Safara begins her swimmer's kick, then falters.

The current pushes her under, then up. At last,

she is thrown onto the beach. Straight ahead is a

seven-foot wall of foam. She crashes through it.

The cliffs of Martinique loom before her.

Standing nearby is a calm black man in a black

hat. With a gloved hand, he cracks his whip once.

A tendril circles her waist. She clutches at the

stinging vine. Legs apart, boots planted in the

sand, he pulls her toward him. He grabs her head,

looks in her face.

"You're a child," he says, remembering his dead

daughter. He hugs her. "My name is Juste." She

understands nothing but kneels to kiss his knees.

They sleep on goat skins in a shed near the water.

Safara lies cradled in his arms.

In the morning, white light glints on the green

sea. Debris floats in the distance. Bodies dot

the shoreline. In a wagon, Juste drives Safara

up the rugged slope of the cove. At the top is a

dramatic outcropping. Safara sees women

draped like goddesses in sheer apple green,

lounging on the rocks.