She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke.
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