As quickly as he began dropping, the parrot remembers his worst nightmare: falling, and deploys his wings as he hits a small branch protruding from underneath the ship. The branch bounces slightly, enough to wake Captain Traumatic, still sleeping on a bunch of leaves and branches that have almost completely taken over the ship.
“Labaguette!” the Captain utters as he opens one eyelid and the bird flies back up, ignoring the Captain.
“Mouton Blanc?” Labaguette whispers. But silence surrounds him like never before except for his own voice and that of the Captain: “Mouton Blanc?”
The parrot looks at the unfinished drawing etched on the edge of the ship. Not that bad: the strong beak is recognisable, he thinks, to do with a way with words and refined taste buds, all tell-tale signs of royal French ancestry. Pity there are no colours because, depending on your viewpoint, he more or less looks like a dark, hopeless and exaggeratedly creepy bird. Aren’t caricatures meant to be funny he wonders.
“Mouton Blanc? Are you truly gone?” Labaguette investigates. “They were only pins, you know? I had to prove immortality doesn’t exist. I’m smarter than I look. It’s your fault.”
Nothing but silence. Labaguette, still sitting and teetering by the side of the drawing, is unsure how he feels and how, really, he should be feeling, except he is all alone and scared of falling yet again.
“What’s this mess, Labaguette?” Captain Traumatic asks, appearing from below deck.
“Not a mess, Captain, not a mess. It’s me. Mouton Blanc drew me.”
“I mean that wet, sticky patch, you, puffed-up beak bird. Where is Mouton Blanc?”
“I dunno, gone I suppose.”
To be continued…