A Turning Point Written In Sand

On the beach, it's dark and moonless.

Gaius sits on a rock.

Humboldt paces beside him.

Do sit, says Gaius.

The tide's coming in, says Humboldt.

They should be back soon, says Gaius.

I'll go and find them, says Terence.

No, you wait here, says Humboldt. I'll go.

He heads off in a southerly direction.

The comb crested jacana lands in front of him.

It's good that you're here! says the comb crested jacana.

What's happened? asks Humboldt.

Are you the artistic among us? asks the comb crested jacana.

Yes and no, says Humboldt. I dabble.

What about Gaius? asks the comb crested jacana.

I'm sure Gaius can set his hand to anything, says Humboldt. I take it there's a problem?

Yes, a problem, says the comb crested jacana. The ladies could do with a lift.

Fine, says Humboldt. I'll handle it. I presume you wish to describe the scene while it's fresh in your mind to the artistic among us, in this case Gaius?

I admire your emotional intelligence, says the comb crested jacana. Perhaps I should describe the tableau to you, but.... if you say Gaius can set his hand to anything...

I do, says Humboldt, and I would prefer to get on with the rescue.

Of course, says the comb crested jacana. Continue southerly. The tide has turned and the ladies have come to a standstill.

Humboldt bolts away in a southerly direction, hearing faint cries in the distance.

That will be them, he is certain.

The comb crested jacana flaps back to the rock on which Gaius is sitting, and the sand palace that Terence is halfway through building.

My parrot! cries Terence.

What's the story? asks Gaius. Have you returned early to tell it?

I have, says the comb crested jacana.

Begin, says Gaius. I shall make notes.

It's good of you, says the comb crested jacana. Not just making notes, but coming down to the beach in the evening, and preparing the plum box, letting Ageless use your pencils....

Damn! says Gaius. I forgot about the pencils.

Write the story in sand, says the comb crested jacana.

I suppose I'm obliged to, says Gaius. Start, please.

The sand is black, as is the water, says the comb crested jacana. The only sound is of wheels, and a lobster complaining. The ladies are beauties no doubt but no one can see them They moan in delight. (assuming it isn't discomfort). I fly overhead. Faintly I discern four pink fingers quivering, faintly I detect a fossilised hum....... Suddenly, swoosh, the rasping of pebbles, the scraping of water, the softening of pasta.

Is that a sound? asks Gaius. The softening of pasta.

To a bird, yes, says the comb crested jacana. And that is the crux of it.

What's a crux? asks Terence.

A turning point or crossroads, says Gaius. Be quiet and listen.

The pasta wheels of the plum box have softened, says the comb crested jacana. The plum box has come to a halt. The tide has turned. The ladies are oblivious. Ageless stops pulling and cries out to the heavens. As you know the heavens are stony.

Believe me I do know, says Gaius, writing in the sand furiously.