| Sights at the Festival |
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0 | Back out onto the cold, dark zee... |
1 – 4 | A cluster of figures climb to the clifftop. Odd. There's nothing up there. |
5 – 9 | Halfway up the hillside stands the maypole. The ribbons twine around it, twists of bright colour. |
10 – 14 | The trees (real trees!) rustle under one of Mutton Island's unpredictable breezes. |
15 – 19 | On the quay, a Twinkle-Eyed Lobsterman sells cones of rubbery lumps to fresh tourists. |
20 – 24 | Flower baskets decorate the whitewashed cottages. Daffodils, yellow as the forgotten sun. Peonies pink and purple. The blue bells of lazy foxgloves. |
25 – 28 | A whiff of something mouth-watering reaches your nose: someone is frying fresh rubbery lumps. |
29 | Black waves lick white sand. Drownies venture onto the shore. |
30 – 34 | Was that a lone lamp, flitting through the shoreside ruins? |
35 – 39 | On the harbour a victorious tourist holds up his wriggling, silver catch. Admirers coo. |
40 – 44 | A sheen of phosphorescent seaweed glows on the waters at the cliff's foot. |
45 – 49 | A smell rolls off the harbour: salt-wet boats and drying lobster pots. |
50 – 59 | Black waves slap against the rocks that ring the island. How sharp they are! Like teeth! |
60 – 69 | A raucous cheer from the beer tent! |
70 – 79 | A jaunty tune kicks up from the feasting tables. Feet stamp! Hands clap! |
80 – 84 | Youths in white dresses and white smocks dance through the streets, garlanding tourists with flowers. |
85 – 89 | Drownies bob in the water, calling to tourists on the waterfront. They are not normally so bold. |
90 – 94 | A straw-stuffed effigy stands on a roof. A robed thing; or are those wings? A hole has been cut through its middle. An unlit candle sits inside. |
95 – 99 | A merry girl with bells on her ankles leads a line of dancers along the waterfront. Her hair is black as the zee. Her cheeks are red as roses. |
100 | A discordance. Are two bands playing? No. One song comes from the island. The other - muted, but no less merry - from beneath the waves. |