Page one, panel four, splashdown. The plane’s wings curl inward to cover its windshield as it crashes into the lagoon. The wings have fingers, and the doomed pilot and doomed copilot peer from between the fingers like eyeballs.
*
From The Journals of C. Phelps Northrup
July 14
On this fifth day of our desolitude I fear our little compact of necessity has fractured. Mr. and Mrs. Dingbat have refused Poacher Junebug’s sagacious notion that we depart the beach for the caves of the interior, insisting that salvage is imminent and in trepidation of the rumored wolverines and bandicoots roaming the deeper groves. However, despite his intrepitude and riflery, Poacher Junebug has succeeded in bagging nothing, which circumstance neither allays our fears nor stocks our larder. The hunter also continually alludes, in snide asides, to the possible deluxe repast to be made of Peter Rabbit. Hence, much dissension, resulting in parturition of our ranks; Peter Rabbit now savors protection within the circled wagons of the Dingbat Family, on the sand where we first crawled ashore, while Poacher Junebug, Large Silly, King Phnudge, and I have undertaken to conquestify the interior. Murkly Finger has, too, stayed behind and entrenched on the beach, in a fragment of the airplane’s darkened hull, within which he hoards untold provisions. Only King Phnudge has managed penetration of Finger’s lair (King Phnudge has no arms and so perhaps represented no threat to Finger’s cache), but his vocabulary was inadequate for conveying to us any sense of the inventory he’d espied there:
“Creamy dreamy breamy — hip hurdle hoo!”
C’Krrrarn has of course from the first gone his own way. He was sighted again, by the brainy little Dingbat girl, early this morning, posed atop the volcano. Lisa summoned us all to see him there, still as sculpture, foreclaw beckoning to the new sun.
*
PRE-NOSTALGIA CLEARANCE SALE!!!
LIMITED EDITION DINGBAT SODA
REDUCED
FUTURE COLLECTOR’S ITEMS???
T. DINGBAT’S BEER COLA (nonalcoholic)
KEENER’S LITE ICE TEA
LISA DINGBAT’S CHERRY-ROOT BREW
SPARK’S FIZZUM (caffeine-reduced)
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN???
TWENTY DOLLARS PER CASE
DINGBATS WE MISS U!!!
*
Ten-year-old Spark Dingbat wandered the beach at midday, wearing an inverted bowl of woven palm fronds, a sun hat fashioned by Keener, his mom. Spark had left his family and Peter Rabbit at the campsite they’d improvised, a ring of crappy lean-tos encircling a presumptive fire that his dad, Theophile, had serially failed to light. His sister, Lisa, having forged a twee, cooing alliance with the terrified hare, Spark was left somewhat on the outside. Now, obstinately solo, he strolled at the shell-strewn beach’s exact margin, where the wiper blade of surf just dyed the pinkish sand a wetter hue, where his eight toes were teased by a fringe of bubbles.
Rounding the top of a rocky knoll, a view unfolded below of an inlet sheltered from the harder surf of the surrounding beaches. Two fat figures splashed there. Large Silly and King Phnudge. Spark clambered past the spit of rock and eased down the sand embankment, to stare from the inlet’s grassy ridge. The clown had removed his shoes and clothing, all but his jet-black underwear. His feet were enormous, his white body both fleshy and firm, like the ripest fruit. King Phnudge remained fully dressed, or perhaps he was painted. His crown and beard seemed to flow into his collar, and his collar seemed to be one with his belt and his boots, less accoutrements than fancy outcroppings of his smooth, pudgy whole. Armless, he splashed excitedly side to side in water that came to what should have been his knees, while beside him the clown beat maniacally in the water with a large forked stick, a dowser who’d discovered the sea. The two made a natural pair in Spark’s eyes. Their other strong resemblance was to his father, but Spark suspected no one among the islanders would ever remark it. His father was famous. Large Silly and King Phnudge were nobodies.
“What are you doing?”
Large Silly and King Phnudge wheeled, completely surprised.
“What’s it look like, boy? Poacher said he saw some sea bream in this pool.”
“Fishy splishy wishy hup huzzoo!”
“How are you going to catch them?”
“With nets of vapid questions and sarcasm. In our teeth. With that headgear of yours — hey, there’s a notion. Cough up the fedora, lad.”
“Use the king’s crown.”
“Crowns, if you hadn’t noticed, have a hole in the middle. Besides, I don’t think it comes off.”
“Stuckity pluckity pizzazz — hooble hoo!”
Spark sighed and passed his hat to the eager clown, then watched as it was thrashed to fragments in the hopelessly clumsy attempt at fishing. Spark never saw evidence of a fish. If there had been any, king and clown had certainly frightened them off. Keener’s meticulously woven palm fronds were borne off with the seaweed and foam in the pool’s gentle tide.
*
C’KRRRARN TEARS OFF THE TOP OF A PALM TREE AND FEEDS!!!
C’Krrrarn is staying within himself.
C’KRRRARN TEARS OFF A CORNER OF THE VOLCANO AND FEEDS!!!
C’Krrrarn is staying within himself.
C’KRRRARN TEARS OFF A CHUNK OF THE OCEAN AND DEVOURS IT!!!
C’Krrrarn sits perfectly still and tries to empty his mind.
C’KRRRARN SLURPS THE BLOOD OF THE DINGBATS!!!
Long study has demonstrated to C’Krrrarn that the other person is himself.
C’KRRRARN TEARS OFF A PORTION OF THE HORIZON AND DEVOURS IT!!!
C’Krrrarn gazes into the horizon and the horizon gazes into C’Krrrarn and each is calm and free of desire.
*
From Poacher Junebug, an Index
Island, Accursed, panel 4044
Island, Confounded, panels 3176, 3189, 3204n, 3226, 3564, 3573, 3888, 4002, 4036
Island, Consarn deviltry of, panels 3344–45, 6455, 3988n, 4012
Island, Dadburned critters on, panels 3224, 3656, 3813, 4009
Island, Dingblasted fools on, panels 3208, 3225, 3457, 3800–1, 4009
Island, Durned, panel 4129
Island, Goshforsaken, panels 3185, 3765
Island, Riddiculush, panels 3345, 3679, 4088–89
Island, Terrible, panels 3899, 4034, 4067, 4122
Island, Woeful, panels 3550, 3823, 4129
Island, Wretched be this, panels 3944, 4191
*
From The Journals of C. Phelps Northrup
July 27
Decline sets in. Tempests wreak havoc on our poor dwellings every third day. Between, corrosive sunshine. Despondent over prospects of rescue. We find little and less to eat. Eighteen days and we come to know some of our companions too well, others not at all. Murkly Finger roams the shore at night, cackling. In sunlight he retracts like a rodent to his hole, around which he has erected an array of sharpened sticks dug in pits of sand, disguised with flimsy leaf cover and more sand, and which would collapse inward at a footfall. The clown floats on his back in the spring where we would drink, moaning snatches of merry song, muttering wry punch lines without any jokes to them. He has forsaken his hygiene, enclothed in only his undergarment and a purple island hyacinth, its stem wended in his loopy tufts of hair. His feet are rotting. Poacher Junebug, I now understand, catches nothing, fulminates only. The rabbit is in no danger, except from himself. Like the derelict clown, the hare has abandoned clothing, shedding his red waistcoat and bow tie. He now goes on all fours, heeding some natural call. Lisa Dingbat, that former exemplary tot, follows him everywhere, and she too presently goes au naturel. I tried to confabulate with her one recent afternoon and she only sniffed and nibbled at the air, issuing a rabbity wheezing sigh, perhaps believing herself a sibling to Peter. The other Dingbats remain largely hidden from view. They must be hungry.