He was lying there, minding his own business, head propped on an air-filled cushion. The sea lapped round him. His fingers trailed in the sand, and the water crept in between his fingers and up into his armpit, warm and ticklish.
This was his favourite place. There was not a great difference between low and high tide here, he had learned. He had worked out the best place by lying on the beach each day, moving a little each time. Now he had it just right. The sea would just wash round him and warm him and then, like a brief but unhurried visitor, be gone again. Unless there was a storm, of course. But today there would be no storm, only a hazy sky and the rhythmic wsh, wsh, wsh of very small waves breaking very close by.
A stone or a shell nudged his outstretched fingers. He let it. That was part of the game. You never moved. On the second day he had lain here, his mother came worrying up to him, disturbing the perfect peace. He would get sunburnt, or worse, sunstroke, she said. To be stroked by the sun sounded nice, but so as not to upset her he wore a floppy white hat which shaded most of his face. His skin was already brown, but he smoothed in some oil each morning just in case.
The shell or seaweed or whatever it was, tickled strangely. Perhaps there was a crab crawling over his hand. He had long ago stopped worrying about such things hurting him. If he did not move suddenly, it would not do anything. The only things he did not like were jellyfish and sea urchins and they would not come clambering over his hands.
There must be something there, he thought, and curiosity overcame him. He edged his head up just a fraction and peered under the brim of the sunhat. Just as he did so, he felt a sharp pain in his middle finger, between the knuckle and the joint. He would have jerked it away if his eyes had not focussed on the cause at just the same moment.
The cause of the pin prick was - well, something very much like a pin, a short pin sticking into his finger. Attached to the pin was a piece of string and attached to the string was a boat.
A boat about three centimetres long was tied up in the sheltered cove between his first and middle fingers. Several figures a centimetre high were just then clambering out onto his hand, joining the one who had waded ashore and driven in the pin.
He tried not to shout or to jump or to do anything sudden. He tried to content himself with saying under his breath over and over, 'Good grief, it can't be true; good grief, it can't be true.' For a moment he thought, 'My mother's right. I've got a touch of the sun. I'm seeing things. 'I'm delirious. I shall be seeing palm trees in the desert next.'
But no. The images were clear enough. And now he could hear high-pitched sounds which he knew were voices. Tiny voices from tiny people. 'Why here?' he thought, 'when there's the whole of the beach, the smooth soft beach?' Then he realised that to a small boat such as this the wide open beach would provide little shelter. His arms, his fingers, were ideal havens.
There were six of them and they walked in a little procession up across his wrist and along his lower arm. The tickling had stopped. The feeling was a pleasant regular touch, much as you would get if you walked your own fingers up your arm. Stretched out as he was, it was hard to focus properly - but he could make out blue shirts and white trousers and dark hair, some of it long. Where were they going?
The thought of them walking over his face made him wince. Maybe they would use his ear as a cave. Or camp on his forehead in the shade, driving in lots of little pegs to hold up their tent. Perhaps they would light a fire! He imagined a campfire in his eye and almost jumped up there and then, scattering them over the sand and the sea. But no. He resisted. Nothing bad had happened yet. If anything did happen he could pick them off as easily as ants - more easily, in fact.
Now they were at the top of his arm and approaching his shoulder. They stopped and seemed to be talking and pointing. ‘They don't know which way to explore,’ he thought, ‘head or body. Body is easier, nice and flat and open . . . but head is more interesting. Depends what they're looking for.’ There was something in his mind that made him look more closely at the figures . . . ‘Ahh’ he thought... ‘of course. Now, I really must keep very still.’
The party had split into two groups. One seemed to stay put on his shoulder, the other group clambering awkwardly up the side of his chin. He could hardly make out anything by sight now, but the touch of their feet made their progress very clear. He closed his eyes. He did not want to take any risks. They paused on his cheek and then almost immediately headed for his nose.
He held his breath. Into his right nostril went one or two, maybe three of them. He had an almost irresistible urge to sneeze but he willed his body to stay still. He heard the high birdlike sound of voices. The probing and poking inside his nose was becoming painful. He would have to do something. He needed to breathe.
Then the foraging and probing stopped. The feet stood around on his upper lip. He imagined them looking out to sea. There was a sound - almost like singing -perhaps cheering. Then, hurrying, the figures made their way back down the side of his face, back to his shoulder and all six of them began their procession towards the harbour of his hand.
In a few minutes they had reached the boat. The pin was pulled out and, with a final tickle, they were gone. He felt a strange mixture of disappointment and relief. His eyes now safely open, he could see the boat pulling away into the breakers. Then a small sail was hoisted and the vessel gathered speed. He kept his eyes on it for as long as he could. Even after it had disappeared from sight he lay unmoving for a long time.
It was only when he heard his mother's voice calling him that he stirred. He sat up. He looked at the small pin prick on his finger and then, carefully placing his hand underneath, blew sharply through both nostrils. A small hard object fell into his hand. It was a box. A tiny, tiny box with a lid. He prised it open with his fingernail and smiled with delight at the sparkling pinhead treasures inside.
This was his favourite place. There was not a great difference between low and high tide here, he had learned. He had worked out the best place by lying on the beach each day, moving a little each time. Now he had it just right. The sea would just wash round him and warm him and then, like a brief but unhurried visitor, be gone again. Unless there was a storm, of course. But today there would be no storm, only a hazy sky and the rhythmic wsh, wsh, wsh of very small waves breaking very close by.
A stone or a shell nudged his outstretched fingers. He let it. That was part of the game. You never moved. On the second day he had lain here, his mother came worrying up to him, disturbing the perfect peace. He would get sunburnt, or worse, sunstroke, she said. To be stroked by the sun sounded nice, but so as not to upset her he wore a floppy white hat which shaded most of his face. His skin was already brown, but he smoothed in some oil each morning just in case.
The shell or seaweed or whatever it was, tickled strangely. Perhaps there was a crab crawling over his hand. He had long ago stopped worrying about such things hurting him. If he did not move suddenly, it would not do anything. The only things he did not like were jellyfish and sea urchins and they would not come clambering over his hands.
There must be something there, he thought, and curiosity overcame him. He edged his head up just a fraction and peered under the brim of the sunhat. Just as he did so, he felt a sharp pain in his middle finger, between the knuckle and the joint. He would have jerked it away if his eyes had not focussed on the cause at just the same moment.
The cause of the pin prick was - well, something very much like a pin, a short pin sticking into his finger. Attached to the pin was a piece of string and attached to the string was a boat.
A boat about three centimetres long was tied up in the sheltered cove between his first and middle fingers. Several figures a centimetre high were just then clambering out onto his hand, joining the one who had waded ashore and driven in the pin.
He tried not to shout or to jump or to do anything sudden. He tried to content himself with saying under his breath over and over, 'Good grief, it can't be true; good grief, it can't be true.' For a moment he thought, 'My mother's right. I've got a touch of the sun. I'm seeing things. 'I'm delirious. I shall be seeing palm trees in the desert next.'
But no. The images were clear enough. And now he could hear high-pitched sounds which he knew were voices. Tiny voices from tiny people. 'Why here?' he thought, 'when there's the whole of the beach, the smooth soft beach?' Then he realised that to a small boat such as this the wide open beach would provide little shelter. His arms, his fingers, were ideal havens.
There were six of them and they walked in a little procession up across his wrist and along his lower arm. The tickling had stopped. The feeling was a pleasant regular touch, much as you would get if you walked your own fingers up your arm. Stretched out as he was, it was hard to focus properly - but he could make out blue shirts and white trousers and dark hair, some of it long. Where were they going?
The thought of them walking over his face made him wince. Maybe they would use his ear as a cave. Or camp on his forehead in the shade, driving in lots of little pegs to hold up their tent. Perhaps they would light a fire! He imagined a campfire in his eye and almost jumped up there and then, scattering them over the sand and the sea. But no. He resisted. Nothing bad had happened yet. If anything did happen he could pick them off as easily as ants - more easily, in fact.
Now they were at the top of his arm and approaching his shoulder. They stopped and seemed to be talking and pointing. ‘They don't know which way to explore,’ he thought, ‘head or body. Body is easier, nice and flat and open . . . but head is more interesting. Depends what they're looking for.’ There was something in his mind that made him look more closely at the figures . . . ‘Ahh’ he thought... ‘of course. Now, I really must keep very still.’
The party had split into two groups. One seemed to stay put on his shoulder, the other group clambering awkwardly up the side of his chin. He could hardly make out anything by sight now, but the touch of their feet made their progress very clear. He closed his eyes. He did not want to take any risks. They paused on his cheek and then almost immediately headed for his nose.
He held his breath. Into his right nostril went one or two, maybe three of them. He had an almost irresistible urge to sneeze but he willed his body to stay still. He heard the high birdlike sound of voices. The probing and poking inside his nose was becoming painful. He would have to do something. He needed to breathe.
Then the foraging and probing stopped. The feet stood around on his upper lip. He imagined them looking out to sea. There was a sound - almost like singing -perhaps cheering. Then, hurrying, the figures made their way back down the side of his face, back to his shoulder and all six of them began their procession towards the harbour of his hand.
In a few minutes they had reached the boat. The pin was pulled out and, with a final tickle, they were gone. He felt a strange mixture of disappointment and relief. His eyes now safely open, he could see the boat pulling away into the breakers. Then a small sail was hoisted and the vessel gathered speed. He kept his eyes on it for as long as he could. Even after it had disappeared from sight he lay unmoving for a long time.
It was only when he heard his mother's voice calling him that he stirred. He sat up. He looked at the small pin prick on his finger and then, carefully placing his hand underneath, blew sharply through both nostrils. A small hard object fell into his hand. It was a box. A tiny, tiny box with a lid. He prised it open with his fingernail and smiled with delight at the sparkling pinhead treasures inside.