“Not at all. Your face is still glowing from last night.”
Timothy laid a palm on his cheek. “The light tunnel did that.”
Abraham laughed. “Angel is a fine woman. I would have to look long and hard to find a more worthy lady, if I could at all.”
He looked up at Abraham. “Do you think she’ll have me?”
“Without a doubt. Without a doubt.”
Timothy stroked his chin. “Of course, I have to know for sure that Hannah died and didn’t come back to life, as I did, but how do I find out what happened to her? Can Enoch’s Ghost tell me?”
“Perhaps.” Abraham slid the ovulum between them. “Before we ask that question, there is other vital information you need to know. Now that much of your memory is restored, and now that I know who you are, it is time to fill in the gaps from the beginning.” He waved a hand across the glass egg. “More memories should return as your distant past streams before your eyes.”
Timothy slid his chair close and gazed into Enoch’s Ghost. The fog evaporated, revealing a land awash in a heavy rainstorm. Low clouds swirled around an enormous boat as the downpour fed streams of rising water that rushed around the bow. Atop the deck, a red dragon perched on the parapet while a smaller, tawny dragon looked on from the deck’s rain-slicked boards.
Tiny voices arose from Enoch’s Ghost, giving life to the characters inside. At first, the language seemed odd but quickly grew more familiar. Soon, Timothy was able to translate every word as they sprang from the mouths within.
“I cannot leave my father!” The larger dragon stretched out his wings and lifted into the air.
“We must go!” The smaller one bit his tail and pulled him down.
“Don’t make me fight you!” the red dragon said, jerking his tail away.
Scarlet light flashed all around. While a pulsing ball of fire descended from the clouds, an old man ran onto the deck, saying something, but the sound of rain drowned out his voice. Fingers of crimson flame sprouted from the ball, long tendrils that pierced the ground and gave birth to geysers of muddy water. A peal of thunder shook the ovulum. Torrents of rain veiled the boat, making it impossible to see the dragons or hear their voices.
Abraham rubbed the glass with one hand, seemingly turning the scene as if adjusting a camera angle. Now one of the rising streams came into view. Another red dragon, as large as the one on the boat, floundered in the water, black splotches covering his otherwise red scales. Beams from his ruby eyes pierced the misty breeze and the black clouds above. Shouting a dying call, he roared. “To you, Maker of All, I commit my spirit!” Then, he submerged.
Two winged humans, both bright and shining, descended from the storm. They plunged into the foaming water and lifted the great dragon, but, instead of trying to save him, they seemed to battle over him, struggling in midair while the dragon’s limp wings and legs flopped from side to side.
“Give me the dragon, Michael!” one angel shouted. “You have no use for it.”
“Jehovah’s purposes are beyond your knowledge,” Michael boomed.
As lightning flashed, Michael plunged a hand into the dragon’s chest and pulled out its heart, then, with a flaming burst of power from his four wings, carried the heart away. The other angel shouted something in a different language, indecipherable but clearly words of outrage. It turned and flew in the opposite direction, lugging the huge body under one arm.
The scene in the ovulum faded, replaced by the red fog. Timothy looked up at the Prophet, his eyes blurred, his heart racing.
“Do you know what you just saw?” Abraham asked.
Trying to steady his breathing, Timothy spoke slowly in a near whisper. “I was there. I saw the rain, the red light, the old man on the deck. But I don’t remember the battle between the angels.”
“You wouldn’t. You had already entered the protected part of the boat, Noah’s ark.”
“Noah? I remember Noah. He was a kind old man, gentle and good.”
“Indeed he was. He rescued you and your soon-to-be mate.”
“Thigocia? She was the other dragon?” A tear filled Timothy’s eye. Memories rushed in—flying with other dragons, shooting fire at angelic beings, zooming with reckless abandon with two smaller dragons in playful dives and hairpin turns, then reclining with the tawny dragon, necks intertwined in blissful peace.
“Thigocia,” Timothy said quietly. “My dear Thigocia.”