Prophecy?

From the end of the pier beachfires flare in a ragged line, as though an army of barbarians had encamped and was arming for a dawn attack. The yellow cliffs behind mirror the flames and dance with giant shadows, distorted, leaping images, bristling and heavy with weapons, cavemen waiting on some bitter Spanish coast for a tribe of fish-men to leap with hideous cries from the surf. And on the water, flame reflections smear the sliding surface, spreading orange stains, like blood from carnage pits buried at the foot of the waves.