Harpoon [antikvár]

Chapter One H; [e was on the cliffs of Taiji, looking out toward the Pacific. It was the time of pampas grass, bowing silver heads to the wind, time of late swallows, darting for insects, time of the passing of the cold rains that chilled the hills and the dense forests that crowded right to the shores of this most southerly part of the fiefdom of Kii. The sun was warm, and waves of a storm that had raged for two days were smashing out the last of their energies on the rocks, the cliffs, the jagged islets that seemed to claw at the Pacific like the talons of a dragon. Saburo, eleven years old, looked away from the fleet of whaling boats, dark shapes like many-legged waterbugs on the glare of the sea, and let his eyes scan the horizon. Out there and beyond, the ocean colors changed with that mighty current which was the highway for the behemoths they called isana—"brave fish." Dawn was the best time for spotting them, when low and gentle rays of the rising sun would catch the plumes of vented breath, illuminating the drops of oily moisture, so that the watchers at the lookout points could see the great beasts at considerable distances. Saburo scanned from west to east, from dark to light. He could see nothing yet, and wriggled his buttocks with impatience on the thin straw matting, glancing at the old man beside him. Old Toumi seemed cheerful enough this day. The signal flags and pennants were all ready, the wind was dying to a lusty buffeting, and out of the predawn dark the morning was unfolding with the promise of warmth. The old man kept fussing, checking things, talking sometimes to himself, sometimes to Saburo.