Riverlilly

by William Young

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  Adrift in the turbulent sea, the Dangler’s head knocked against a piece of wood. He looked up, half-conscious, and saw the boat. He pulled himself aboard with his last drop of energy and collapsed in the bottom with his fishing pole clutched in his hands, a talisman to ward off any further reincarnations of unholy fire.

  He saw a woman’s face above him in the stormy sky. She seemed to be weeping, but she was difficult to see in the rain. The fisherman waved goodbye to her without a word—the heat of Syn had melted his mouth shut and turned his lips down in an exaggerated frown. Streaks of melted, now-cooled glass lined his face, a mask of frozen tears. He waved to the woman in the rain, and then he fell asleep. The flames of Syn had dried him out. He would not wake up for days, not until he was refilled with that which gave him life, one kiss of the rain at a time, drop by drop upon his forehead.