The wind whips round the pilgrim's head. She pats the whale king's mane for reassurance. The dark clouds ahead look ominous. The whale king senses her worry. She feels a shift beneath her. A sound like sirens or doves suddenly emits from nearby. From the whale king's blow-hole a small light forms. The pilgrim covers her eyes as the light slowly illuminates the sky with a blinding intensity. The colors are vibrant, prismatic, and entirely progressive. She feels and hears the yellow, red, blue, and green of the rainbow. The violet comes as a vibrating bass line, more sensation than sound.
The dark clouds scatter and the very fabric of space and time is torn asunder by the whale king's rainbow emission. The pilgrim can only hold tighter as she stares forward at the bright and polyvalent (multi-vocal?) fissure in space. Yes, there will be no dark clouds in her future aloft the whale king's mane.
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