What followed from her mouth was, as discerned to be by Bell (in spite of the distance), a heavy sigh of disappointment, but what was in actuality, as later it was decided, a moderate sigh of dissatisfaction.

“Ah,” Bell thought, “It's on account of my sounding so nasally today.” He twisted his watch band round and coughed more to roughen his voice.

She began walking over to him.

“Could you,” Marilyn called, “give me an idea of where abouts we are precisely?” She visored the day's brightness with her hand as she approached.

“Or even, if you have the time to spare, could you tell me why exactly I'm here?”

She had crossed the land bridge between his island and the island of the fig tree. The tree shook blurrily behind, like a quaking aspen over an active fault line. Some vulture had lifted from its branches.

She really was real. Bell prepared to run directly to her and kicked out his right foot with a swoosh. The swoosh, alarmingly, was quite loud (much like The Dog, who Bell noted with interest had just darted under a bush). Bell stopped in place. “Did you hear—”

In a flash of feather and fabric, he was swooped upon and lifted by the scruff of his suit in the capable hands of a massive bird's black, wretched talons.

Ah.

Now out of sight, Marilyn let fly a squeak of confusion and alarm. This was followed by a “You'll have to speak up, lady!” from The Dog, and topped off with another contribution from Marilyn, thus fashioning a squeak sandwich.

“Nice to meet you, Marilyn!” Bell called.

Great wings flapped. The land cut connection to his feet. If he were a circuit, he'd be floating ground.

Bell's stomach dropped in what he had cause to suspect was a sickening fashion as he found himself unexpectedly airborne. He tried to angle his head up, toward his captor, but the wind and the unceasing gleam of the backdrop forced blinks and tears. With effort, he was able to discern a flowing black cloak, and, protruding of the hood therefrom, what looked to be a dastardly black beak. This was familiar territory.