“The illusion is real,” Birdseye says.
A third spot of light, egg shaped, appears presenting the shadow of a rocket standing, emitting puffs of smoke, in waiting, as if it is ready to take off.
Then a voice, not unlike that of an air hostess but less serviceable, less predictable, and unquestionably more spellbinding, like that of a regular mermaid, one with hair made of gold thread and with diamond shells covering her breasts begins her song. And this is how, while the monkeys, still hanging by their tail and still munching, still chomping, the Captain, Birdseye and Labaguette learn about the eggs shaped lights and how these are extracted from the real egg shells from which the monkeys were born.
The crew ponder and wonder in amazement at the idea that the Syck Monckey himself would have been nurtured inside such an egg and that he would have been born from it. How could it be that he had not created himself by pure legendary and mythical coincidence? Or how could it be that he had not been in existence since all things began to exist? He is, all things considered, a fluke of nature, a freak, a revered loner with much influence and, had he acquired the gift of speech, a wonder creature with much to brag about.
But the mermaid’s singing does not allow for lengthy musing, merely enough for the crew to ingest, understand and know what is to be done. What? Wait a minute. Who said something would have to be done? And by whom?
To be continued…