...of a tocsin

As Billy had predicted, they were off the northern coast of Spain within three days. He was stunned to find the beach of San Sebastian stretching far from the city's edge; the sand was covered with townspeople walking up and down in a daze. Lauren and the old man got food in San Sebastian and sailed on. The beaches grew larger and larger until, suddenly, one afternoon past Lisbon, the two found themselves face to face with a new range of cliffs that Billy had never seen. He sat at the front of the boat on an old empty wine crate, the palms of his hands flat on his knees, gazing at everything around him in wonder. After a long, long lifetime of navigating these coasts, everything had become strange. It didn't seem quite fair that after struggling against the regression of old age, everything should now conspire to cheat him of the things he knew well, and upon which he'd come to count. Along the cliffs of Portugal were a row of bells, suspended in erected wooden squares that could be seen framing the sky in a series of blue windows. Within the windows, surrounding the bells, were round iron cages where wild cats were kept and fed by the peasants nearby; when the cats tore at the cages attempting to escape, as they did constantly, the bells rang and could be heard from a far distance. In this way boats would not sail into the new cliffs at night, or in the fog. Though deaf to the bells by this time, the cats were no less sensitive to the thundering rhythms. When Lauren and Billy sailed by, the cats turned to her as they had always done; the sight of her on deck was enough to strike them motionless; it wasn't even necessary that they hear her calling them, it wasn't necessary that she attempt to call them. She sailed past standing silently on deck. The cats held themselves to their cages watching the woman on the passing boat; and for kilometres around, the people noticed the bells had stopped ringing.

[Days Between Stations, Erickson, S.]