He reached out with his arms, kicked his legs behind him, and aimed for the part of the map cartographers decorated with dragons and serpents: the end of the world.
The end of the world they knew, at least. That was the sea he wanted to swim in – there between where the waters of the world fall down into the deep oblivion and where monsters roost who would capsize ships, obliterate their crews and let the gold and greed in their hulls drift to the rocks below.
Whiskey and will kept the cold off his skin but didn’t stop his legs from becoming bags of languorous sand that grew more difficult to demand movement from. He could still see the cliff he sprung from. If the crowd was still there waiting, their jaunts and jeers couldn’t make the journey to his ears.
He turned and swam again toward the dragons.
