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The egg shaped thing mystified me, and I kept it with me always, often taking it out to examine. I would sit it on the sand, and it would become an egg that seemed to have sand glued all over it. I sat naked, one night, and without a thought placed it in my lap; in a moment the egg was covered with blonde curls. On a table the egg appeared to be wooden, and next to a cutlass it imitated grey metal. Mr. Birdsong was no less perplexed by it. We were sitting in one of the cabanas, one afternoon, spinning fantacies about what the thing might be (theories, Mr. Birdsong insisted), all of which were about to be proved false. Mr. Birdsong nodded off after an hour of hard thinking, curling up in the sand that served as floor to the little structure. Willie, hopped off the three cornered hat that was his favorite perch, fluttered over to the egg and began to roll it about with his beak, occasionally stopping to peck at it. I watched this game go on for a while; then color and fast pattern changes began to move over its surface faster and faster. The color changes stopped, and the thing took on the exact green of Willie's feathers. It perfectly modeled itself after the texture of feathers so that it appeared to be a little ball of parrot feathers. Then it began to lose its egg shape. "Mr. Birdsong, awaken!" I gave him a shake. "Eh? Let me sleep, girl." "Strange goings on. That thing's looking like Willie." "Posh. It always looks like what it's next to. Let me sleep." "But it's not egg shaped anymore."

Willie continued to toy with the thing as it became a flat puddle of feathers on the sand. It shot out a tendril that hit Willie square in the chest, and he fell over on his side with not a wiggle of his single leg. The thing seemed to be sucked along the tendril and began to flow over Willie. I reached out to yank away the tendril, and there was a sudden flash.... I know not how long I was aswoon, but when I came to myself I saw Mr. Birdsong reaching out to protect Willie. "Stop!" I cried, but it was too late. A tiny lightning bolt burst from the tendril and hit him between the eyes. He fell backward, his head making a dimple in the sand. I grabbed his foot in order to drag him out, but his fancy buckled shoe came off in my hand. I threw it at the thing, but another bolt of lightning hit the buckle and blew the shoe across the room, sparking and smoking. I grabbed Mr. Birdsong's bare foot and dragged him outside. He came to just as I got him out, and he launched into a masterfully elaborate course of sailor's invective, represented among which were idiom and cant from all the world's great maratime civilizations. At last he settled enough to ask what was happening to Willie. I looked back into the cabana. Willie was back up on his foot, hopping about and chattering to himself. The tendril was no longer there and he looked, at first glance, just as he always had. I went back into the cabana with mincing steps, keeping an eye on Willie. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw that the camoflaged thing moved over him like honey poured from a jar. "It be crawlin' o're 'em, Mr. B. What do we do?"

He shook his head and growled. "Might kill Willie if we try to remove it, and the damned thing won't let us get near in any case. Best we wait a while and mull over the problem." Our wait was not a long one. Willie shuddered, looked about, and fluttered to Mr. Birdsong's shoulder. He jerked as Willie landed on his shoulder, but no lightning struck. "Is that thing still on him?" " 'Fraid so, sir. Make no move -- it might well strike ye again wi' one o' them little lightning bolts." Mr. Birdsong stood still, but need not have; Willie was acting quite his usual self, preening and chattering away. He stopped after a while, and began to repeat the whole of the conversation held between Mr. Birdsong and myself a few minutes earlier -- repeating every nuance of both our parts, the tembre of both our voices, even making the noises of the surf, the chirping birds, and the wind's rustle through the thatch on the cabana's roof. "What's got into ye, Willie?" I asked, just as one would talk to a dog or cat, certainly not expecting a reply. He fluttered off Mr. Birdsong's shoulder, landed on mine, and asked "What's got into ye, Willie?" "Phah," said Mr. Birdsong, "ye've already said that." " 'Twas not me, sir, 'twas Willie." "Get ye back o're here, Willie," said Mr. Birdsong. The normally obedient Willie made no move. I cautiously gave him a push off my shoulder, half expecting to be struck by one of the little lightning bolts. He fluttered into the air and relit on my other shoulder. "Molly - Molly - Molly," said he.

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Copyright © Michael B.Stevens, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2005. All rights reserved. Format modified Aug. 2005