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Tigress of the Shrubland (11)
A symphony of flowers fluttered for miles in sea winds, impossibly close, incongruously splendid, a clash of environments suited to dreams.
Scarcely did the sand terminate but the meadows commenced. Charles scented the salt-floral medley with fresh spiritual freedom, and thought that it would be good to die in this land.
He removed his coat and shoes to walk barefoot along the surf, the sun flickering over his face as the waves broke. Can it be that man comes from the jungles, when this roaring seemed the greatest lullaby, the foremost womb? He paused to sketch the ocean on his pad, adding seagulls. He did not feel rushed to rescue Janice. Great things, he reflected, squinting at the waves and erasing, come with patience and care.
Driftwood, dried seaweed, and matches from his bag comforted him that night. He awoke in the grey dawn to the boom of thunder. The rain began over the sea, then spread toward him, heralded by a rush of moist, cool wind. A crack of light gleamed through the faraway sky, and then it was that he felt a new awareness of something inside himself.
