Rusty cutlasses blasted from heaping layers of luminous muck wielded by skeletons that rose smoothly as if being pulled up by strings; a bloodcurdling murderers' row of scalawags locked within their final intertwisted tableau of carnage in the round like immortalized subjects of the hands of talented sculptors from a never-to-be-forgotten drama. The swampy boneyard heaved and rolled. Northwest Locke climbed up a crystallized stalagmite in a steady handed ascent beside the long-missing ship clambering from the innards of her screaming grave like a ghost.