
Sailhardy threw an arm forward, pointing. There, a sinister tower ringing death from the tocsin which clanged round its black cliffs, was Nightingale Island. White gouts burst from its cliffs like signal guns as the water climbed in awe-provoking slow motion up the black granite. Behind a barrier of kelp and sea-bamboo was the beach. The boat swung heavenwards. Sailhardy wrenched one arm from the tiller and threw it across his eyes. Something black hit him. The boat, out of control, started a toboggan run down the wave. Sailhardy regained control. I was crawling to his assistance, but stopped short. The bird was shiny black, with fiery bloodshot eyes. It looked like something conjured up by a sick mind to match the contortion of nature about us. I gazed unbelievingly. There was something wrong. It had no wings.
Sailhardy was shouting and grinning. There was a ragged hole in his mouth where a tooth had been knocked out.
" Island Cock!" he yelled. " Luck! It's as old as the D o d o! T h e w i n d b l e w i t c l e a n o f f t h e i s l a n d! L u c k y !
Lucky!"
Lucky! We would need every bit of luck, I thought grimly, looking around. The bird's over-size talons gripped the gratings. The Flightless Rail, the bird that can't fly and lives in burrows in the ground. It's in the same category as the New Zealand kiwi. I had no interest in ornithological curiosities at that moment.
