Last of the Ascension
A Sacred Fiction of Sand, Shells, and Surrender
Note: If you read last week’s Recovering the Beadsman, you may remember I said I’d be offering this story slowly, over several weeks. But in the time since, I’ve re-strung the mala—and this tale asked to be told in one breath. So here it is, all at once. Sit with it. Let it settle. And enjoy.
Author’s Note:
This story began as a meditation on two words—’reclusive hermit’—but it grew into something tidal, sacred, and strange. It was originally intended to be a serialized novellette, but it has since transformed. I offer it now in full, for any soul who’s ever wondered if it was too late to return, or too soon to let go.
Cautionary Note:
This story treads deeply. It is meant for a quiet hour. Ascension follows.
Sofran’s heart pounded as he stumbled out of the street, inches away from being trounced by a bus. He tripped over the curb behind him, thudding against the gritty sidewalk, and grumbled at the sand now grinding between his skin and faded beach shirt. All the while seagulls laughed overhead.
He pulled his feet out of the gutter only in time to see the last wheel of the 11:10 Southbound pulverize his tape deck. Poof! His favorite songs of the seventies were gone.
He stiffened against the hot cement and gazed up to the blurred heavens that had just spat him out. The taste of stardust now replaced by ocean tang. His heart raced at the near-miss calamity, but more so for his return here. Today.
Sofran sneaked behind the back of his powerful patron. Here to reclaim his powers.
Prone on the sidewalk, he lingered, squinting at the sun, remembering a time before Laguna Beach even existed. His breathing relaxed.
Then, like a bolt of angry lightning, he shoved his hand into his khaki shorts—the pocket that held his precious mala. A shiver passed through him at the familiar rattle of puka shells. Still intact. Still with him.
Each shell represented a soul he had wronged—some knowingly, others through careless neglect. Yes, today was the day.
He drew a slow breath. “Let’s not screw this up.”
“Too late,” came a snide voice just beyond the edge of light.
A flicker of shadow teased at the curb. It wobbled like heat rising off asphalt— shimmering and sly.
“You thought you lost them again?” the courier said smugly.
Sofran rolled his eyes and retorted. “I’m touched you care.”
“We live to serve,” a second, more theatrical voice added.
Two wraith-like silhouettes bowed mockingly. “Not that you need us, oh mighty one.” Their words hissed with a taunting edge.
The jab stung Sofran; he paused, a frown furrowing his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, but they had already vanished, leaving only a whisper of laughter.
He had no time for riddles. He dusted himself off, mala still clenched in his fist, and muttered, “Damn it all.”
As he started across the street, a sudden chill wind whipped his face—a salty slap. The light changed, the gulls fell silent, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, from nowhere and from everywhere, he heard her.
“Careful, little bug.”
He stiffened; Sofran didn’t need to see her to know the voice—a silk chord strung with thunder—gentle, terrible. Divine.
“Memesis,” he breathed, turning slowly in a deliberate circle. He scanned the air, searching for the shimmer of her wings, the trace of her presence, the heat of her nearness. Nothing was visible, yet he felt her. She was here.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple. Not today, Sofran thought as he angled himself every which way to catch a shimmer of her.
Memesis was a dominion angel for good reason—not her power, but her profound wisdom. She watched from above with selfish delight as her minion fumbled ignorance and arrogance together like mismatched socks, still believing he possessed ‘special powers.’
“Your tongue wags without you,” she finally said. “Do you ever listen to it before it betrays you?”
“I try,” Sofran muttered. “It talks a lot.”
Another salty slap stung him.
Sofran rubbed the throb in his cheekbones. He figured he deserved that one.
Memesis was hiddenly amused but openly concerned. “I warned you,” she said, somewhat softer. “You seek power you do not need, and mock reverence while pretending to crave it. Even shadows learn to shape what we already want.”
Another cryptic message, he thought, but he didn’t have time to play. “I’m sorry, but are we done here?”
He braced. No slap.
He waited. No reply.
He debated the possibilities. Was she gone? Does she know? She would have squashed me if she did.
Sofran wanted to be obedient. He did—just not right now.
He scanned up and down the Coast Highway. His toes wriggled, craving a salty dip in the Pacific waves, but the approaching noon hum of life flocking to the beach reminded him to move on.
Tourist-like, he waved a flag at the cars, crossing to his favorite side of Laguna. A mistake; it only slowed him, encouraging that less tangible feeling to grow—loss.
A time existed when Sofran had moved through realms with grace, and not at the whim of cheeky shadow couriers. But that was when the power in the mala hummed around his neck. Now, it clattered uselessly at his waist, a relic of something he couldn’t quite reach.
He placed the flag into its bin, making it available for the next ‘real’ pedestrian, and furtively glanced behind him. If Memesis followed, it was at her own peril.
Sofran may not have seen the wisdom in her most recent admonishment. He was blind-sighted by a rumor of remedy—the hope of reigniting the mala.
It was a bitterly potent call.
Though time was of the essence, Laguna Beach always had a way of slowing things down. The day’s self-assigned task loomed large, but the ocean called, like a tantalizing mistress.
He couldn’t help but pause at the edge of the sand and breathe. The mix of briny air and wafting scents of sage tossed about by the gentle spray as waves surged, receded, then swelled again. Sofran’s once-mortal life ebbed and flowed before him.
He had treated life so shallowly.
Sometimes—most times—he wished he could live it again. Differently.
Sofran dipped down and scooped a handful of memory. He let the sand slip through his fingers as he was swept back to 1974.
That evening he had sat on this same stretch of beach, the orange sun before him painting the waves a glittering gold. The soft sounds and warm sand had welcomed him in a way like never before. That night, peace had finally found him.
As the memory faded, the weight of the shells in his pocket remained.
Sofran was slow to move away from the warm sands of the beach, the laughter of the gulls and the hoots of surfers hanging ten.
He had long accepted his role as guardian of Laguna Beach—once called Tovangar, the sacred land of the Tongva and the Kumivit before them. But he hadn’t felt worthy. Angels should be born believers, not redeemed in death.
His destination was five miles south—a simple walk—though hitching a ride would be fun. Sofran smiled and hoisted his thumb into the air.
A hippie-powered Microbus sidled to the curb within minutes. Its free-spirited driver, buoyant behind the wheel, pushed open the front passenger door. There was no room anywhere else with half a dozen surfboards crammed in back.
Sofran hopped up and pulled the door shut, and off they puttered.
“Where to?” the driver asked, his fingers gently—respectfully, Sofran noted—tracing the shells hanging from the rearview mirror.
“I’m Beck,” he said.
“Charlie,” Sofran replied, withholding his true celestial name. He typically kept greater distance from mortals; his desire for their world was too potent, especially around Beck, he soon realized.
“To the Pelican,” replied Sofran, “if that’s cool.”
“Righteous, dude. Killer coffee for sure.”
All locals knew about the Rusty Pelican and ‘killer’ coffee.
Sofran smiled and gave a thumbs up. Beck reminded him of who he should have been. A kindred spirit, perhaps—had he even had a spirit back then.
As they tooled down the highway, both agreed that 70s rock was totally rad. Beck continued to bounce in his rickety seat, pulling Sofran along for the ride.
“You look like you’ve been on a board or two, man. You wanna hang?” Beck asked.
Sofran beamed. “Dude, that’d be awesome.” He had been on more than a board or two. “Maybe next time. I got to take care of some stuff.”
“I dig,” Beck said smoothly. “Next time.” He turned up the radio, letting the wind whip through the open window and ruffle his sandy hair—a free spirit accepting the consequences.
Sofran embraced the spirit, his right hand catching waves outside the window. Beck was a peaceful, easy feeling he could hang with all day … but suddenly, a chill reminded him he didn’t have ‘all day’.
An icy breath slithered into his marrow, while a surreal veil of darkness enveloped him.
“She indeed carries what you seek,” hissed the shadow, wrapping around him from one side to the other. “The astral etherium is what you seek. She has it.”
Sofran froze, unprepared to encounter the otherworldly informant in Beck’s presence, but Beck was utterly unaware of the spectral figure leaning so close it made the hairs on Sofran’s ears stand on end.
“Shall I tell you where to find her?” the dark shadow asked.
“Oh, I know exactly where to find her,” he replied. “Headed there now.”
A shiver ran through Sofran as he processed the message—confirmation of what he sought: the Rusty Pelican, Lagonas. Astral etherium.
Sofran had heard the name before.
Etherium: that which could stitch divinity back into the fractured soul.
They always said it that way. Too clean. Too grand.
A lie, probably. Something the Shadows whispered to those already desperate.
But what if it wasn’t?
Hurrying the icy shadow away with a giddy-up slap to the van’s side, he shook off the lingering chill and savored the ride with his new companion.
Beside Beck, Sofran felt an unprecedented peace, a truly angelic calm. He clung to this moment, knowing he would soon have to confront a very different reality—a dance with a demon.
The impending encounter gnawed at him. He knew Lagonas could be treacherous, but they had never truly clashed before, only engaging in playful tests of power. Sofran was unsure if he could truly match wits with Lagonas, but a fierce determination remained.
Beck was running out of road to the Pelican, but he had just enough time to finish his favorite tale. “... hanging inside the curl by the grace of Mother Ocean! Dude, I’d be an orca if I could,” he exclaimed.
Sofran, or ‘Charlie’ as he was now known, replied, “That would be totally awesome,” but his own reflection on Lagonas had left him dispirited. “Maybe next life, Beck,” he added.
“Yeah, next ride, dude.” Beck drummed his fingers as he drove further down the road to the Rusty Pelican.
The outdoor cafe, framed in wood affectionately splintered by years of coastal wind and sand, barely revealed remnants of faded teal paint. Its slightly better-weathered wooden sign displayed a hand-carved brown pelican gliding inches above ocean waves. The pelican was Laguna’s unofficial ambassador.
Beck slowed toward the famed cafe; it had been a good ride, a feeling Sofran shared as he pulled his strand of pukas, his mala, from his pocket. He wanted to connect with Beck, and with Beck's place in this world.
“Dude, those are totally … ancient,” Beck said, his eyes wide.
Yes, ancient—like the people who roamed here before them, Sofran thought, wondering if Beck, too, had heard the whispers of the ancient ones.
“Yeah, these pukas have seen more than either one of us,” he said, weighing their meaning, in light of his purpose. He envied Beck’s mortality, for once glimpsing reluctance toward his own eternity.
Sofran popped open the van door, looked back at Beck before hopping to the curb, and said, “It's been real.” He lingered at the door, ensuring he approached the Rusty Pelican with true purpose, though now he was less certain than before.
“Man … thanks for the lift,” Sofran said, his voice carrying the weight of millennia.
“For sure.”
A sense of reconciliation settled over him as he straightened from his lean against the van, watching Beck speed off towards ‘Mother Ocean.’
Beck waved two fingers in a ‘V’, shouting, “Peace!” before disappearing down the Coast Highway.
Sofran watched until the last possible moment, a wave of longing mirroring the incoming tide. Then, turning towards his destination, a fresh wave of trepidation washed over him, only to be fooled into calm by the comforting scent of coffee.
Approaching his rendezvous with the headless woman of Laguna, this time, held higher stakes. One might imagine that not even the comforting scent of ‘killer coffee’ could mask his trepidation—not for long.
Sofran stood before the small cafe and measured his intent. Then measured his worth—reminding himself he was a principality charged with guardianship of people and place, souls and whence they came. His place had always been here, in Laguna Beach, no matter the time, but even with the aromatic brew wooing him, something felt off. Something other than his mala power.
He took the mala from his pocket and ran his fingers over each shell, honoring each one. He solemnly vowed to release them.
Sofran had been led to believe that what he needed lay inside—beyond the splintered doors of the Pelican. He paused …
Why would she think he ‘mocked reverence?’
Gulls circled overhead, chased by an occasional tern. Something was always circling overhead. Sofran briefly cocked his head, measuring a wisp of unexpected cool, then carefully returned the puka shells to their safe place.
A warm breeze followed, tousling the few remaining hairs on his head. He smiled. Memesis’s possible presence no longer mattered; he knew what he had to do.
From her celestial perch, Memesis had watched him and Beck, observing his string of beads, hoping their shared moment would soften him. She sent a warm breath that touched his cheek. Yet, she worried; his grip on the mala and its power remained too tight.
Quietly bustling above, she anticipated Sofran’s approach to a larger truth. She would remain close and watchful.
Memesis understood Lagonas far better than Sofran, but she would not interfere.
Below, back in time, silence cradled salt and shadow, and the mourner waited.
The sea pulses overhead, a slow exhale pressing through the stone belly of Whale Rock. Within this cathedral of salt and shadow, I light no fire. I need no flame to feel warmth—or grief.
I need only to listen.
Listen to the hush of water over shell. Listen to the pull of tide around the bone of the earth. Listen to the gulls.
They cry from the canyon. Not just the bluffs above, but that canyon—where the wind turned against me. Where no one—not even the winged one who wept—came to help.
You will not see me flinch. I stand tall within the fabric that still bears the dye of a time no longer named. See me as I move my hands—spectral, yes, but steady—over the altar stones. These stones are not of worship, but of memory. These stones are the shells. The seeds. The souls.
When I close my eyes, the words always return. I do not have to read or rehearse. I live these words:
Before they called this place Laguna,
They called it home—my people.
And I, Lagonas, stood at the canyon's lip …
Not to conquer, but to beg the tide to turn.
The gulls—they scream.
Sofran will arrive soon. I feel it—not in my bones, which have long since fallen into the sea foam—but in the air. Something in him still believes he can reclaim what was lost through power.
He will learn. Or he will fall.
Let him come. Let the guardian meet the mourner.
I hear the tide changing. I remember Memesis—the one who wept. The angel who kept her vow and forsook my own.
We all choose our prisons. Some of us choose to keep them warm.
Look at this place. See the hollow beads of my own making. They are not strung puka shells—they are silence. One bead for each name never sung again.
I feel the shadow. It is a ripple of time. A memory of footsteps approaching.
I will not brace. I will not hope.
I will rise to meet it.
When Lagonas learned Sofran was back, she knew what he was after.
Laguna Beach was a favorite haunt for both her and Sofran, their paths crossed countless times across millennia. They both cherished the place, though not for entirely dissimilar reasons. Sofran found solace in this place, while Laguna mourned its lost souls.
As his sandals slid across the sand dusting the broken sidewalk in front of the Rusty Pelican, any lightness slipped away.
Sofran tugged at his shirt, centered his shoulders, and brushed the back of his hand under his stubbled chin. He sensed tension in his purpose as he reached for the paint-worn screen door.
An illusory chill and the soft chime of a bell greeted him. The bell he barely heard. The chill he could hardly ignore. Beads of sweat began to gather at his brow as the flimsy screen door squeaked behind him and bounced shut. The warm scent of percolating coffee beans did little to ground Sofran.
“Welcome,” said the girl behind the counter. Her name tag read ‘Marie’.
Sofran whistled a long exhale, then breathed in the calm.
“Marie,” he said, “I have traveled eons for your fabulous Killer Bean espresso. May I have one, please?” And he plopped wadded currency onto the counter of the otherwise empty cafe.
“Hold this for my tab,” he said. “I’m expecting an old friend to join me.”
“Of course.”
Sofran headed outside to the somewhat meager front patio, minding the faint chill clinging to the air as he went. He pulled the mala from his pocket, giving it a reassuring glance and settled at the table furthest from the door. As he sat, he braced himself for the meeting he both expected and dreaded.
The small, green wrought-iron table wobbled slightly under his weight. He scraped a matching chair across the cement sidewalk to face the ocean more directly, leaving the chair opposite empty for now.
The Shadows of the Dark had convinced him that “astral etherium” was the key to freeing both his soul, and those he had wronged. However, he knew Lagonas would never surrender it easily.
Sofran still had no real notion what the astral etherium was. Was it a shard? A crystal? How would he recognize it?
The hairs on his arms rose—a reminder from Memesis he was dabbling in danger.
Sofran forgot the changing air above him briefly and tried to shake away his growing doubt. But the pukas, his mala … what else did he have? He needed to move about freely, untethered.
He wrapped his hands around the warmth of the espresso cup. He needed his power back, but …
Not needing them, anyway. The words of the shadow couriers reverberated. But what did they mean?
Sofran bit at his lower lip, chewing at frustration that continued to fester. Then it hit him. All his running about, rushing to restore his mala. His imperfect impatience had blinded him to the truth Memesis had tried to show him all along. Power. Had he ever had it? Had he ever needed it?
Memesis lingered in her sigh of relief as the weight of her truth rested on Sofran. He exhaled slowly, feeling the chill of an ocean breeze creep into his spine. And then the world around him became perfectly still, and the air thickened. The calm before the storm—Lagonas.
The disquiet in her presence was unmistakable. Sofran whispered to the spirit he now knew was listening. “Welcome, old friend.”
Stillness. Cold. Quiet.
Sofran waited. “Come. Has it been so long?”
A silent conversation held between himself and his own half-empty cup, as Marie delivered another round. His fingers twitched as he slid the second porcelain cup rattling against its plate toward the seat held for his guest. “Come. Indeed, be my friend again.”
“Friend, I am, of course. But you, Sofy? Have you come to haunt me?” Lagonas purred as she shape-shifted into a long-haired calico cat and rubbed against the sinew of Sofran’s legs.
“What are you playing at, friend?” She purred as she jumped into his lap.
For a moment, Sofran lingered in her shameless pleasure and scratched the scruff of Lagonas’ neck. She did not wait for his answer.
“It’s not what you think, you know,” she said as she transformed again, this time into her usual human-form temptress—sheer cosmic sensuality—and now stroking Sofran’s shiny baldness.
“Impudent beast,” Sofran scolded as he rose and dumped the shady figure from his lap.
She tsk-tsked him as her full form slunk into the chair, still carrying mischief in her posture—but something older, sadder, hovered behind her eyes. Lagonas pulled her cup of espresso in close, her finger circling its delicate edge, studying it like a scrying bowl.
“They said you would come for the etherium,” she said at last. Not mocking, but soft.
Sofran stiffened. He clutched the beads that lay before him—with both hands. “So you know where it is?”
A breeze waved at the screen door—the sound of measured entry.
“I know where they said it would be.”
“And?” His question tighter than intended.
Lagonas rolled her eyes to the heavens above—to whoever was watching, to the weeping angel. Then she reached across the table—not for Sofran, but the shell nearest his palm.
“You still don’t understand,” she whispered, tracing the rim of the bead with her thumb.
Sofran averted his eyes from where he wanted to reach for clarity and listened between echoing heartbeats.
“There is no etherium.”
His heartbeats slowed and their echo grew louder. Mocking reverence …
“Not as you have imagined it,” she continued. “No vial of light. No cosmic balm.” Lagonas paused to dampen a rising tide of vengeance. “This so-called ‘astral etherium’ was never a thing to be given … or restored.”
She looked up at him with the eyes of a mourner who had already endured too many burials.
Sofran could not look away. He looked deep into her as he tried to slow his breathing, as recognition surfaced. The pukas became suddenly heavier.
“They told you something you already feared—that something was missing. And you believed them … because the ache inside you wanted it to be true.”
Sofran blinked hard. “But the light—I saw it once. In the Dominion Ruins. It shimmered like truth.”
Lagonas nodded slowly, sadly. “The light you saw was your own longing—magnified by the Shadows, not gifted by grace.”
“But I need it,” he whispered. “How can I atone without it?”
“You already are,” she said. “The shells don’t bind you. You bind yourself to them.”
The wind rustled the prayer flags strung above the patio’s edge. His hands trembled as he reached for the mala.
Not the demon. A drip, then another, as if the sky was crying. “But they said—”
“They lie in half-truths, darling. That’s what shadows do. They wear your yearning like a costume and whisper what you want to believe.” She leaned forward, propped her truth on steady hands. Quiet. Waiting. Catching the single tear of a nearby dominion.
Silence.
The ocean hushed before them. A gull called, thin and far away.
Sofran fell back, his full weight pressing against the resisting wrought iron. The mala—he had hardly the strength to drag it back towards him.
He leaned forward and studied the shells. Suddenly, they reflected the truth he had been unable to see until now. He gently brushed his thumb—back and forth, slowly—across that same shell—the last puka strung.
He let out a breath, slow and unsteady. “So what do I do?”
Lagonas smiled, not triumphantly, but with deep relief. “The power you seek?” She cupped his hand. “It’s in the shell. Each shell of your mala. Name them. Each one—one by one.”
“The souls?”
“The selves.”
There they sat. Two lost souls found. Two lost souls holding the souls of countless others—Sofran because he clung to false understanding. Lagonas because she trusted only herself to guard her people’s spirits. Memesis bore witness.
Sofran was ready. He saw with clear eyes what he must do.
Lagonas was still guarded. It wasn’t that no one would ever know her true name. It wasn’t that she would always be the headless woman of Laguna. Her people had been forgotten. And it was she who held them, protected them, sought their rightful place among the stars. Alone, their guardian. That was a bitter taste. A strong, long-carried bitter taste.
Lagonas began to shift … uneasily. The unsteady table shook, the porcelain cups rattled.
The rage she had kept at bay for millennia was resurfacing, reliving one of her most dangerous moments:
The underbelly of Whale Rock moaned—guttural and low—as waves of vengeance crashed outside, pounding with the rhythm of a world undone. Lagonas fed the storm, folding vengeance into her grief.
She swept to the altar and hovered over the petrified shells—souls encased and uncalled. Her fingers boiled with fury as she tapped each one. Each soul for whom she had wept, again and again. Each echo she alone had heard.
She seethed as she remembered the angel who wept but never came—bound by a vow to never intercede.
“We all choose our prisons,” Lagonas whispered as she came back to the present.
Sofran stared. He saw the rage rising—the call for justice, the storm taking form in the darkened spirit before him.
Lagonas’ breath hitched. A low growl grew in her throat.
“Do you know what it’s like,” she said, “to hold them all alone? To remember names no one else speaks?”
The sky dimmed. Wind snatched napkins from the nearby tables. The waves pulled back from the shore.
“I begged Memesis once. I begged.” Her voice cracked. “But angels keep vows, not promises.”
Then, suddenly, Lagonas arched—arms twisting skyward, summoning thunder from the marrow of the deep. Her grief breached. Her words tore the sky.
“And I, Lagonas, stood at the canyon’s lip—Not to conquer, but to beg the tide to turn…”
Sofran rose. His voice was steady now—not divine, not righteous—human.
“Do not give in to it, dear one. You are still a mighty queen.”
He was winging it. Memesis was approving it.
“Still your grief and walk with me. It is what you came to do; is it truly not?”
Lagonas shook as if she would break. Sofran reached for her. She howled.
Suddenly, Sofran grabbed his mala, unknotting one end. He pulled a shell from the strand, tossed it toward the heavens, and called a name from his past.
An ocean breeze swelled above the two. Tears fell. Lagonas’ arms waving above her became heavy. Would she summon the end, or would she surrender? She watched from the corners of her mind as Sofran tossed another shell—one after another, calling one name after another, as his own soul bled with each ache released.
Lagonas collapsed. Shells rained.
Her shells. Her people.
Memesis watched and wept as Lagonas, a fallen angel, rose to her surrender.
Sofran continued calling all one hundred and seven names until he had only one left.
He turned to Lagonas.
“I will carry you forward,” he said.
Sofran released the last of his puka shells from the tired leather strand. He held the smoothed shell in his palm, leaned down and most gently whispered to it.
“I will carry you, and your people, forward.”
Then he extended his hand, offering the last soul of his reckoning to the one who needed it most.
Above, a lone gull circled higher and higher, its call faint from the heavens.
With delicate intent, Lagonas reached for the remaining puka—grasped it between thumb and forefinger. Her eyes fixed on Sofran as she then clutched the shell, brought it to her chest … then sank … in complete surrender to her grief.
For a breathless moment, nothing moved—except the tide returning home.
The mala was undone—an empty length of timeless leather.
A dense fog assembled at the shoreline and engulfed Whale Rock in a relic mist—the way it was meant to be seen.
The Rusty Pelican was closing its doors for the evening—cups and saucers gathered. And three figures—seen only by the heavens—huddled together on the sand-blanched sidewalk that flowed along the Pacific Coast Highway, into and out of Laguna Beach, once Tovangar, forever sacred.
Memesis descended—pure in her divinity—and stood before Lagonas and Sofran.
Sofran bent a knee, but his dominion quickly raised him. “You stand by my side now,” she said.
Lagonas softly bowed to her savior—Sofran. Then looked to Memesis.
“The one who wept, but could then not fly,” she said lowly. “You kept your vow. And, now, so have I.” She smiled her acceptance to the dominion, her understanding in plain view no longer hidden by anger.
Memesis shed a final tear and swept it gently from her face. Reached out her hand and caressed the cheek of Lagonas, then lifted her chin upward. “Your people—the Tongva, the Kumivit—are now where they belong. Remain their guardian and join my choir.”
Sofran felt the words, the offer, were deserved, and cast his eyes to Lagonas, suggesting her acceptance.
Lagonas—not honored by the offer—but understood the intention of the gift.
“My work here is not done. My people must be returned—not just to the heavens—but to memory.”
Then, Lagonas transformed into a long-haired calico cat, her favorite form in this world—wise and resolute, not flighty. She rubbed against Memesis gratefully, then sprang into Sofran's arms, nuzzling the neck of her oldest ally.
Sofran nuzzled her back, not wanting to let her go, but happy to have held her one last time.
He and Memesis watched as Lagonas disappeared around the corner, into the nearest alley, leaving a final “Mreowww.”
Silence lingered between the two who remained.
Memesis breached first. “What is it, dear Sofran?” Though she knew.
He pushed sand on the sidewalk before raising his eyes to his wise dominion.
“You honor me.” He bowed his head again, searching for words that would make sense. “I have found my worth through your wisdom, and … I would walk by your side forever …” He paused and fell to his knees again. “But …”
Memesis placed her hands on his shoulders, raising him to stand before her. She smiled.
She unfurled her wings to prepare for departure and softly took in Sofran. “You have ascended … yet your work here remains.”
“But …” He started; he needed her to know. He was unsure if she really understood what he was asking. Though, of course, she did.
“You know it cannot be undone… and still, you ask. So be it.”
Her wings fluttered. She closed her eyes and bent down to gently kiss the salty head of her now-mortal Sofran.
Then she lifted herself and flew, her last words flowing behind. “Tovangar is still yours to tend.”
Sofran watched as she glided low over the waves—an homage to the ambassador of Laguna Beach—of Tovangar—before shooting like a star back to the heavens.
“Let's ride, my dude,” Beck said as he crammed one more board into the back of the van.
Charlie, the former Sofran, smiled. “Now, this was heaven,” he thought.
“Let’s ride,” he said, as the two left the salty shack Beck, and now Charlie, called home, and headed to Mother Ocean.
As they stacked all seven boards just out of reach of the tide, Charlie stopped to watch a young mother and her son skipping along the wet sand.
The sun was turning into its most glorious orange glow as it began to dip into the horizon beyond Whale Rock. The mother hurried her son—but he was not to be hurried. Plenty of room remained in his plastic beach pail for many more shells—each one, maybe, carrying a name.
A necklace he would someday wear, Charlie thought as he zipped up his wetsuit, grabbed the board and raced Beck to the first wave. The orcas were waiting.
If this story found a place in you, I’d love to know. Tell me what it stirred, or share it with someone who needs to remember that shells, too, carry souls. If it left you holding a shell, name it. Or pass it on.
Author’s After Note:
I cannot promise if or when, but Sofran, Beck, Memesis, and a certain wild-eyed calico have more stories to share. If that strikes a chord, drop me a whisper.
That's an interestingly layered story with the spirit of the indigenous groups and the celestial Sofran character. Interesting that he starts his human life (or his new human life?) with a surf -- I've been toying with a little "surfing as spiritual exericse" essay for years, and while there are lots of ways in which it is (or can be) one, I always think about how when you go out to surf you literally turn your back on the world. Just staring at the orizon waiting for the ocean to bring you something to play with.
I enjoyed reading this! It made me long for a visit to the beach myself, to feel the warm, salty breezes in that place that really lets you slow down and feel things. It's the perfect setting for a story like this, one of reflection, realization, and acceptance.
The idea of supernatural beings moving through the "normal" world and having these unseen conflicts reminded me of Terry Brooks' "Word and Void" trilogy, which I'm long overdue to reread.