“Touch it,” yelled a filthy little boy, about seven, with a streak of sand and wet, dark hair plastered across his forehead. “Touch it, touch it,” echoed the screeching crowd of children surrounding him as they all looked down at stinking starfish, half picked apart by birds, and then up at a girl, no more than five, with long dark hair, skin milky smooth and white with a dusting of pink on her cheeks, and eyes that seemed to change color with the undulating sea behind her. “I don’t want to,” the dark haired girl answered, her voice cool and matter of fact. In her arms she cradled a dirty rag doll, a little boy doll called Mort, to which she directed her statement. She turned to leave and the boy with sand on his forehead grabbed a fistful of her dark hair. He didn’t pull her backward, but he kept her from going any further. She turned and grabbed his hand.“Make her touch it,” yelled another child, his shrill, exited voice followed by mummers of agreement and mischievous laughter. “Let go of my hair, Matthew,” said the dark haired girl. A seagull screeched at them from overhead. The two children’s eyes met. His were full of hatred, but she could see the jealousy behind them. Hers, were only defiant. “It moved,” said one of the children, almost to herself as she stared at the starfish. She was a younger girl in a dirty white bonnet.“It can’t move, it’s dead,” said an older boy with an air of authority as he pushed closer to the struggle between Matthew and his captive. “Matthew, remove your hand,” said the black haired girl, her tone, even and commanding, did not sound natural for a five year old and the other children moved in closer to hear better. All except the little girl in the dirty white bonnet, who leaned in closer to the starfish.“It really is moving. I swear to you! Look!” Her plea fell on preoccupied ears.“I just want you to touch it and I’ll let you go,” said Matthew with an air of casual confidence. “Don’t force me,” said the dark haired girl, leaving her sentence unfinished and watching him flinch. She tightened her grip on Matthew’s arm. Matthew was big for a seven year old, but he winced at the pressure from the little girl’s fingers. Those who were alive to tell the story years later said that her fingers left burn marks on his arm for days afterward. Those sad story tellers, would come to lament the starfish incident as one of the most tragic events in history and one that led the little girl down a dark path. “It’s moving,” shrieked the little girl in the dirty bonnet as Matthew, his fingers still woven into his captive’s hair pulled her down toward the rotting starfish, which was indeed twitching on the hot sand. The other children backed away as Matthew pulled the dark haired girl toward the convulsing starfish. He was much taller than the five year old and as he got down on his knees to pull her even closer to the sand, the putrid sea creature heaved itself over and leapt up onto his face, suctioning its pungent corpse across his nose and mouth. The starteled boy released the little girl and jumped about the beach, prying at the starfish glued to his face. His muffeled pleas for help went unheeded as the children on the beach watched, mouths agape, as the little dark haired girl straightened her hair and brushed sand off of her skirt, as though oblivious to the circumstances of her sudden freedom. “Amarante! Get it off of him,” yelled a frightened girl in braids to the dark haired girl as she picked a trampled bonnet out of the sand. “Is he not your friend? Oughtn’t you give him aid?” Amarante said as she brushed sand off of her bonnet and straightened Mort’s dirty smock.“You bewitched it, you bewitched the starfish,” shouted another child.“If you don’t help him soon,” said Amarante, pointing to Matthew who now lay writhing on the beach, “he’ll lose his breath and die.” She nodded to her doll as the children, not convinced they could help, but realizing that they had to make an attempt, ran to Matthew’s side. Three of the older boys took charge. Two held his arms and legs while one, seeing how Matthew had struggled with the starfish grabbed what he could of an eaten arm and prepared for a mighty tug. As his muscles flexed to rip the creature from its moorings, the dead thing wriggled and slipped off Matthew’s gasping and blue lipped face. The boy held it up in wonder by one limp arm.“It was bewitched,” whispered the girl in the dirty bonnet, “I’m telling my mother.” The group turned, with thoughts of revenge, but Amarante was gone. They looked down the beach, but saw no trace of her.