"Of course."

"And if I liberate them, we'll assume the bargain between us over."

"What?" "You heard me."

"That wasn't what we agreed."

"But it's what I'm offering now," Noah calmly replied. "they can be free or you can have power. One or the other, but not both."

"You sonofabitch."

"Which is it to be, Joe?" Noah replied. "You seem very certain in your righteousness so I suppose it's an easy decision. You want to liberate the slaves, yes?" He watched and waited. "Yes, Joe?"

After several seconds of deliberation Joe shook his head. 'No.

"But they're bound to my will, Joe. They're sitting there bleeding, bound to my will. You can't want that, can you?" He waited a beat. "Or can you?"

Joe looked back at the creatures sitting on the deck, his mind a maze. There'd been a clear path ahead of him moments before, but Noah had confounded it. And why? For the pleasure of seeing him squirm.

"I came here because you promised me something," Joe said.

"So I did."

"And I'm not going to have you talk me out of it."

"You talked yourself out of it, Joe."

"I didn't agree to anything."

"Do I take it then that the slaves will remain in thrafl?"

"For now," Joe said. "Maybe I'll set them free myself, when I get what I'm due."

"A noble ambition," Noah replied. "Let's hope they survive that long." He wandered over to the starboard side. "Meanwhile," he said, "I have work for them to do." He glanced at Joe, as if expecting some objection. Getting none, he gave a little smile and went back to the stem of the vessel to make his instructions known.

Cursing under his breath, Joe looked over the side to see what the problem was, and found the water clogged in every direction with sinuous weed of some kind. Its fronds were the palest of yellows, and here and there it was knotted up into bundles, the smallest like foothalls, the largest twenty times that size. Plainly the weed was slowing the vessel's progress, but the slaves were already at the bow, clambering over the sides and lowering themselves into the water to solve the problem. Digging their way through the floating thicket they started to hack at the weed, two with machetes, the others with pieces of broken timber. Watching them labor, making no sound of complaint, Joe could not help the shameful thought that perhaps it was better they felt nothing. The task before them was substantial-the weed field stretched at least two hundred yards ahead of the vessel-and would surely exhaust their wounded limbs. But at least the waters beyond the field looked calm and clear. Once the boat reached them the slaves would be able to rest. He might even try bargaining with Noah afresh, and get him to release the weakest of them from bondage, so they could tend themselves.

Meanwhile, he retired to the wheelhouse, stripping off his damp shirt and hanging it on the door before sitting down to ponder his situation.

The air had grown balmier of late, and despite his recent agitation, he felt a kind of languor creep upon him. He let his head drop against the back of the cabin seat, and closed his eyes...

In her lonely bed in Everville, Phoebe had finally drifted to sleep on a pillow damp with her tears, and had begun to dream. Of Joe, of course. At least of his presence if not his flesh and blood. She drifted in a misty place, knowing he was not that far from her, but unable to see him. She tried to call to him, but her voice was smothered by the mist. She tried again, and again, and her efforts were rewarded after a time. The syllable seemed to divide the mist as it went from her, seeking him out in this pale nowhere.

She didn't let up. She kept calling, over and over.

"Joe... Joe... Joe..

Sprawled asleep in the cabin of The Fanacapan, Joe heard somebody calling his name. He almost stirred, thinking the summons was coming from somewhere in the waking world, but as soon as he began to float up out of his slumbers, the call became more remote, so he let the weight of his fatigue carry him back down into dreams.

The voice came again and this time he recognized it.

Phoebe! It was Phoebe. She was trying to find him. He started to reply to her, but before he could do so she called out to him again.

"Where are you, Joe?" she said. "I'm here," he said. "I can hear you. Can you hear me?"

"Oh my God," she gasped, plainly astonished that this was actually happening. "Is that really you?"

"It's really me."

"Where are you?"

"I'm on a ship."

On a ship? she thought. What the hell was he doing on a ship? Had he fled to Portland and hopped the first cargo vessel out?

"You've left me," she said.

"No, I haven't. I swear."

"That's easy to say-" she murmured, her voice thickening with tears,

"I'm on my own, Joe-"

"Don't cry."

"And I'm afraid-"

"Listen to me," he said softly. "Are you dreaming?"

She had to think about this for a moment. "Yes," she said. "I'm dreaming." "Then maybe we're not that far apart," he said. "Maybe we can find each other."

"Where?"

"In the sea. In the dream-sea."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hold on," he said. "Just hold on to my voice. I'll lead you here."

He didn't dare wake. If he woke, the contact between them would surely be broken, and she'd despair (she was already close to that; he could hear it in her voice) and perhaps give up on ever finding him again. He had to walk a very narrow path; the path that lay between the state of dreaming, which was one of forgetfulness, and the waking world, where he would lose contact with her. He had to somehow find his way across the solid boards of this solid boat without rising from slumber to do so, and plunge into the waters of Quiddity, where perhaps the paradox of dreaming with his eyes open would be countenanced and he could call her to him.

"Joe?" "Just wait for me@'he murmured.

"I can't. I'm going crazy."

"No you're not. It's just that things are stranger than we ever thought."

"I'm afraid-"

"Don't be."

"I'm afraid I'm going to die and I'll never see you again."

"You'll see me. Just hold on, Phoebe. You'll see me."

He felt the cabin door brush against his arm; felt the steps up into the deck beneath his feet. At the top, he stumbled, and his eyes might have flickered open, but that by chance she called to him, and her voice anchored him; kept him in a sweet sleep.

He turned to his right. Walked two, three, four strides until he felt the side of the boat against his shins. Then he threw himself overboard.

The water was cold, the shock of it slapped him into wakefulness. He opened his eyes to see the weeds around him like a swaying thicket, its tangle LIFE with fish, most of them no larger than those he'd swallowed whole on the shore. Cursing his consciousness, he looked up towards the surface, and as he did so heard Phoebe again, calling him.

"Joe-?" she said, her voice no longer despairing, but light; almost excited.

He caught hold of the knotted weed around him, so as not to float to the surface. "I'm here," he thought. "Can you hear me?"

There was no answer at first, and he feared her call had been the remnants of their previous contact. But no. She spoke again, softly.

"I can hear you." It was as though her voice was in the very water around him. The syllables seemed to caress his face.

"Stay where you are," she said.

"I'm not going anywhere," he replied. It seemed he had no need of breath; or rather that the waters were supplying him with air through his skin. He felt no ache in his chest; no panic. Simply exhilaration. He turned himself around in the water, parting the strands of weed to look for her. The fish had no fear of him. they darted around his face, and brushed against his back and belly; they played between his legs. And then, out of the tangle to his right, a form he knew. Not Phoebe, but a Zehrapushu, a spirit pilot, its golden gaze fixed upon him. He gave up turning a moment, in order to let it see him properly. It scooted around him once, clockwise, then reversed its direction and did the same again, always coming to a perfect hovering halt in front of his face.