Only Begotten Son

November 11, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Portugal
1:52pm AZOT

Loche bursts through the surface. His lungs suck in the cold air, salt, fear. Limbs are numb.

Circling, Loche scans the surface. Edwin is not there.

Crowding into Loche’s mind is an overwhelming déjà vu. Several meters away, a hand shoots up. His son’s hand. It reaches for some hold in the air that does not exist. Then, his face appears, his mouth agape, struggling for breath. Loche swings his arms through the water, lugging his body toward the boy. When he grabs hold of the hand, it goes limp. Edwin floats up on his back, face skyward, eyes closed—he is not breathing.

Two heavy splashes thump and mist beside him. As Loche pulls the little boy toward the shore, Helen’s face appears to his right. She lays hold of his shoulder. Julia grasps his other shoulder. The three kick and pull through the freezing water.

Having reached a rocky inlet, Helen stands and yanks the boy up, cradles him in her arms, and rushes toward a flat sand bar. She lays him down and kneels. Julia and Loche follow.

“Edwin!” Helen shouts. The boy does not respond. She leans her ear to his mouth and nose, tips his head back, pinches his nostrils shut and breathes into his mouth. After two breaths, Helen reels and pulls her face and hands away. Her eyes dart toward Julia. Loche watches the two women connect through a fearful stare—an unspoken knowing.

“What is it?” Loche shrieks. “What?”

Helen shakes her head and attempts to lean toward her son and begin CPR. She is visibly shaking and fighting pain.

“It’s Edwin! It’s the Rathinalya,” Julia whispers. She wraps her arms around herself and cowers into a ball. “It is Edwin. I can’t—I can’t. Oh Christ, I can’t—”

Loche shoves Helen aside and begins CPR on his son. He breathes five times into the boy’s mouth, rises and begins chest compressions. Edwin’s face is blue and frozen in sleep. Strangely translucent. Loche watches for any sign of life. He thinks of the faceless boy god.

He drops down and forces air into Edwin’s chest again. After the second breath, Edwin coughs. Water gurgles up. Loche rolls him to the side, letting the liquid flow out. A moment later he lifts the child into his arms and holds him close.

Helen’s hands are holding her head, her eyes streaming with tears. “My sweet boy,” she cries. “What is happening?”

Julia still has her arms wrapped around her midsection.

“Loche,” Helen cries, “did you see the Eye?”

He nods, ruefully.

Helen looks to Julia. She, too, nods.

“Dad,” Edwin mumbles, “I’m cold.” Loche leans the boy back so he can get a look at his face. “I’m cold.” The small boy lays the flat of his palm along his father’s cheek. Edwin’s eyes appear to swirl and glisten.

Loche flinches. The image of the boy god from Basil’s Center haunts his sight. For a flash of an instant, Loche does not recognize his son.

The boy smiles, untroubled. Calm.