Page 10 - Three Adventures

Voyage of the Pomeranian

As I moved with heavy step through the resisting water I watched for
Tristan. He did not emerge, but remained behind his portal watching
me carefully. I sensed a moment of great importance in our
relationship had arrived. Should I ignore his comrade’s corpse, offer
him a fresh crab as if nothing had happened? Would he be upset if I
removed the body? No text of arcane cephalopod lore could guide
me here.

I decided to give the dead octopus a real burial at sea. It would not
have done any good to leave it rotting in the tank. Carefully I bent
down and picked it up, eight limp arms dangling across my two. It
must have weighed a good thirty pounds. I turned and walked to the
edge of the tank and laid the body down on the deck. After securing
the tank cover I picked up the sprawling mass and carried it to the
side of the ship. A couple of the men turned away with expressions
of disgust. Just before I dumped the dead octopus overboard
something made me turn back toward the tank. Two pairs of eyes
were studying me intently: Oleg Lamb, who clutched his Bible as if it
were anchoring him to the deck, and Tristan, who had left his safe
haven and was pushing up against the net, arms entangled about the
mesh bars of his prison.

Both witnesses were gone by the time I had finished my task. I could
not bring myself to return to the tank, instead retiring to my cabin to
prepare these notes and reflect upon events. How, I wondered, could
mankind maintain its air of moral superiority over dumb beasts when
it routinely demonized them? Even the great Victor Hugo could not
resist:

Oh, the octopus, O horror! inhales a man. It draws him to itself,
and into itself; and, bound, immobile, he feels himself slowly
ingested by that incredible being which is the monster. The
terrible tentacles are supple as leather, solid as steel, cold as
night.

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