“The music?”
“Screaming of the ptarmigan. Music to us, wasn’t it?” In a changed voice, rational, but weak: “I can’t see you, Ky.”
“She’s here, with me, at the door.”
“Then she’s dim as she used to be when she plodded on in front, wrapped in her cloud of frost-smoke.”
“Please try to listen. I—see the sailors bringing the little boat through the surf.”
“That’s easy. Let ’em try the ice!”
“They’re coming for me.”
“You—you?”
“You don’t remember.”