Her Name Was Lola

66 Ark of Mystery

January 2001. Max still thinks about the honey buzzard, still sees the deadly waters far below. He visits Charlotte Prickles. ‘I’m trying to see the river in my mind,’ he says. ‘It’s still the summer river when I was a boy.’

‘The river,’ says Charlie. ‘Sunpoints on the summer water. Dragonflies. The sound of cicadas. You have the bow paddle. Who has the stern?’

‘My father?’ says Max.

‘Your father,’ says Charlie. ‘Drops of sunlit water dripping from the paddles as you lift them after the downstroke. Your father steering you through the rapids, past the rocks, into quiet water. On and on.’

‘To the sea?’ says Max.

‘Forty days and forty nights,’ says Charlie.

‘The flood,’ says Max. ‘Why do I keep seeing the Ark and the raven that flies out from Noah’s hands, from my son’s hands, from my hands? What does it mean?’

‘An understood mystery is no mystery,’ says Charlie. ‘This is yours. Live with it.’