Marin murmured "That.."

The snake seemed to wake up "What, what is it? What do you see?"

"Oh. It's just the southern shrine."

"Shrine? Oh yes the southern shrine, in the wastes, which has always been in the wastes."

"Yes. I just.. seemed to have forgotten it was here, for a moment. Odd."

Link coughed, lungs still raw from the smoke of the feathers and char he'd been asked to inhale in the previous night, as a part of a ritual he'd been told could reshape the dream. It was true, and it had. The very strange thing was that he seemed to be the only one who remembered how the wastes had been before the southern shrine had been moved several miles west, reshaped and redressed by the flowing trunks of an enormous tree, that had been twisted by some coercion of the sap into the shape of a resplendent teahouse.

Not even the witch realized what had happened. There seemed to be a contradiction here. The witch knew something had happened, and she knew she was supposed to remember it, but Link could tell she was only pretending, without even remembering why she was pretending. She could tell that Link was far more confident of his memories than she was. Sooner or later she would presumably give up pretending to be on top of things and she'd ask him what happened. For now, popping her vain little bubble of denial didn't much matter. They had other things to do today.

As the three approached the southern shrine that was no longer particularly south, Link mulled over the question of whether the feathers he'd smoked contained any magic at all. He was sure that Cybil had been lying about having conducted the spell before as she'd claimed. For one, if she had, she would either not remember doing it, or she would be in his position, she would remember, and remember others not remembering, and in that case she would have warned him about those side effects and asked him to tell her afterwards what had happened. Another reason he doubted the magic had been in the feathers was that he knew that the expectations of the visitor were powerful enough to warp the dream on their own, and he knew that the witch was wily enough to try to use that. The premise that there really was a dream-warping spell simply wasn't necessary. It could have been true, but it probably wasn't. How would she have known about it, anyway?

As Link and Marin clambered up the steps of the extended southern shrine, over the snaking trunks of the witch's tree, and around its many statues of fair-faced cherubs (who all seemed to have an unsettlingly familiar wryness and wrath in their eyes), they began to hear a bickering. An old man and a creature who spoke all in capital letters were going back and forth with increasing vehemence. Every now and then the witch would interrupt, the volume of the argument would be reset, and begin to rise anew. By the time Link and Marin had reached the aerie where the convention was being held, they were both unable to hide their amusement. As they came within hearing distance, once again, it was the witch's turn to interject. "While that is true, Meshtapon, I feel that Ulrira may be correct to invoke the parable of the lengthening line. What incentive would the fish have had to create us if it had reason to think that we would turn and bite the hand that feeds?"

The shadow's eyes were still rimmed with red, but it had become smaller since Link had seen it last, approximating the shape of an owl. Its four oral appendages had formed themselves into an oversized beak, which broke up and reformed as it spoke.

"OHHH, YOUR PRECISE ARTICULATIONS ONCE AGAIN HUMBLE ME, MISTRESS. I APOLOGIZE FOR MISUNDERSTANDING, ULRIRA, PLEASE CONTINUE." Link's smile grew, mirroring the many cherub statues of the southern shrine, his canines started to show. He covered his mouth so that no one would see, for it gave away two things, not just his relationship with the shadow who'd shaped the shrine, but also the sham of the bickering which he easily saw through. It was a very transparent performance on the part of the two participants dressed in black, and he wondered how many among the audience could see this, and how many were simply baffled by it, having never met a shadow before, not truly knowing the extents of its foolishness or the extents of its genius.

The old man from the village said through gritted teeth. "As I was explaining to the beast, we have been prepared for situations like this for centuries by our culture's precepts. Since you don't seem to have understood the fable of the lengthening line, Meshtapon, I'll retell it now."

"FASCINATING. DO TRY."

The old man winced, took a breath, and continued. "There was once a tribe of the desert"

"NO THERE WASN'T. THE DESERT HAS ALWAYS BEEN UNPOPULATED."

Interjected the witch, "It's a counterfactual, Meshtapon, intended to illustrate a principle by instancing a hypothetical exception."

"AH, RIGHT, SORRY, KEEP TRYING."

"... And this tribe, one year, they were required to undergo a pilgrimage. At an interval, each member of the tribe was to set out with naught but staff and cloak to a specific location. They were to navigate by the sun alone, and they were not allowed to stop at any point. Unfortunately, it was very difficult to walk the great distance they were required to walk by way of the sun, without going off course, overshooting their destination, becoming lost, and perishing in the desert."

"IT IS INTERESTING TO NOTE HERE THAT ON ALL ISLAND NATIONS BUT THIS ONE-"

"Mistress!" Complained the old man

"Rude to interrupt, Meshtapon, but I know what you're going to say and I trust you wont take long. It's only parenthetical, Ulrira, you may find it interesting."

Ulrira crossed his arms.

"YES. I MEAN TO SAY, IT IS INTERESTING TO NOTE HERE THAT ON ALL ISLAND NATIONS BUT THIS ONE, WHERE OCEANIC VOYAGES ARE RARELY UNDERTAKEN, THE ART OF NAVIGATING BY SUN AND CLOCK IS ALWAYS LOST VERY QUICKLY, BEING WITHOUT USE IN SUCH SMALL PLACES, WHERE FAMILIAR LANDMARKS ARE MORE USEFUL THAN CONCEPTS OF NORTH AND SOUTH, AND WHERE THE ISLAND CAN BE TRAVERSED ENTIRELY FROM ONE SIDE TO THE OTHER IN LESS THAN TWO HOURS, SUCH AN ART WOULD BE USELESS.

ITS PRESENCE IN YOUR STORIES IS A REFLECTION OF YOUR NATURE AS REPRODUCTIONS OF DISTANT PEOPLE THE WIND FISH HAS KNOWN. FOR YOU TO CARRY THIS FABLE, THAT FEATURES AN ART WHICH COULD NOT DEVELOP HERE, IS A SIGN THAT YOUR CULTURE ORIGINATES ELSEWHERE, OUTSIDE OF THE DREAM. IT IS NOT THE ONLY ARTIFACT OF YOUR CULTURE THAT DEMONSTRATES THIS TRUTH. MANY OF YOUR TECHNOLOGIES COULD NOT HAVE BEEN DEVELOPED WITHOUT CONTACT WITH A POST-ENLIGHTENMENT SOCIETY."

It had not been parenthetical. It was entirely germane. The shadow was probably sewing seeds. It, or someone else who Ulrira would be more receptive to, would observe that their culture had not been (entirely) designed to walk quietly into oblivion as the dream's end encroached. It would be argued that they had been born of survivors, and that this was another sign of the heartlessness of the wind fish, how unfit it must be to decide the fates of its subjects, and how foolish any of them would be to pretend that they could embrace the end.

"Interesting, Meshtapon. We will keep that in mind. Ulrira will continue now."

The man looked dismayed "Where was I."

"They were going on a pilgrimage."

"Aye, right. And they were likely to get lost. The first ten or so pilgrims were very likely to miss the meeting point and perish. But soon enough at least one of them were likely to hit the mark. At this point, they were permitted to do as they please. Individually, they were not required to do anything. They may simply drink their fill of the supplies that had been left there and await the arrival, or the non-arrival of their kin.

But. This was a special tribe. They knew the principle of reciprocal precommitment."

Marin interrupted, singing again "Reciprocal precommitment!" As if following some cue that had been established at a previous time. Ulrira smiled warmly, along with the other humans in the circle, and he continued, hearts filled,

"Yes, they knew that good precept, and so, when they were wandering alone in the desert, a thought popped into their heads.

They each thought of an arrangement that might save them, if their fellows had adhered to it themselves. They thought of an act of coordination their kin could have performed, which would have saved them all.

They realized that although the merciful pact they had in mind would have hurt the individual who adhered to it, they each realized, while walking through the desert, if their kin had adhered to the pact, they would receive much more good, than it would cost the giver.

The pact would entail that the adherent run a line along in the sand, a fence of markers to point the way inwards to the meeting point for those who'd gone off target. They saw that the line could only grow long if each of their kin had precommitted to lengthening it before arriving at the meeting point, because there could be no other incentive to do so. They now had a decision to make.

The same decision as the others had made when they'd thought the same thoughts.

If they decided they would commit, all the more likely that others would do so as well.

If they decided not to commit, what expectation could they have of finding a guiding line?

Their decision as to whether or not to commit would decide how likely it was that they would find the line.

So they invoked the principle of reciprocal precommitment, and they committed to building that line when they arrived, and so they found, as if by magic, a line had been built before them, and all but a few of the pilgrims came across it and survived their journey."

Marin started clapping, along with a few others, Cybil included. Link followed her lead.

"It is an informative story indeed. But, Ulrira, it may be difficult for some to see the connection to our decision here?"

"It's a simple translation, Cybil. In our formation as a people, a formation we are undergoing at this very moment by questioning our place in the dream, we are faced with a similar choice. We could commit to be the people that the fish wanted to dream, and so the fish would be nourished by us, and we would find ourselves with berth. Or we could bite the hand that feeds, demonstrating defection, and the wind fish would begin to die out, we would miss our guiding line, and our people, and people like us, would have never come into existence.

We MUST, clearly, have faith in the wind fish and nourish its soils, or we would never have found our way to its oasis."

"I SEE. I HAD NEVER QUITE LEARNED WHAT THAT STORY MEANT TO YOUR PEOPLE. PENETRATING INDEED. I AM STILL CONFUSED, THOUGH. THIS PRINCIPLE CAN ONLY BE INVOKED BEFORE THE DECISION HAS BEEN MADE, CAN'T IT? YOU ASSERT THAT YOU HAD ALREADY DECIDED TO SURRENDER YOUR LIVES TO THE DREAMER? BUT YOU WERE NEVER ABLE TO STAND AT A DISTANCE FROM YOUR MEETING POINT, SOME BEFORE TIME, PRIOR TO OUR CREATION, AND WONDER WHAT KIND OF PEOPLE YOU WOULD PRECOMMIT TO BE." Ulrira went to speak, and Cybil raised a hand in silence. "YOU DID NOT COMMIT TO NOURISHING SOME DREAMER'S SOILS, MORE GERMANELY, YOU DID NOT COMMIT TO ALLOWING IT TO SLAY YOU, WHO WOULD, GIVEN THE CHANCE? WHO WOULD PROMISE A TYRANOUS GODDESS SUCH SERVICE IN EXCHANGE FOR A PRISON AND A PREMATURE END? THE WIND FISH DID NOT GIVE YOU THE CHANCE. IN FACT, AS I JUST ALLUDED TO, THE BODY OF YOUR CULTURE WAS BORN WITH NO REGARD FOR SUCH THINGS, BORN OF A CULTURE WHO STRIVED TO LEAVE THEIR ISLANDS, TO CROSS VAST OCEANS- YES! THEY MUST HAVE BEEN SEAFARERS!- AS SURELY AS WOMEN LIKE CYBIL CAN EMERGE, AND QUESTION YOUR CONCLUSIONS, YOU ARE STILL THAT CULTURE, WHO PROMISED NO-"

"Enough, Meshtapon." Spoke the witch. "It was an interesting discussion, but the sun will have to set today. We will adjourn, and we will resume this at another time. Now, Link", she beckoned, and Link approached a raised stone at the north of the aerie. In the middle of the platform was a slit that descended into the stone. Link drew his sword, turned to Cybil for effect, who nodded for effect, then proceeded to lower the sword into the holder. He then walked away from the upstanding sword and went to Marin, making sure to draw her away to the back of the crowd.

The old woman spoke. "We gathered here to decide, in the best, most civil and most just way possible, how to approach the coming end of the dream."

This did not seem to be news to anyone.

"For now, we will adjourn, but first, we will say a vow. We will commit to decide together. That no one will proceed before a quorum had been reached, and no one will go before the others, no hasty mistakes. Is this acceptable?"

Nods and ayes from the reconciliationists resounded, while whatever unilateralists there might of been, being unilateralists, required no spoken permission to violate any vow they might take, and they remained predictably silent.

She approached someone, seeming to choose at random. "You, Prince Richard, would you like to be the first to make the commitment?"

"I would be honored."

"Please approach the sword, grasp its handle, and say the words."

He went forward, and he grasped it. Here Link knew the prince would hear, in his core, the singing of the sword. He would not know what it was. He would not be able to distinguish it from the nervous energy of being thrust into the spotlight, or from hope, or from echoes of whatever vehemence he had felt as he watched the debate between Ulrira and the shadow. He would look to the egg on its mountain, far away, pause to find just the right words, and he would say something along the lines of,

"I commit to proceed as one."

And from then on, others would say the same words. They would not understand quite what they were committing to until they felt the singing of the sword, and then they would, hopefully, realize that their heart of hearts wanted to shatter the egg, slay the fish sleeping within it, and fly away on the righteous wings of the nightmares to faraway fields of dreams where they might survive the coming scouring.

Most would feel this, anyway. Link didn't dare to assume he knew what Cybil would feel, when she took that sword. Surely she wouldn't make any resolutions she hadn't already made during those two hours she'd faced the egg in the night, two nights before.

He could not be sure what Ulrira would feel. Perhaps confusion. Perhaps his moral conviction ran deep enough that the sword's vehemence would, in his mind, simply reaffirm his animosity towards Meshtapon and its kin, all those who would prolong the dream unnaturally. He would look upon the egg and vow to defend it.

Or perhaps the tree that would not bend to the wind was weak enough to be snapped, he may give up completely.

When his turn came, the old man walked away from the sword with a thousand yard stare, vacant and inscrutable.

Link didn't bother trying to imagine what Meshtapon would feel, after it had jerkily unfolded its body into a humanoid form, taken the sword, and said in its rasping drone, "I COMMIT TO PROCEED AS ONE."

But Link was certain of what he would hear in the voice that mattered the most, as Marin approached the sword at last, and the words refused to come to her lips, as they were outpaced and overrun by song.

It was a riposte to her song of awakening, building on top of it and disrupting it with notes of indignance and dark ambitions, a self-bearing ouroboros song that built on itself and had no end. The group were bound together by this song, all but one, who only Link and old woman observed, throwing himself from the south of the aerie.

As Link, Marin, Cybil, Meshtapon and The Snake watched from that ledge, as the rest of their fellows descended and drifted south of the wastes to their homes, they saw each one pause over Ulrira's corpse. They saw that not much was said, and they saw that there was little uncertainty among the convention as to what it meant, that suicidal cowardice had quelled the last remaining voice of dissent.