Cuckoo Eggs

Taking a photograph of an invisible dragon is proving to be more difficult than I expected. 

You would think that the invisibility aspect would be the glaring obstacle in this puzzle, but Daisy takes care of that issue herself, with the help of the vast, muddy bog she seems to use as a home, a playground and a bath. 

Daisy is the dragon’s name, or at least it that is the name I have given her. She hasn’t heard it. I know that Daisy is a ‘she’ because of the eggs. Five speckled turquoise eggs, basketball sized, lie far out in the bog, only identifiable as eggs thanks to my binoculars. 

I wonder if Daisy has another name, one given to her by her mother when she hatched from her egg, if dragon mothers give names to their young. Maybe she made her own name. I can’t imagine naming myself, I wouldn’t have a clue what to pick. Oscar feels right, but I would never think of Oscar if it wasn’t for my parents picking it for me when I was born. 

I have been watching Daisy from a safe distance for almost a week now. I come back to my perch every morning, overlooking the bog in front of me and a clear, smooth lake to my right. 

This isn’t how I expected to spend my camping trip, but it’s given me something to do, or try to do with my new camera. 

The problem with trying to photograph an invisible dragon, or at least this particular dragon is that she won’t stay still. She’s either rolling around in the mud, camouflaged by the dirt that exposes her to the camera, or she’s swooping about above the trees, making the towering pines shudder and shower the forest floor with needles. 

Perhaps a more skilled photographer could snap a distinguishable image of this magnificent beast, but my attempts are blurry and unfocused. I may as well have splashed my lens with mud and taken a photo. 

Around dusk, Daisy cleans herself. A breakneck dive into the lake and she is gone from sight until the next morning, except for the eruption of white water when she exits the lake. 

Once, a few shockingly cold drops of water flung from Daisy’s splash reached me. The indirect physical interaction felt like further confirmation of her existence. My damp sleeve was evidence that I had not hallucinated the mud-form flitting around the bog, the beating wings in the sky. 

I have plenty of photos of Daisy’s eggs. Clear ones, too, I zoomed right in. But those aren’t much good to me. They look just like cuckoo eggs from this distance, and that is what anyone will think they are if I show them the pictures, and cuckoo is what everyone will think I am if I say that I saw an invisible dragon while camping. 

Pictures of far away eggs won’t do. If I want anyone to believe my discovery I will need a clear picture of the dragon, or an obviously dragon shaped splattering of floating mud. 

*** 

Tomorrow I am leaving. 

For nine days I have watched Daisy, taken bad photographs and slept. In order of importance. 

Those eggs are my new target. They resemble cuckoo eggs from a distance, but if I can get close, I can show their size. Even my hand or foot in frame with them will show their scale. 

I lie in wait through the day, waiting for an opportunity to move in and get the pictures I need. But no opening presents itself. 

Evening arrives. Daisy takes her plunge into the lake and emerges on the far shore, too far for me to hear her flapping wings. 

I see my chance, however slim, to get to the eggs while she is far away. Without hesitation, I scramble down the gentle slope towards the bog and move forward as fast as the sticky, sucking ground will allow. 

I reach the eggs as the red sun touches the horizon. They throw long shadows across the turf. Their westward facing sides glow in the warm orange light. 

It’s now or never, I tell myself. One press of a button and I’ll be out of here long before I’m noticed. 

I stand awkwardly on one leg to show my foot next to the eggs and hold up my camera. 

A rush of air speeds over my head. 

I wobble for a second, drop my camera and teeter over onto my back where I lie, unmoving. Maybe if I don’t move, she won’t be able to see me. Can she see at all, being invisible? 

I hear a soft thud in front of me. I close my eyes. 

Who are you? 

Daisy didn’t say the words, but she certainly asked. A series of snorts and snuffles just came from the air a couple of metres from me. She isn’t speaking, but I understand her somehow, like when you watch a foreign film with subtitles and almost forget that you’re reading a translation instead of actually understanding the actor’s words. 

‘O-Oscar Towns,’ I stammer. 

I did not ask your name. Who are you? 

Thinking of an answer to a question like that is always tough, but lying in a bog, wondering if you’re mad, dreaming or about to be eaten can add an element of distraction. Right now, I am a snail hiding from a crow in a fragile shell that offers no real protection. 

‘I just-I just wanted a photo.’ 

I hear gentle footfalls move closer and hold my breath. When Daisy is close enough that I can smell fish on her breath, my camera floats into my peripheral view. 

Suspended in front of me, I watch as it is crushed and torn in mid-air. When it is reduced to an unidentifiable scrap, it falls back down to the ground. 

You wish to tell the world about me, and to be believed. 

I nod shakily. My muscles loosen a little. Eating me doesn’t seem to be Daisy’s top priority. 

Why? 

Being asked why forces me to realise that I do not know the answer. It seemed like the right thing to do, I assumed it was. What else could I do? You don’t discover an invisible dragon and just keep it to yourself, do you? But I had no real reason for needing to prove my discovery. 

‘I can’t say I know why.’ 

Then why be so hasty? Think, if the world knows of me, what will they do? Not just watch, like you have done for days. I would have no peace, I would be a tourist attraction, tracked and followed for entertainment. So do not be so eager to reveal a secret that is not yours. 

I look at my camera where it lies crumpled on the ground, and despite the hard earned money that Daisy just chewed up and spat out, I am relieved that I didn’t get the photograph I came for. 

I slowly get to my feet, and gaze at the air where I imagine Daisy’s head is. 

‘Do you have a name?’ 

I have many names. My most recent is Marla. 

‘Who named you Marla?’ 

The last one of you who came to me. She didn’t get any pictures, either. 

‘Oh. I’ve been calling you Daisy.’ 

Then to you, I am Daisy. 

I gingerly raise my hand in front of me and hold it there. I start as hard, smooth scales nuzzle my palm. I close my eyes for a moment. It feels more natural to not see the absence of a physical object touching my hand. 

Without another word, I turn and begin the walk back to the edge of the bog. I look back and see cracks form on one of the eggs. 

I keep walking. I can never tell anyone about this, not without evidence. I will never be able to prove the existence of this incredible creature.

But now I wonder, why did I ever want to?