To Domarli the ship was of all things the most utterly real. It was an enormity that defied understanding but it was more real to him than even the silhouette of the hills of Minjerriba that he could see beyond it or the narrow passage through which it steamed its arrogant way. The faces of the people up on deck were real too. There were old faces and young faces, faces of men and women, faces of children.
One small girl-child had her hair free and it was long and fine, yellow as the flowers of the goona vine; the wind rippled through it, tossed it about. There were perhaps a dozen faces Domarli could see looking toward him but only the face of the child with the yellow hair and eyes of incredible blue was small, pale and beautiful in a way that seemed to speak of the spirit world to him. There was a bridge of spiritual union between the child and Domarli as she gripped the deckrail to brace herself against the wind and he ran along the beach keeping pace with the ship. It was like a thread of cobweb glinting in the morning light; scarcely to be seen but there for all that...
Read more about the author “Allan Skerman”
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