The logs were palimpsests. Two of them rose from the water's edge, not 
quite vertical, stuck like darts into the impermanent sand. Hackworth walked 
between them, the surf crashing around his knees. He saw weathered intimations 
of faces and wild beasts living in the wood, ravens, eagles, and wolves tangled 
into organic skeins. The water was bitterly cold on his legs, and he whooped in 
a couple of breaths, but the woman kept walking; the water was up past her 
waist now,
and her hair was floating around her so that the translucent images once again 
became readable. Then she vanished beneath a collapsing wave two meters 
high.