At the fourth watch the next morning, the floor under Pei Jing’s mat lifted. The jars along the wall rattled against the rock. A deep sound passed up through his bones, like the sea had fallen into a hole far below the island.
Pei Jing opened his eyes. He left the lamp dark, took out the locking wedges, and stepped onto the ledge above the harbor.
The night was clear and moonless. The sea had pulled back half a li. Where the breakers usually met the reef, pale starlight fell on purple coral, wrecks covered in black barnacles, and fish thrashing in shallow pools. Giant spider crabs stumbled over the exposed mud. Air rushed down into the empty lagoon.
“The drawback,” he said.
The old mariners described it as a bow drawn to full length. The next thing to come would be the release.
Ten breaths passed. Then a white line showed in the south, where the Seven-Star Trench cut the shelf. A wall of water twelve paces high rose behind it.
The surge struck the outer reef. Spray flew fifty feet up the cliffs. Ships rose above their moorings, lines broke, and wooden jetties tore away from their posts. Small fishing boats went to pieces against the sea wall.
