My grandfather used to skip pebbles across the surface of the pond in our garden. When we were younger, Joon and I would count the times the pebbles would hit the water before they disappeared.
Turning my hand just so, I fling the stone across the water. There’s a loud plopping sound as it sinks. I glance over my shoulder to see Shin come around the side of the pavilion. He looks unimpressed.
As I reach down to pick up another pebble, my fingers brush against something rough. This one is different from the rest, etched with a drawing of a lotus flower. The lines are too neat for the carving to have been a natural occurrence. Someone must have painstakingly taken a knife and chiseled the eight oval-shaped petals and the star-colored heart. It reminds me of the lotus Shin left beside the paper boat, still floating in its shallow bowl. I pocket the pebble.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shin take up position beneath a tree at the far side of the pavilion, keeping a watchful lookout. We agreed that no amount of searching would result in us finding the god, that our best course of action was to wait.
For the next half hour, I sink rocks up and down the shoreline, giving up when the clouds fill the sky. I plop down beside the pond. My grandfather always said the times he felt most at peace were while sitting by the pond in our garden, watching the ducks as they swam leisurely by. Except there are no ducks in this pond. Just paper boats. Like a school of unruly minnows, they crowd the northern shore.
One boat has escaped the cluster, drifting toward the center of the pond.
As it comes closer, I see that it’s not like the other boats. It’s lopsided with clumsy, uneven folds, half submerged in the water. A rough red thread runs down the center of the boat, as if it was ripped in half and then stitched back together again.
A chill sweeps through me. I know this boat.
I was the one who found the paper for it, pressing it against my lips as I whispered my prayer into the cool sheet. I was the one who folded it with trembling hands.
It’s my boat, the one with my wish. Not any of the childish wishes I made at the paper boat festival, but another one. One I never set upon the river.
I rush forward, wading into the pond.
“Mina!” Shin shouts from behind me.
I don’t listen, too intent on reaching the boat. I make a grab for it. My foot snags on an upturned tree root. Flailing, I go under.
I come out a half second later, spewing water, looking around, only to find an empty pond.
The boat is gone. Did I imagine it? My guilt dredging up the memory of a prayer?
Soaked, I slog my way back to shore. I’m prepared to get an earful from Shin, who in all likelihood is furious with me for doing something even I can admit was reckless. But when I look up, I almost fall back into the water.
Lying on the grass before me is the dragon, and beside the dragon is the Sea God.
The dragon curls its body protectively around the sleeping god, resting its enormous horned head beside the boy’s. Its large whiskers tangle with the Sea God’s soft hair, and when the dragon lets out a huff of breath, the boy’s hair rises, caught in the warm breeze.
The dragon’s eyes are open, watching me, sea dark and bright with intelligence. I take a tentative step out of the water, warily anticipating any sudden movements made by the dragon, but like a giant cat, it seems content to just lie there. I approach slowly, waiting for the moment when the dragon decides to devour me whole.
I must be hesitating too long, because the dragon begins to growl low in its throat. The pebbles tremble beneath my feet. The dragon’s eyes flit between me and the Sea God, impatient. Demanding. If anything, the dragon seems to be urging me toward the Sea God. I take the last few steps, and with one quick glance at the dragon, I lay my hand on the boy-god’s. As before, I’m drawn into a blinding light.
* * *
The first thing I notice is that I’m still in the garden, though now it’s shrouded in mist, as when I first woke in the Spirit Realm.
The second—
“Shin!” He’s lying, facedown and unmoving, at the edge of the pond. I scramble forward, falling to my knees beside him. I turn him over and trail my fingers over his lips. Relief washes over me when I feel the warmth of his breath. Though, had I taken a moment, I’d have seen the Red String of Fate, bright in the mist, and known he was unharmed. As long as the string remains intact, both of us are safe, our lives tethered to each other.
Easing his body off the ground, I cradle him in my lap.
“He’s all right, you know. He’s only sleeping.”
I look up. Before me stands the Sea God. The luxurious folds of his robes soak up the water in the muddied bank. He doesn’t seem to notice. Behind him the mist has thinned, and I can make out the shadow of the dragon within.