Farther out, a wave broke and raced up the fissure like a suicide
express. Water slammed between the rocky edges, wild and frothing,
seething, lurching, hissing, and sucking. Gradually, it receded.
Oliver's father pointed to the other side and walked to the end of the
fissure where they could look down into the round pool that had been
scoured into the rock. Shiny polished stones waited in its bottom for
the next wave.
His father continued around the pool and then along the opposite edge
on a path six inches wide. The rain had started again. Oliver followed
across a steep bank of short wet grass. The next train roared in, just
a few feet below them. He was terrified. If he slipped, there was
nothing to grab. Anyone who fell in would be torn apart in seconds;
there was no chance of surviving the furious water. There was a
malevolent feeling to the place. Bad things happened here.
His father walked steadily on. Oliver dropped to his hands and knees
and crawled to the end of the path, trying not to look to his left. He
scrambled down to a rocky shingle near the mouth of the fissure. His
father waited, watching him. Oliver stood up, swallowed, and wiped mud
off his hands.
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