Miguel Ortega's new yacht steamed into Montego Bay to refuel and pick up some fresh provisions before sailing on north to the United States. Ortega was not finding it easy adjusting to life at sea, and went ashore to stretch his legs and feel the firm sandy soil of Jamaica under his feet.

Before long he worked up a thirst, and stopped at a tavern for a drink and a short rest. As he sat nursing his rum cooler, his attention was drawn to a tall Jamaican with Rastafarian dreadlocks sitting at a table nearby. The man seemed to be talking about a voodoo rite, but Ortega thought he heard him mention Chicago. He began to listen more closely.

"Twas the Loa Damballah herself, I tell you. Right there in Chicago. Who else would have white hair and death white skin? Who else could turn into a snake before Rankine's eyes? Yes, Rankine was smoking the divine weed. But smoke does not cloud his eyes. He knows what he sees. 'Twas not a dream."

As he heard these words, Ortega broke into a familiar cold sweat. Somehow this story made him feel the presence of his own dream snake. Never before had the dream come to him like this in the daytime. Never before had he recalled the dream so vividly while he was awake.

But this man was saying the snake was real, and someone named Rankine had seen it in Chicago. Could it be that his own snake was not a dream, that it had actually attacked him in Pennsylvania, had weakened him and clouded his mind so that he could not recall it, and then could not perform for the woman he desired? He had to find this Rankine and talk to him.

Ortega approached the table. "Pardon me, I could not help but hear you speak of the white snake, that it was seen in Chicago. It is possible I encountered this same snake in Pennsylvania."

Rankine studied Ortega coldly for a long moment. Then his look softened and he said, "You are Senor Ortega, from the yacht in the harbor. Please, join us. Tell Rankine and his friends how you met the white snake."

Ortega smiled and pulled up a chair, amused and slightly embarrassed at being confused by Rankine's island patois. He told him that his memory of the encounter was not clear, that until now he had thought it was only a dream, but hearing someone else speak of it seemed to be bringing it back. He asked to hear more of Rankine's story.

Rankine was happy to have a listener who might really believe him. He told of how the woman he called the Loa Damballah had entered his room, and entered his dream of home. How she had danced with him, and he thought she had come to offer him love.

When Rankine got to the part where she had bitten his neck to drink his blood, Ortega went pale. His hand went involuntarily to the small scar on his own neck, and his mouth opened.

"Thus does the earth-mother claim the blood of the evil-doer to replenish the lost blood of the innocent," he said. It was the first time he had consciously recalled those words. It was true. It was all true.

And now he remembered something else. The death-pale snake-woman who had taken his blood had become, before his eyes, the dark-haired, green-eyed woman he had been lusting after ever since. His lust deepened, and changed form.

Rankine was staring at him. "'The Lamia does not lightly permit the evil-doer to spill the blood of the innocent.' Those were her words to me. It is true, you know her too. But you are not of the islands. You are not one who the Loa would visit.

Rankine's face darkened. "She was not the true Loa Damballah! She was a witch, a deceiver! She drove Rankine from Chicago with lies!" His fist pounded the table so that the glasses jumped and the rum bottles teetered precariously.

"It was because of her that I left Philadelphia, that my business operation there collapsed in the hands of fools," said Ortega.

"It was because of her that Rankine left Chicago and returned to this island. Rankine, too, had a business operation that collapsed when he left it in the hands of others."

They understood each other perfectly. Before long, Ortega invited Rankine to become his partner, to go north with him on the yacht. It was Rankine's suggestion that they set their course not for Chesapeake Bay, but farther north, for the St. Lawrence Seaway, Lake Michigan, and Chicago, where he had last seen the Lamia.