Elma Napier

“Grey mist hanging low over the water; the sky blue-black with only an occasional star. Here and there a cluster of dim lights showing a tiny village; sometimes a coconut palm disentangled from the fog and dipping ghostly branches into the river; mangroves crouching against the bank like sinister beasts. Down in the cabin, heat that is intolerable; a thousand imprisoned mosquitoes preying ravenously on new flesh and blood; narrow beds creaking hoarsely with every movement; a baby crying peevishly, monotonously. On deck, silence, and the soft chill of the fog. Then, suddenly, the blast of a ship's siren, a blast like the shriek of a creature in pain, a shriek three times repeated, and dying away to leave a silence deeper than before.”
― Elma Napier