Hamish could see the comb.
He took it from an illustrious hand that of
the dark priestess there in the night lifting
it weightless out of the moon-deep delicate
The priestess spoke. "Beware the horned crocodile,"
Her words came like water, her speech a flute, her voice a
chord underlying the boundaries of the cliffs.
Hamish did not know what the words could mean or
why she had so spoken to him.
Nor did I.