Suddenly the full long wail of a ship's horn surged through the open window and flooded the dim room--a cry of boundless, dark, demanding grief; pitch-black and glabrous as a whale's back and burdened with all the passions of the tides, the memory of voyages beyond counting, the joys, the humiliations: the sea was screaming. Full of the glitter and the frenzy of night, the horn thundered in, conveying from the distant offing, from the dead center of the sea, a thirst for the dark nectar in the little room.
Tsukazaki turned with a sharp twist of his shoulders and looked out toward the water.
It was like being part of a miracle: in that instant everything packed away inside Noboru's breast since the first day of his life was released and consummated. Until the horn sounded, it was only a tentative sketch. The finest materials had been prepared and all was in readiness, verging on the unearthly moment. But one element was lacking: the power needed to transfigure those motley shreds of reality into a gorgeous palace. Then, at a signal from the horn, the parts merged into a perfect whole.
Assembled there were the moon and a feverish wind, the incited, naked flesh of a man and woman, sweat, perfume, the scars of a life at sea, the dim memory of ports around the world, a cramped breathless peephole, a young boy's iron heart--but these cards from a gypsy deck were scattered, prophesying nothing. The universal order at last achieved, thanks to the sudden, screaming horn, had revealed an ineluctable circle of life--the cards had paired: Noboru and mother--mother and man--man and sea--sea and Noboru...
He was choked, wet, ecstatic. Certain he had watched a tangle of thread unravel to trace a hallowed figure. And it would have to be protected: for all he knew, he was its thirteen-year-old creator.
"If this is ever destroyed, it'll mean the end of the world," Noboru murmured, barely conscious. I guess I'd do anything to stop that, no matter how awful!
The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea, Yukio Mishima