On the morning of the garden party the weather was far from promising, but the Howells, determined that the show would go on, led the gear-laden castaways to the green far, far from camp. Once there, Mrs. Howell discovered with great dismay that two of the carefully packed crates of hors d'oeuvres had been forgotten.

"Oh, dear…we simply can't have our tea without the cucumber sandwiches! Gilligan, dear boy, would you--"

He smiled in good natured resignation. "Sure, Mrs. Howell. See you in a little bit."

The weather did improve, but only by degrees. Even by early afternoon shrouds of mist still clung to the island's steep velvet hills, leaving perpendicular islets of green to peep out of the swirling sea of grey. Below, two tiny figures in white trooped along the valley floor, their footfalls muffled in the moist air.

Gilligan, carrying the two small brown crates, noticed a brown streak of dirt on his white sleeve and groaned. "Boy, I'm glad it's not much further! This is worse than being back in the navy!"

"What do you mean?" said Mary Ann. "Did you have to go on long marches, like in the army?"

"No, I mean I was dressed in white from head to foot and always getting dirty, just like now." He skirted around a particularly sticky-looking bush. "I still say these cricket outfits are way too fancy to play a game in."

"I suppose they are. Oh, well - that's the Howells for you. Everything's all about tradition, whether it's sensible or not." Mary Ann brushed the front panel of her long white skirt, frowning. "Gee, you're right, Gilligan. It isn't easy keeping these white outfits clean out here. I'm sure I don't know what Ginger and I are going to do with these after this party." And plucking her swirling white hem upwards, Mary Ann stepped cautiously over a fallen branch on the trail.

Instinctively Gilligan shifted the crates under his arm and reached out to guide her with his free hand. "I guess I should be glad I've only got to manage with pants. It's lucky that box that washed ashore wasn't full of stuff for some Scottish game, or the Howells might have made us all wear kilts!"

Mary Ann burst into giggles. "Oh, golly, what a picture that would make! You'd better not mention it to Mrs. Howell – she'd probably love it!"

"Yikes. You're right."

Mary Ann shook her head. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen either of the Howells so excited. Not even at the Howell Annual Cotillions!"

"That's for sure. I hope Mr. Howell still has some of his tranquillizers left, 'cause he and Mrs. Howell are gonna need them after this. No wonder Mrs. Howell forgot half the hor dervies."

Mary Ann paused for a moment to wipe stray tendrils of her dark hair out of her eyes. "Oh! I sure hope they're worth it. If I'd known we were going for this long a walk today, I'd have worn my canvas shoes!"

Gilligan had paused too, and was studying her carefully. "You didn't have to come back with me, Mary Ann. It's awfully far for you. I mean, I'm glad you did, but--"

"Oh, no, I'm fine," she said quickly. "I used to walk a lot further than this back in Kansas when we brought the cows in for milking. Let's keep going." Pushing back her white hat, the farm girl started on down the trail again, smiling slyly. "Besides – I came back with you to make sure at least some of the hors d'oeuvres made it to the party!"

"Huh?" His dark eyebrows flew up at the accusation. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, Gilligan. How many have you had since we left?"

"Well…" He quickly glanced away. "Not that many. One or two…"

"Oh, Gilligan, you've never eaten one or two of anything I made!"

"There, you see? I told you," he shot back in triumph.

"Told me what?"

"That you could make these things. They're delicious, just like I said they'd be." He licked his lips. "Especially the mango tarts. I had four of those."

Mary Ann laughed again, shaking her head. "Gilligan, you're impossible!"

The sound of their shared laughter melted into the hush that filled the narrow valley; only the lethe-like murmur of the waterfalls snaking from the heights made the slightest sound.

"You know, I think I'll save Rusty one of these tarts. He loves mangoes."

"Have you seen him much lately?"

The young sailor frowned. "No, not a sign of him. Not for days."

"Not since that episode with the Professor's seismometer, huh?" Mary Ann shook her head sadly. "I just hope we didn't upset him."

"I don't think so. He's a pretty tough little guy when he wants to be."

Mary Ann smiled. "Maybe he's found a nice little hen to settle down with. Maybe he's doing one of his dances for her right now."

Gilligan chuckled. "Yeah, could be. With all the birds on this island, he's bound to find somebody. They're always singing and squawking, from dawn 'til—" He suddenly stopped, looking all around.

Mary Ann stopped too. "What is it, Gilligan?"

"Mary Ann, do you hear anything strange?"

She stood stock still and listened in the great hush of the lonely valley. "No. I can't hear anything at all."

"That's what I mean!"

"What?"

"The birds!" The sudden hush of Gilligan's voice sent a shiver down Mary Ann's spine. "They aren't making any noise. Where are they, Mary Ann? What's happened to them all?"

Mary Ann looked anxiously at the silent, towering hills with their ghostly veils of mist. "I don't know! You're right - it's weird!"

"It's like they're hiding from something," whispered the first mate. "But what?"

"Whatever it is, it's giving me the creeps! Gilligan, I want to get back to the others. Let's get out of here!"

They hurried on, sticking very close together, until they reached the narrow pass that would lead them into a second valley. Gilligan craned his neck, trying to peer through. "Oh, no. Mary Ann, are you any good at Blind Man's Bluff?"

Sheltered from even a breath of wind, the mist hovered thick as London fog in the pass. As the two castaways crept in, trees and bushes loomed up like ghosts, only to vanish moments later.

Mary Ann squinted, her hand raised before her face. "This is awful! I can't see a thing in here!"

"Maybe we're better off," murmured Gilligan in a voice of doom. "I'm not sure we want to see what's in here!"

"Gilligan, stop that!"

"Sorry."

They blundered on, nearly blind and deaf, until at last the white gauze all around them seemed to thin, and the trees and bushes grew more solid.

"Thank goodness!" cried Mary Ann. "I think we're nearly through!"

She rushed out of the mouth of the pass, Gilligan hard on her heels. Another set of lush hills reared before them, with the jungle curled about their base.

"Oh, I'm so glad we're finally out of there! Now at least we can see what…" Mary Ann stopped, looking all about her, and clutched Gilligan's arm as though he were her last anchor to sanity. "Dear Lord…Gilligan, what in the world?"

"I told you we were better off not knowing," he whispered.

They had found the birds.

For birds, seemingly millions of them, sat massed in a sea of feathers that mantled the valley from one end to the other. Legions of grey-white gulls and pelicans, hoardes of black crows and frigates, swarms of brown petrels and shearwaters, green and red and blue parrots and a whole host of others sat staring at the two castaways from countless cold, unblinking eyes. Not one of that avian multitude made a sound.

For a moment the two castaways simply stared back, rooted with terror. Then Gilligan's eyes narrowed in confused recognition. "Wait a minute…Mary Ann, I've seen something like this before!"

"Yeah!" she shuddered. "In an Alfred Hitchcock movie!"

"No, no…just a little while ago! But where was it?"

Suddenly they heard a single caw. Gilligan's head whipped 'round. "Rusty!"

Swiftly bending to put down his crates, the first mate rose again and held out his white sleeve. Out of that eerie throng flapped a bird of bright hibiscus orange with a long, plumed red tail. It landed on Gilligan's wrist, talons digging into his shirt, and Gilligan heaved a sigh of relief. "Rusty, am I glad it's you! What the heck's going on here anyway? There must be millions of you…"

Gilligan stopped, his eyes slowly going wide and the blood draining from his face. "The mews and the pewits pied…by millions crouched on the old sea wall…oh, my gosh!"

"Gilligan, what is it?"

But Gilligan was still intent upon the bird. "So that's it! You better get out of here, Rusty. Get to the high ground as quick as you can, all of you! On the double!"

At his words a deafening chorus of bird voices burst forth, and the mighty flock took wing in a huge, swirling spiral, flapping off over the soaring hills until their raucous voices had faded into the distance. Mary Ann stared, chilled. "Gilligan, what on earth's going on?"

He turned and seized her hands. "Mary Ann, there's no time to lose! It could hit any minute!"

"What could? What was that you were saying before?"

"The birds, they know!" he insisted. "They must have felt it coming, like they did in England all those years ago!"

"Felt what coming?" she cried.

Gilligan took a deep breath. "A wave. A giant wave. Come on, Mary Ann! We've got to warn the others!"