I’ll describe the boat, but I lack nautical language. It doesn’t seem more than medium-sized to me, with a bridge up two or three ladders from the deck, that is the main deck or the one with the greatest area. There is a towerlike mast aft of the bridge, with a great profusion of riggings on it, but the ship really is powered by two impressive paddle-wheels amidships or nearly, covered in majestic sweeps of metal cowling. Paddleboxes is the word. These are driven by hinged pistons that periodically and in alternation thrust their acutely bent knees fantastically high into the air, rivalling the height of the mast; they look like the hind legs of grasshoppers taking slow thoughtful strides in alternation. The rhythmic churn of the wheels is lulling, the rotation of the frothing paddles is hypnotic, the meditative striding of the pistons is dreamy, the soft and fragrant air is narcotic. Across this reverence Saskia’s voice often cuts as she barks orders from the bridge. We seem to go in one reliable direction, and we seem to move fast.

While some of the madcaps in the ranks are seasick or huddled below decks, terrified of all the open space, the majority are beside themselves with delight and excitement. They rush from one end of the boat to another with their faces wide open to every sensation, dangling from the ropes, yipping and cawing, their clothes flapping and sloughing often in defiance of decency. We’re confined to the boat, smaller than the asylum was, with limitlessness all around us. After the first man overboard is retrieved at some expense of time, Saskia thunderously harangues the others:

“Go into the sea, and I swear to you you’ll stay there!” she bellowed.

So far, no new splashes. Now we’re pushing through a field of sea lungs, and the loonies are pointing and singing out and going ape. The boat is heavy and the strong engines lumber us forward so we seem to flatten the water as we go. The drone is oppressive. At first, I imagine I’d prefer to spend my time in the open air, but between the pummeling of the wind and the eyebrindling glare of the sky, I find myself staying inside. I can’t open myself to impressions of the sea. Whenever I try, impressions of dying are what I get. Me dying. I dying. Among many others. As an officer—and that’s a laugh—I am entitled to a bit of privacy. I bunk with Silichieh, Jil Punkinflake who is not an officer but counts anyway as a standard bearer, and a sleep-happy sergeant named Zept, who adheres to his berth like a clam.

The great monarch of the Alaks alone dispenses licenses to hunt the silver woodland lion. Whenever one is killed, only the head is taken. The body is carefully buried with a uniform draped over it. In exactly three days, an Edek will appear at the spot. Anyone unfortunate enough to witness this, I guess, sudden appearance, asphyxiates, and so no one can say exactly how it happens. Who cares?