He stood, slowly, his knees creaking. Then he walked to the edge of the ridge, where the chalk dropped away into darkness. The humming grew louder. The sea below seemed to hesitate.
The wind on Yarlist’s Ridge never stopped. It came from the sea, salt-crusted and cold, and combed through the high grass like fingers through a giant’s hair. The ridge was the last high place before the land fell away into the chalk cliffs, and the chalk cliffs fell into the endless gray-green water. yarlist'
Yarlist opened his eyes. They were the same gray-green, but tonight there was a light behind them, faint as drowned starlight. “The ridge is singing,” he said. “It’s been singing for a thousand years. Most people forgot how to listen.” He stood, slowly, his knees creaking