From this point of darkness, this exact point in the darkened cave with savages waves splashing and relenting against its jagged rocks, there appeared a tendril of smoke, a swirl of light; even smoke was brighter than this darkness. Slowly, it grew bigger as it moved against the fierce wind and the moist salty air out of the cave, where a natural rock platform jutted out from the cliff and pointed high up into the blackened night sky over the sea. It went to the highest point of the rock and it settled, moving: now it was green smoke, a green wisp of light. Green smoke against this bleakness was the holiest angel in the murkiest, dismal depths of the underworld.
Now, the green smoke disappeared, and in its place was a swan, a green swan, fluttering its broad wings and attempting to find a grip with its great muscular talons, but then they slipped - this wonderful bird, this messiah, it was supposed to have saved this world from this darkness - but it slipped, and it fell soundlessly into a breaking wave with a terrific squak. The dead, decayed fingers of the sea pulled the swan down, down, and tore it apart, and this swan - this last chance - became a part of the sea; the sea that would ruin all other chances for the world that may appear: grasp it with its sickened fingers and pull it down.