Argo spoke in a pale white voice that sounded like the whisper of thin fingers tearing webs.
"So," she said. "We will stay at least another seven days."
"But why?" asked the captain.
"I have received a sign from the sea."
"I do not wish to question your authority, Priestess," began the captain.
"Then do not," interrupted Argo.
"My mate has raised the objection that ..."
"Your mate has raised his hand to me once," stated the Priestess. "It is only in my benevolence ..." Here she paused, and her voice became more unsure, "... that I do not destroy him where he stands." Beneath, her veil, a face could be made out that might have belonged to a dried skull.
"But," began the captain.
"We wait here by the island of Aptor another seven days," commanded Argo. She looked away from the captain now, in a direction that must have been straight into the eyes of the mate. From behind the veil, hate welled like living liquid from the seemingly empty sockets. They turned to go, and once more on deck, they stopped to watch the sea. Near the indistinct horizon, a sharp tongue of land outlined itself with mountains. The cliffs were chalky on one side, then streaked with red and blue clays on the other. There was a reddish glow beyond one mountain, like the shimmering of a volcano. And dark as most of it was, it was a distinct darkness, backed with purple, or broken by the warm, differing grays of individual rocks. Even through the night, at this distance, beyond the silver crescent of the beach, the jungle looked rich, green even in the darkness, redolently full and quiveringly heavy with life.