Once upon a time…

Listen close. I am old, bones like driftwood, mind sharp as salt. In my youth I ran the cliff paths where the tide gnaws at chalk like a hungry dog. Smuggling was our bread. We had a rule there: every seventh midnight, the sea rang a bell no ship carried. Folks called it the Drowned Hour. When it tolled, hidden channels opened in the reefs, and a man could slip through with his cargo—if he was brave and knew the steps.

One winter, a storm ate the moon. We waited for the bell. It came thin and far, like glass tapping glass. I led three lads, sacks of silk on our backs, down the goat path to the black arches. The water pulled and hissed. The channels shifted like waking snakes. I counted waves, as my mother taught me, and kept to the pale veins in the rock.

We came through to the cove where the pine trees bend east. There, a pale horse stood by the surf. It looked at us, then kicked the sand once. We followed its hoof marks to a dry cave, safe from patrols.

The horse was gone by dawn. We left the silk for widows. The bell never rang again.