palm. The glass face of the smaller compass was wet with perspiration, but he could see where it pointed. Same as the table. Then it moved again, pointing to perfect, true North. So did the table version.

“Greg?” Dora’s voice was high.

“It’s not happening. Dora, this is nothing. It’s normal. It’s normal. It’s normal....” He kept repeating these two words aloud, fueling, rather than subduing, the panic around him. He stared at each compass, watched the needles drop, slowly, inexorably, to the West again, then beyond.

The ice in Resolute Bay began to crack with sudden, desperate reports. No one heard them over their own shouts and footsteps, running home, running away from whatever was about to happen. Greg only stared at the table, at his palm. The needle continued to move, stop, spin, then move again. He looked up, focused his gaze on the iceberg waiting patiently across the frozen bay.

* * *

The firehouse's living area was deserted save for the lone figure standing in front of the picture window. Most everyone else had gone downstairs to the garage bays, opening the doors for a better view of the events on the square. Technically, the crew was on standby, in case things got out of hand across the street. More so was their insatiable curiosity, or fear about what might happen in fifteen minutes.

As the morning progressed, some would come upstairs to stand beside Marty Santos, stare with him out the window to watch Margaret's crew ascend the ramp one by one then disappear below deck. The chief's silence was contagious, for no visitor tried to start a conversation. They would stand for a while, seeing what he saw, then wander downstairs to join the others in the garage.

Now, Marty was alone. Watching and waiting. He'd slept solidly in his bunk last night, had over the last few nights, in fact, and dreamed of Vince Carboneau. This time, it was a good dream. He and Vince sat on a bench in the Carboneau's backyard, their backs leaning against the picnic table. It was night in the dream. The stars shone so brightly their pinprick illuminations reflected in the cool drops of water coating their beer bottles. They drank casually but never spoke, simply looked up at the darkened house knowing Margaret was inside, asleep in bed. Vince didn't seem in a rush to go inside. He'd always been like that when Marty would stop over for a drink. Content to share such a rare and drawn-out moment with his best friend, outside under the stars, knowing that the woman he loved would welcome him beside her when he finally went in.

It was a nice dream, and Marty was grateful for it. Whether it was only that, a creation of his overly exhausted mind, or if the moment said more to what his fate might be in a few minutes, he'd soon know. He liked to think that the dream was Vince's quiet way of saying thanks for helping Margaret during the final days of the world. If it meant anything beyond that, Marty didn't care.

Outside Margaret and the teenager, Carl, had rounded up the last of the stragglers. Now the boy was up on deck. Margaret remained at the bottom of the ramp, looking around for anything left behind.

She looked up, saw the chief standing in the window. Marty watched her hesitate for a moment, then raise her hand. She waved slowly.

Marty swallowed, and raised his own hand. Before the moment could become awkward, he turned and walked away from the window. He found a comfortable chair across the room and sat down to wait.

* * *

“All set, Mrs. Carboneau. Everyone's nice and snug. The girls, too.” Carl looked at his watch. “Time to come up, I'd say.”

Margaret could hear the fear in the boy's voice. Their world had been spun on its head and here was Carl, tanned in a tee-shirt and shorts, a boy who should be hanging out at the beach with other kids. Instead he stood atop a fabled ark, telling his former teacher it was time to come aboard.

The temperature was pleasant, high-eighties. The grease smeared along the side of the ark shimmered in the sun, giving the ship a mirage-like appearance. Standing in the midst of the haze, Carl said more quietly, “Mrs. C, you have to come up now.”

Margaret nodded, and looked around the Common. People were camped out across the grass. On one marble bench, a man with a salt and pepper beard sat before an easel. He faced the ark and quietly painted.

Her gaze lingered on one family, a woman and three boys. The woman was making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the bread laid out on plates across a large blanket. The mother finished making one, reached into a cooler and produced a can of Coke. She managed to snag one of the boys long enough to shove the meal into his hands and point to an unoccupied corner of the blanket. The boy hesitated to make a show for his older brothers, then sat down and began devouring his food.

It was a nice day for a picnic, Margaret supposed.

She stepped onto the ramp. In the corner of her eye she saw Carl straighten. At first she thought it was from relief that she was finally moving. Then someone grabbed her shirt from behind. She almost stumbled, took a step back.

“I'm sorry,” the young girl said. “I didn't mean to make you fall.”

Carl moved onto the upper portion of the ramp but Margaret held up a hand to stay him. She made a similar gesture to the security guard, past whom the woman had slipped. The girl was familiar, a few years older than Carl. She held a baby in the crook of her left arm. The baby smiled and grabbed at his mother's shirt.