The sky ran down in bands of dirty cream and blue-gray, a variegated corrugation descending to the South like a sheet of watercolor paper drying badly. A blotted vagueness dwelled to the North and East from where the rain squalls came. The water was rough, slow-moving, heavy; its leaden color a sign of its greater weight; so unlike the bright emerald-green brilliance as this same sea danced and shimmered on a sunny summer-day. Ripples and crests, riding up and down the swell, appeared carved from the green body of the sea in cuts torn through its pallid skin. Foam cascading down the breakers that morning as they had put-to-sea, frothed white and bled into cool viridian, leaving a mottled, speckled turbulence in their wake; skeins and veins of pattern, regular yet unrepeatable, like the marbled end-papers on some old tome.
So begins, The Island.
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