World After

61

A HUGE crash rocks the water.

A tangle of wings and limbs rockets across the surface, ripping a channel through the sea.

It’s Raffe and two angels entangled in a grappling match. They twist and fight as they plow through the waves.

They soon separate and end up spending their energies splashing and bobbing in a drowning way. Both enemy angels have their swords out which makes swimming even harder. They hang onto them, fighting the water with their drooping, useless wings.

Raffe fares no better. His leathery wings shed liquid better than the angels’ feathered ones but they’re big and clumsy and he obviously has no idea how to swim with them. Maybe there’s no ocean in heaven.

I swim toward him.

One of the angels drops his sword, crying out in pain and frustration. He probably held it as long as possible but it’s hard to stay afloat while putting a sword into its scabbard and even harder to swim with a sword in your hand.

The other angel bobs on the surface, trying to stay afloat with one hand clamping his sword. The third time the angel dips under water, the blade tip swings down as though too heavy for him. The angel’s head comes back up and he gasps “No, no, no” with real anguish.

The blade’s tip falls into the water and disappears. The angel’s sword has made the decision for him.

Aside from their comrades in arms, it wouldn’t surprise me if the sword is the only thing most warriors bond to. It brings back memories of Raffe’s stunned shock and hurt when his sword rejected him.

I swim faster. Or I try. The cold has made me so numb and shivery, it’s hard to feel like I’m in control of my body.

They’re all staying afloat but just barely. I wonder how long they can keep it up.

Just outside Raffe’s wingspan, I call out. “Raffe, stop thrashing.” He turns to me. “Calm down and I’ll come get you.”

I’ve heard that most drowning victims can’t calm down. They have to impose their will against every survival instinct to stop flailing and let themselves feel like they’re drowning. It takes an infinite amount of trust to count on someone else to save you.

Raffe must have enormous willpower because he immediately stops splashing. He moves his arms and legs gently but it’s not enough to keep him afloat.

He starts sinking.

I swim with every bit of turbo I’ve got.

His head is below water before I can reach him. I tug up on him but his giant wings are a huge drag and I’m pulled down instead.

We both sink below water.

Even as we submerge, he still doesn’t thrash. I’m awed by how much iron will it would take to override his instinctive needs. And how much trust.

Underwater, I can’t tell him to close his wings all the way to reduce the drag. I frantically reach for his wing and shove at it.

He understands and closes his massive wings tightly along his body. They look as light and thin as air. I’m sure that if he knew how to use them in the water, he could glide like a stingray.

Kicking and pulling as hard as I can, I drag us to the surface. I’m not a super strong swimmer but like most California kids, I’ve had enough time in the ocean to feel comfortable in it. With Raffe’s hollow bones, or whatever it is that makes him light, he’s not a heavy burden.

Relief floods through me when his head pops up and he can breathe. I swim with one arm angled across his shoulder and chest, keeping our faces up.

“Scissor your legs, Raffe. Keep kicking them.” His legs are a powerful motor. Once we get going, we get into a steady rhythm and we make good progress away from the splashing angels.

The one I cut up is still bobbing feebly in the bloody water not too far from the others. I don’t know what would happen in a fight between a gang of angels and a school of great white sharks but I’m glad I won’t be close enough to see it.

Since the angels are squarely in the sharks’ territory, my bet is with the sharks. Who says angels can’t be killed?

They quickly disappear in the mist and I rely on Raffe’s uncanny instinct for direction to get us to shore.

I hear Southern California water is warm but no one ever says that about Northern California water. It’s not exactly Alaska, but it’s cold enough to give me hypothermia, or at least what feels like hypothermia. I’ve never seen a surfer go in the water here without a wetsuit. But Raffe’s body is warm even in the freezing water, and I suspect that his heat is keeping me alive.

When we get tired, we rest with his wings open. The buoyant wings keep us steady and afloat without any effort on our part.

When we near shore, the waves become whitewater and we tumble awkwardly. We time it so that we dive under the water when a big wave hits and pop back up when it’s calmer.

We manage to wash up onto the sand. We crawl just far enough to be above the pounding surf before collapsing in a heap of soaked hair and clothes.

I look over to make sure he’s all right.

He’s panting for air and staring right at me with a look so intense it makes me squirm.

I grasp for something to say. We haven’t really talked since he left for surgery from our hotel room at the old aerie. A lot has happened since then. Until a couple of hours ago, he thought I was dead.

I open my mouth to say something meaningful, memorable. “I…”

Nothing comes.

I reach out, thinking that maybe we could touch hands, wanting to connect. But seaweed is tangled between my fingers, and I reflexively shake it off. It lands on his face with a slimy plop before sliding off.

He sprawls on the sand, quietly laughing.

His laugh is weak and in need of air but it may still be the greatest sound I’ve ever heard. It’s full of warmth and genuine mirth, as only a living, breathing—um—person can have.

He reaches out and grabs my arm. He drags me to him along the sand. My dress bunches up, more sand than fabric, but I don’t care.

He pulls me into his arms and holds me tight.

He is the one pocket of warmth in a sea of ice. Being in his arms feels like the home I never had. He’s still panting his laugh that rumbles through his chest. My chest moves with his, making me smile.

But somewhere along the way, the mood changes. He keeps going, his chest convulsing in spasms that sound a lot like a weak laugh but isn’t. He holds me so tight that if an army of scorpions came and tried to drag me out of his arms, they wouldn’t be able to.

I stroke his hair and repeat the words of comfort he whispered to me the last time we were together. “Shhh,” I say. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

He’s as warm as the afternoon sun on a summer day.

We hold each other in our little pocket of warmth, hidden from the monsters of the night by the mist swirling around us and the bloody surf pounding at our feet.