Then one of them noticed that the boats were rocking in the water. Masts tipped, then tipped back again. He looked out at the water. Wave after wave was coming, as if from giant stones falling, or perhaps something pulsing deep under the water. Each wave was higher than the one before. They began breaking onto the docks.

More and more people were seeing the waves now, and those near the water began to run farther inland. The waves were coming up onto the streets, forming rivers that flowed over the cobblestones. Farther inland the water came until it was streaming across the peninsula. Ships battered against the dock and began to break into kindling. People ran screaming through the streets, pounding on doors, begging to be let inside.

And the slaves also pounded on the doors. Where a moment before all they could think of was murder and vengeance, now in their ground-floor quarters a new passion had taken hold: to get to the first floor before this flood drowned them. Wave after wave swept through the slave quarters. The howling and singing stopped, to be replaced by a cacophony of panicked cries.

Many of the Whites, seeing the flood, opened the doors and let their slaves, now chastened and afraid, come up to safety. Others, though, kept the doors locked, and more than one discharged a weapon through the door, warning the slaves to stay back.

There were no more thoughts of killing the White families they worked for. Already the slaves were telling the stories that made sense to them. “God be telling us, Thou shalt not kill, or I send a flood like Noah!” “Lord, I don’t want to die!” Terror took the place of rage, damped it down, swept it out, drowned it, for the moment, at least.

“Enough,” said Margaret. “You did it, Calvin. Enough.”

Calvin sobbed in relief. “That was so hard!” He lay back down, rolled over, curled up and wept. Or rather, tried to curl up. As he dragged his legs across the floor, his right foot was pulled away from his body. Margaret gagged at the sight. But Denmark’s woman reached down, picked up the foot, and put it in place at the end of the damaged leg.

“He just about dead,” said Denmark.

“No,” moaned Margaret. “Oh, Calvin, not now, not when you finally did something good.”

“That the best time a-die,” said Fishy helpfully. “You get in heaven.”

Margaret turned again to Gullah Joe.

“No look me, you!” he said. “I do all you say, look what happen!”

“What if he sent out his doodlebug again? Like before? Even if he dies, can’t you hold on to it? Keep it from getting away?”

“What you think I be? I a witchy man! You want God, him!”

“You held him captive before. Do it again! Try it!”

Even as she insisted, she could see the paths of the future change. When she finally saw one in which Calvin was still alive at dawn, she shouted at him, “That’s it! Do that!”