Phoebe sat amid the rubble of what had once been Liverpool's harbor, and wept. Behind her, the ships that had once swayed at anchor here were smashed in the streets; streets that had been reduced to gorges between piles of smoking debris.
What now? she thought. Plainly there was no way home. And little or no hope of finding Joe, now that she'd lost her guides in this wilderness. She could bear the idea of never separated from Joe forever was unendurable. She would have to hide that likelihood from herself for a while, or else she'd lose her sanity.
She turned her thoughts to the fate of King Texas. Could rock die, she wondered, or was he simply lying low for a while, to recover his strength? If the latter, perhaps he might show his face again and help her in her search. A negligible hope, to be sure, but enough to keep her from utter despair.
After a time, her stomach began to rumble, and knowing hunger would only make her weepier, she got up and into the devastation in search of sustenance.
Just a couple of miles from where she wandered, Joe stood in the veils of dust still falling where the door had been, and turned over the significance of all he'd witnessed. This was not, he knew, a total victory; not by any stretch of the imagination. For one, some portion of the lad had found its way over the threshold into the Cosm before the shore rose to annex it. For another, he was by no means certain the greater part, which now lay buried somewhere under his spirit's feet, w as dead. And for a third, he doubted the continent from which this force had come was now deserted. The invasion party might have been defeated, but the nation that had sent it out was still intact, somewhere beyond the Ephemeris. It would come again, he knew. And again, and again. Whatever the lad were-the dreamers or the dreamed-whatever ambitions they nurtured, they had today sent a force into the Heiter Incendo, where it would doubtless be able to prepare for a larger and perhaps definitive, invasion.
Whet@er he would have any part to play in the defense of the Cosm he didn't know and, for now at least, he didn't much care. He had the more immediate of his own identity to solve. It had been a fine adventure that had brought him in a circle back to this spot: the voyage on The Fanacapan, that sweet reunion with Phoebe in the weeds, the journey to b'Kether Sabbat, his final encounter with Noah and his discoveries in the belly of the lad-all of it extraordinary. But now the journey was over. The Fanacapan was sunk; Phoebe was somewhere in Everville, mourning him; b'Kether Sabbat was presumably in ruins; Noah dead; the lad buried.
And what was he, who had taken that journey? Not a living man, for certain. He'd lost all that he could have identified as Joe, except for the thoughts he was presently shaping, and how certain were they? was he then some function of the dream-sea? Or a sliver of the Zehrapushu? Or just a memory of himself, that would fade with time?
What, damn it, what?
At last, exasperated by his own ruminations, he decided to make his way back into the street in search of the fire watchers who had seemed to see him in the form of their answered prayers. Perhaps if he discovered one among them who understood the rudiments of life after death he might find some way to communicate, and learn to understand his condition. Or failing that to simply come to peace with it.
Phoebe returned to Maeve O'Connell's house on Canning Street more by accident than intention, though when she finally found herself standing before its gates she could not help but think that her instincts had brought her there. The house was in better shape than most she'd passed, but it had not survived the cataclysm unscathed. Half of its roof had fallen in, exposing both beams and bedrooms, and the path to the front door was littered with slate, guttering, and broken glass.
Once inside, however, she found the lower level almost exactly as she left it. With her stomach demanding its due she went straight to the kitchen, where mere hours before she'd got herself tipsy on moumingberry juice, and made herself something to eat. This time there was no judicious sandwich construction. She simply heaped cold cuts and pickles and bread and cheese and a variety of fruits into the middle of the table and set to. Her stomach was tamed after ten minutes or so and she slowed her rate of consumption somewhat, washing her food down with a spritzer made of two parts water to one of the juice. After half a glass of this a pleasant languor crept upon her, and she allowed herself to muse on the subjects that had earlier brought tears.
Perhaps, after all, she had a few things to be grateful for. She wasn't dead, which was a wonder. She wasn't crazy. She'd never again sleep and wake in the bed she'd shared with Morton all those years, nor turn up to work on a drizzling Monday morning and find half a dozen flu-ridden depressives dripping on the step, but was any of that cause for sorrow or self-pity? No. She had followed her best hope for happiness through a door that had slammed behind her. There was no way back, and it was no use sniveling about it.
The wind had risen while she was eating and was blowing dust against the kitchen window, darkening the interior. She t up and found an oil lamp, which she lit and carried stairs, lighting lamps as she went. It was a little eerie. The pty passageways, the empty rooms, the paintings on the walls-which she'd really not noticed when she'd first explored the house but which were almost all risqu6-staring down at her. Every now and again the rock beneath the city would growl and settle. The walls would creak. The windows would rattle.
Eventually she found her way up to Maeve O'Connell's suite, the ceiling of which was still intact, and feeling like a thief (and enjoying the feeling) she examined the contents of the three wardrobes and the chest of drawers. There were clothes in abundance, of course, and hats and books and perfumes and bric-a-brac, endless bric-a-brac.
Had the old woman dreamed all this into being, Phoebe wondered, the way King Texas had described her dreaming the city? Had she spoken the clothes, then slept and woken to find them hanging here, ready to be worn and fitting perfectly? If so, Phoebe was going to have to learn the trick of it, because nothing in these wardrobes was faintly suitable, and her summer dress had been reduced to filthy tatters. And while she was dreaming things up, maybe she'd supply herself with a few luxury items. A television (would she have to dream the programs too?
if so, they'd all be reruns), a modern toilet (the plumbing in the house was primitive), perhaps an ice cream maker.
And maybe, eventually, a companion. Why not? If she was going to live the rest of her life here-and it seemed she had no choice in the matter-then she was damned if she'd spend those years alone. Sure, she'd seen some survivors in the ruins on her way here, but why look for solace among strangers when she could conjure up somebody for herself.9
At last, having searched the room from one end to the other, she realized that she hadn't opened the drapes and, with much effort (there were several thicknesses of fabric, and they'd not been moved, she guessed, in many years), she managed to haul the drapes apart. She was not prepared for the splendor of the sight that awaited her. The window that the drapes had concealed was huge. It offered her a panorama of what had once been the harbor, and beyond it, Quiddity, its once-crazed waters placid. Though there was no sun in the sky, there was nevertheless a pinprick clarity to the scene. If she'd had the desire and the patience she could surely have counted every ripple on the face of the dreamsea.
Gazing out over the waters, she remembered with a sigh her meeting with Joe, in the bed of weeds. Remembered how she'd almost lost herself into the bliss of formlessness, while he, and they, had pleasured her. was it possible, she won-. dered, to dream Joe? to close her eyes and raise from memory the man she had lost? It wouldn't be the real thing, of course, but better some semblance of him, like a treasured photograph, than nothing at all. Perhaps he might even share a bed with her.