Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія

           Itwasagleammerely,faint,elusive,impossibleofdefinition,anintangibleagitation,inthevast,dimblurofthedarkness.

           Andthatwasall.Untilnownosinglerealthinghadoccurred,nothingthatVanameecouldreducetotermsofactuality,nothinghecouldputintowords.Themanifestation,whennotrecognisabletothatstrangesixthsenseofhis,appealedonlytothemostrefined,themostdelicateperceptionofeyeandear.Itwasallephemeral,filmy,dreamy,themysticformingoftheVision—theinvisibledevelopingaconcretenucleus,thestarlightcoagulating,theradianceoftheflowersthickeningtosomethingactual;perfume,themostdeliciousfragrance,becomingatangiblepresence.

           Butintothatgardentheserpentintruded.Thoughcradledintheslowrhythmofthedream,lulledbythisbeautyofasummer’snight,heavywiththescentofflowers,thesilencebrokenonlybyaripplingfountain,thedarknessilluminatedbyaworldofradiantblossoms,VanameecouldnotforgetthetragedyoftheOther;thatterrorofmanyyearsago,—thatprowlerofthenight,thatstrange,fearfulfigurewiththeunseenface,swoopingintherefromoutthedarkness,goneinaninstant,yetleavingbehindthetrailandtraceofdeathandofpollution.

           NeverhadVanameeseenthismoreclearlythanwhenleavingPresleyonthestockrangeofLosMuertos,hehadcomeacrosstotheMissiongardenbywayoftheQuienSaberanch.

           ItwasthesamenightinwhichAnnixterout-watchedthestars,coming,atlast,tohimself.