Dick, rising and straightening himself and stretching his arms, turned to where Katafa was waiting for him; he made a step towards her and then stood, his eyes fixed across the northern sea.
Cutting the sky from east to west, bright in the light of the moon lay a cloud, a long thready cloud.
No, it was not a cloud, it was too low. It was different; it swelled and contracted, rose and sank.
He called to Katafa and his voice roused Kanoa, whose voice brought Poni from the mammee apple.
In a minute the village was awake and watching this new prodigy, wondering, doubting, the women calling one to the other till the voice of a man rang out:
“Gulls.”
A murmur of relief went up from the women.
Gulls, only gulls. Thousands of gulls flying in line formation—and then the murmur checked and died out.
What was driving the gulls?
A storm coming from the north? No, the sky to the north was stainless and to these people who could smell and feel weather, there was no sign of storm.