The Crocodile God

Part 8.

Rahil offers to let them stay longer, but they get ready to head across the Bay instead; Haik is undocumented, Mirasol is uncooperative, and they don't want to find out what happens with a Muslim in the mix.

"One of my friends lives in SF," Rahil tells them at breakfast. "Hadassah Oreb."

"The one who looks like Wonder Woman?" Mirasol knows her name and they're probably Facebook friends, but she can't remember her face aside from black curls framing a deep-red mouth--most people's faces get blurry if they're more than a head taller than herself. She remembers an accent, though.

"Yeah." A fleeting chuckle. "She'll let you stay at her place if you want."

So Rahil must have asked her last night. Mirasol's eyes water. "Thank you."

"You didn't have to do that." Haik hugs her.

"Yes I did. I'm Muslim." She smiles, but it's bitter. "Are you going to take BART?"

"The ferry," Mirasol says. "Should I get Hadassah's number?"

"Nah, you two are eye-catching even without the tattoos. Filipino giant, plus Filipino hobbit." She pokes at Haik's suspiciously plain hoodie, and he tries to smile. "I'll text her now while we finish breakfast. Let me know when you're on the boat."

As they head out, Mirasol stops at the door and puts an arm around Rahil's neck for the ungngo.

Rahil thinks it's a hug--her hands rise on both sides--but the voice from the sky whispers a long and comforting shhhhhhh, so she stops and closes her eyes.

They hold it as long as they can, breathing in-to-out and out-to-in.

"Bye," she finally whispers.

"Bye." And Mirasol lets go.

---

Haik and Mirasol go to the beach, where it's as empty as when she found him. He takes her hand, firm but gentle, then steps into the water with her.

The waves surge up to their ankles. Haik puts his free hand to his mouth and gives a long, echoing whistle that makes the sand pulse hard.

For a moment Mirasol can't see anything, but then the paraw's crab-claw sails blink like stars upon the horizon. She touches down on the sand and Haik gives her a thump, like a dutiful horse.

"Wait." Mirasol reels back: The paraw is so dark, the crocodile-head so green, and she hasn't even given the sails a good look yet. "We're gonna get everyone's attention if we show up in a damn paraw, with--with outriggers and painted sails--"

"She knows what modern boats look like," he assures her. "We'll go to the docks and follow the ferry--text Rahil when we're behind it."

And it's not just the hint of magic that reassures her, but how he talks about the paraw. So Mirasol steps up to the boat: "Can she talk?"

"Not in words," Haik says.

The paraw digs a few inches into the sand, with one of her painted eyes brushing Mirasol's forehead. There is a wash of content and safety, with something that feels like home, though Mirasol's already worried about what's happening to hers.

She climbs in, and Haik pushes the boat until he's knee-deep in the water.

"Do we need some time to get the disguise up?" Mirasol wonders. It's not that far to the docks, and she can already see some other boats' shadows in the distance.

"She knows what modern boats look like," Haik repeats, and he shunts the sail around before he takes the paddle up. "We wouldn't last long if we didn't adapt--otherwise I wouldn't be speaking English. I'm not a dinosaur, you know."