Water streamed from Fiona's skirts and ran between the floorboards, and 
then she was dry, except for her face and hair. She wiped her face on her 
sleeves, ignoring her father's proffered handkerchief. No words passed between 
them,
and they did not embrace, as if Fiona were conscious now of the impact she was 
having upon her father and all the others—a faculty that, Hackworth 
supposed, must be highly acute in sixteen-year-old girls. By now the Nipponese 
man was just about finished coughing water out of his lungs and gasping 
piteously for air. As soon as he had the airways up and running, he spoke 
hoarsely and lengthily. One of his companions translated. "He says that we are 
not alone—that the water is filled with spirits—that they spoke 
to him. He followed them beneath the waves. But feeling his spirit about to 
leave his body, he felt fear and swam to the surface and was saved by the young 
woman. He says that the spirits are talking to all of us, and we must listen to 
them!"