With shaking hands Garth loads the shattered pieces of the mask into a basket and sets it into the water. The light plays off the ripples of the water and along the bottom of the basket and the base of the wooden posts that support the pier.
Garth: Forgive me, Sir.
He leans out over the edge of the dock and sets a lid on the basket, ties it shut and then pushes it away, so that it drifts toward the mouth of the cove.
Garth: Being who I am-- I have no right to beg.
He stands back up, cradling the lantern in his arm, and raises the bell high. The pendulum within it is ruby red, just like his glasses, and it makes a gentle 'ching' as he holds it over his head and rings. The sound carries.
Garth: But if you’re really out there…
It carries out over the basket drifting and the lighthouses standing in their long marching line. The full moon watches the notes jingle out on the wind to someplace far beyond the shores of Grand Physalia.
Garth: And if what she said is true…
They reach somewhere snowy and arctic. Ice floes drift along the water and in the distance the lighthouses shine. They don’t reach this distance, however. This is ghost water. Long abandoned archways jut out of the ice and the spirits climb out of the water and perch on the snowy banks and floats, seeming to rouse at the sound of the bell from afar. Beneath the water the gaping faces of sea ghost puppets moan. And one, familiar pair of eyes opens wide and red against the dark depths.
Garth: Then I fear I have nowhere else to turn.
