the likes of Mudge and Jalwar and Roseroar in tow. But
none of that mattered. None.
Unintentionally and quite without intending to do so,
he’d spellsung himself home.
VII
He clung desperately to that thought as day gave way to
night. Still no sign of Nassau or any of the Bahamas. No
hint of pleasure boats plying the placid Caribbean. No
lights on shore to guide them in. Only the ever-present fog
and an occasional glimpse of a half-moon glittering on
high, keeping a watchful silver eye on his waning hopes.
He was still at the wheel the next morning. The fog had
fled from the sky only to settle heavily inside his heart.
You could see for miles in every direction. None yielded a
glimpse of a coconut palm, a low-lying islet, or the warm
glass-and-steel face of a Hilton Hotel. Only when the
diesel finally sputtered to a halt, out of fuel, did he sit
away from the helm, exhausted.
Worst of all, he was sober. Desperation and despair had
driven the spellsong-induced drunkenness from his body. It
was sour irony: he had regained the use of his senses when
he no longer had need of them.
Roseroar assumed the wheel again, said nothing. With
the disappearance of the fog had come the return of the
wind. The sails filled.
103
1O4
Alan Dean Foster
“Wheah shall I set course for, Ion-Tom?” she asked
gently. He didn’t reply, stared blankly over the side.
Mudge watched him closely. “Snarken, luv. You know
the way.” Roseroar nodded, swung the wheel over.
“What’s wrong with him?”
Mudge replied thoughtfully. ” ‘E believed for a few