even from one of her favorite books. Did they have books here, underwater? Paper and electronics were both apparent impossibilities. Though given the kind of conjuring ability demonstrated by Oxothyr, she supposed that through magic, anything might be possible. One thing she did know for certain. She would not need anything magical to help her sleep.
Following a dinner more elaborate and even tastier than the quick lunch Poylee had prepared earlier, her hostess showed her to the small spare room that was maintained for guests. It offered shelves Irina would not use and screened openings cut in the coral wall to hold the belongings she did not have. She would keep her dive knife and the few other small items she retained from her now superfluous scuba ensemble close at hand while she slept.
Her bed—the bed turned out to consist of dozens of healthy sponges. Maroon, purple, yellow, and numerous bright shades in between had been transplanted to the floor of the guest room and coaxed into existing there side by side. Sometimes round, often irregular in shape, they had been kept trimmed back so that all were precisely the same height.
“Good night-sleep, Irina.” Standing in the doorway, Poylee offered a last smile that while not openly affectionate was at least tolerant. “Don’t let the sea lice bite.” Having delivered herself of that mildly ominous caution, she kicked once and disappeared down the hallway to the right.
Turning in the water, Irina contemplated her bed. Firmly affixed to the floor and walled off from all but the gentle flow-through current that kept the household clean, the riot of colorful living sponges beckoned. Sea lice, she knew, were tiny and dull colored. Even if present they were unlikely to bother her, though if disturbed they were as capable of any crab of delivering an irritating pinch. They were fond of concealing themselves in coral, on sea fans, and in sponges. Did some actually dwell in the bed?
By now she was too tired to care. Slipping out of her green swimsuit and hanging it from a projecting knob of branch coral, she kicked a couple of times until she was drifting above and parallel to the bed. Facing upward and letting herself turn horizontal to the floor, she sank downward until contact was made. While exceptionally welcoming, the tops of the sponges were also surprisingly stiff. Support and comfort, she thought sleepily. Such a sleeping platform wouldn’t work back home, where her out-of-water weight would compress the delicate sponges as if they were made of wet cardboard. She found that she had no trouble remaining in one place on the bed. The flow-through house current was not strong enough to move her; only to occasionally rock her gently.
She had almost literally drifted off to sleep when a pair of strange new sounds caused her eyes to flutter open. Steady and recurring, the first originated not far from her room. Bubbles, she decided, as she recognized the submarine equivalent of a familiar problem. Her hostess was snoring in her sleep.
The other sound continued to rise progressively in intensity before achieving a specific volume and finally leveling off. It was the underwater equivalent of dozens of unseen crickets chirping in a creek bed on a summer night, or a kitchen full of fast-food fryers all crackling and bubbling away at the same time. In actuality, the clamor arose from millions of tiny shrimp and other miniscule crustaceans emerging from their hiding places within the reef to feed by the light of the unseen moon that smeared the mirrorsky with silver.
Between remembrances of her hostess’s cheerful chatter and the continuous chitinous fizz that now filled the sea, her own thoughts and concerns fell by the wayside. Lying atop the bed of yielding sponges, lightly nudged by the current, she soon fell into what turned out to be the deepest, soundest sleep of her life.…
O O O
The water in the wide-mouthed cave that looked out over a lower ridge of reef was
Following a dinner more elaborate and even tastier than the quick lunch Poylee had prepared earlier, her hostess showed her to the small spare room that was maintained for guests. It offered shelves Irina would not use and screened openings cut in the coral wall to hold the belongings she did not have. She would keep her dive knife and the few other small items she retained from her now superfluous scuba ensemble close at hand while she slept.
Her bed—the bed turned out to consist of dozens of healthy sponges. Maroon, purple, yellow, and numerous bright shades in between had been transplanted to the floor of the guest room and coaxed into existing there side by side. Sometimes round, often irregular in shape, they had been kept trimmed back so that all were precisely the same height.
“Good night-sleep, Irina.” Standing in the doorway, Poylee offered a last smile that while not openly affectionate was at least tolerant. “Don’t let the sea lice bite.” Having delivered herself of that mildly ominous caution, she kicked once and disappeared down the hallway to the right.
Turning in the water, Irina contemplated her bed. Firmly affixed to the floor and walled off from all but the gentle flow-through current that kept the household clean, the riot of colorful living sponges beckoned. Sea lice, she knew, were tiny and dull colored. Even if present they were unlikely to bother her, though if disturbed they were as capable of any crab of delivering an irritating pinch. They were fond of concealing themselves in coral, on sea fans, and in sponges. Did some actually dwell in the bed?
By now she was too tired to care. Slipping out of her green swimsuit and hanging it from a projecting knob of branch coral, she kicked a couple of times until she was drifting above and parallel to the bed. Facing upward and letting herself turn horizontal to the floor, she sank downward until contact was made. While exceptionally welcoming, the tops of the sponges were also surprisingly stiff. Support and comfort, she thought sleepily. Such a sleeping platform wouldn’t work back home, where her out-of-water weight would compress the delicate sponges as if they were made of wet cardboard. She found that she had no trouble remaining in one place on the bed. The flow-through house current was not strong enough to move her; only to occasionally rock her gently.
She had almost literally drifted off to sleep when a pair of strange new sounds caused her eyes to flutter open. Steady and recurring, the first originated not far from her room. Bubbles, she decided, as she recognized the submarine equivalent of a familiar problem. Her hostess was snoring in her sleep.
The other sound continued to rise progressively in intensity before achieving a specific volume and finally leveling off. It was the underwater equivalent of dozens of unseen crickets chirping in a creek bed on a summer night, or a kitchen full of fast-food fryers all crackling and bubbling away at the same time. In actuality, the clamor arose from millions of tiny shrimp and other miniscule crustaceans emerging from their hiding places within the reef to feed by the light of the unseen moon that smeared the mirrorsky with silver.
Between remembrances of her hostess’s cheerful chatter and the continuous chitinous fizz that now filled the sea, her own thoughts and concerns fell by the wayside. Lying atop the bed of yielding sponges, lightly nudged by the current, she soon fell into what turned out to be the deepest, soundest sleep of her life.…
O O O
The water in the wide-mouthed cave that looked out over a lower ridge of reef was
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