It's dark The moon is new.
The sand is cool and silky, and faintly smells of matches.
The sea is doing what it does at night.
Shuuurrrsh......hrmmmm.......shuuurrrshh.
Ray is sleeping, but perhaps it is the rhythm.......Tung! He sits bolt upright on the sand.
The verse by Kipling has assembled itself in his subconscious.
He pulls at Schopenhauer's sleeve.
Wa...? says Schopenhauer, in startled German.
I remembered it, says Ray. It goes like this:
Buy my hot-wood clematis
Buy my frond of fern
Gathered where the Erskine leaps
Down the road to Lorne.
There are many things about that which are questionable, says Schopenhauer.
Did someone mention hot-wood clematis? says Gaius.
Kipling, says Ray. He mentioned it.
Gaius is puzzled. Has Kipling joined the party?
The silence is broken by the sound of lubricious singing, coming from the jug.
It's only me from over the sea......says.....Barnacle Bill the Sailor!
Gaius reaches over and raps on the jug.
The singing continues, uproariously:
Who's that kno..o..cking on my door?
Who's that kno..o..cking on my door?
Says the fair young Maiden!
Gaius peers into the jug, in time to see the last barnacle balancing precariously on Admiral de Guichen's large claw.
Dance, barnacle, damn ye! cries Admiral de Guichen.
The barnacle dances a jig of despair.
Wait! cries the barnacle in desperation. Think of Charles Darwin!
Charles Darwin hated barnacles as no man had before! says Admiral de Guichen. He said so.
Did he? says Gaius. That's news to me.
He didn't mean it, squeaks the barnacle. He was just tired of looking at us through a microscope for eight years.
Understandable, says Gaius. Now quieten down everyone. I need to get some shut-eye.
Everyone lies down again, or sinks to the bottom.
None of them has noticed Arthur, who has wandered down the beach towards a flickering campfire.
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