Dakuwaqa was furious.
"Stop hiding!" he shouted in a bubbly shout. "Coward! Stop hiding! You are making it very difficult for me to get one more."
By now, he was really out of breath. It had been a long time since his prey had successfully hidden from him. He found himself gasping, his fins moving slower.
Again, he saw a tip of tentacle. Again, he raced toward it. Again, it disappeared.
"God dammit," snarled Dakuwaqa, and started swimming back and forth across the top of the reef again, fuming. This couldn't be looking too good to his countless minions.
Again, the tentacle. Again, it disappeared into a hole.
Dakuwaqa screamed his displeasure. Fish for hundreds of miles swam for cover.
Selqu dared say nothing.
"King Octopus!" Dakuwaqa roared. "I'm going to eat you slowly when I find you. I am going to savor each tentacle and each little suction cup on each tentacle. There won't be any of you left, you coward!"
Dakuwaqa was winded now. All of the eating he had done over the years had left him a little out of shape. If he was honest with himself, he would have realized that in human form he had become a somewhat flabby island youth over the last year or two.
"Coward?" he heard a sly voice say in his right ear just as eight tentacles lashed into his sides and held him motionless. "How about some other words, shark? How about some other words?" The tentacles continued to hold him tight.
"I don't need any other words, asshole," Dakuwaqa said. "I'm going to make you an eight-time amputee, and then I'm going to crush your head between my teeth and grind your beak down to dust."
The Octopus God laughed. "Let me welcome you to Kadavu Island with a hug. I don't think you'll soon be free of me."
And he was right.
The battle raged all day and into the night, but the Octopus God was right.
Dakuwaqa thrashed about. He spun, rolled, squirmed, pulled, pushed, opened his jaws, and slammed them shut. But no matter what he did, he could not get free of the Octopus God's tentacles. In fact, he began to get a bit dizzy. Selqu had gotten dizzy a long time before, and was in danger of losing his grip on the God-Emperor's skin. Even worse, the Octopus God had sometimes loosened just one tentacle long enough to grab a snack of crab from the nearby reef, but even then Dakuwaqa had not been able to get free. Worst of all, the Octopus God would not stop talking about the underwater light show he was working on...
"Just... one... more..." he said slowly. He was beginning to feel as if he were going to be sick.
"You can't get free of me," the Octopus God said in his sly, mad voice. "I can hold you here until you drown if you like."
"Fuck you," Dakuwaqa said, but the Octopus God was, again, right. Like most sharks, he couldn't stand still for long - he had to keep moving forward to bring water through his gills. If he didn't he would drown. He wouldn't die, but he would drown, and keep drowning, and all during the process of drowning, there would be no way he could get free of the Octopus God, and it would hurt more than anything he had ever known.
Dakuwaqa thrashed again, shouting out to Selqu, "Do something! Do something, Selqu!"
At which point, the Octopus God ended Selqu's ambitions by pulling him off of Dakuwaqa and grinding him up with his beak. (Selqu's last thought had nothing to do with ambition, and everything to do with surprise.)
Dakuwaqa thrashed and changed into a flabby youth holding his breath, but the Octopus God held on. He changed into a ray. He changed into a giant lobster. He changed into a slippery eel. He changed into a whale. But still the Octopus God held on. Not only that, the Octopus God was squeezing the life out of him.
The Octopus God squeezed harder. "Do you give up?"
Dakuwaqa began to see black spots in front of his eyes. He was painfully aware of his waiting shark army. He knew, even without looking, that some of them would be trying to take a bite out of him later, even if he won.
Around them, the water was now darker and colder, the sky above the water pressing down and blue-black. All around, the phosphorescent glow of the coral illuminated them - and the flitting stars of glowing fish too stupid to have hidden already. The Octopus God strobed red and green, blue and orange, content to battle Dakuwaqa to the end of time.
"I can do this forever," he whispered in Dakuwaqa's ear. "I can do this forever and a day. I can continue to recite lines to you from my underwater light show. I can sing, if you like. I do not mind. It is interesting. It is something to do."
Something gave inside of Dakuwaqa. Something broke. He stopped struggling and went back to his shark shape. All the ferocity had left his eyes. He could have been a young sharklet just out of his unknown mother's egg sac again. He remembered how helpless he had felt, coming out of the sac, squirming past its rough edges, for an instant held motionless by it.
"I give up!" Dakuwaqa wheezed. "I give up." He hated saying it. He had never said "I give up" before in his life. He had always said, "Just one more."
"Why should I let you go?"
Dakuwaqa snarled, then fell silent.
"Well," the Octopus God said. "I'm waiting."
"What do you want?"
"If I let you go, this is what I want - you will release all of the gods you have not already devoured. You will leave this island alone and protect all creatures that live on land and in the waters here from your sharks. You will never conspire to be the God of the Sea again."
Dakuwaqa groaned. He could feel water entering his body through his mouth. It did not feel good.
"Yes, yes, yes. Just let me go."
"You promise on your life?"
"On my life."
The Octopus God laughed. "I'm not sure I believe you, but let me tell you this: I've been talking to the God of the Turtles, and he says that if you cause me any more trouble, he will come back and be the God of the Sea again."
"I promise," Dakuwaqa said. He was turning blue now, and not a nice seablue, either. More of a my-gills-need-water blue.
"Remember what I have said, Dakuwaqa," the Octopus said, and released Dakuwaqa.
Dakuwaqa circled the Octopus God four or five times, forcing water back through his gills. He sputtered and coughed. Then he said, "It may not even matter, my promise. Because, when I go back to them, my shark army will try to tear me apart."
"Yes," the Octopus God said, "but you are the God of the Sharks. I am sure you will have no problem dealing with them. And if you do, I will just defeat the next Shark God."
Dakuwaqa was tired and hungry, and suddenly he knew that one day he would die. He did not feel young anymore.
"Goodbye," he said. "I hope I never see you again."
The God of the Octopi just laughed a watery laugh.
x. What Happened After...
Dakuwaqa did not die that day, although he received many scars. He did as he said he would, and released the other gods. Since that day, no god has ever again challenged the God of Kadavu Island. The people who live on the island can go out to fish and never worry. The Octopus God still lives in the reef beyond the island, guarding his people, and working on his light show.
Dakuwaqa no longer eats young women. For one thing, even in human form he is scarred, even on his face, and no longer handsome. For another, he has lost the taste for them. Some days, he does not eat at all, but simply rejoices at the feel of water pushing around his body. As he grows older and wanders through his kingdom, he finds that sometimes he is content with what he has. Sometimes, he does take human shape, now, but only to sit by a fire and to talk, or to listen.
Dakuwaqa will never rule Kadavu Island, but now that he is wiser, it does not matter much to him. An odd mood grips him now; his expression becomes serious. Someday, he thinks, walking along the beach at sunset, I will visit the God of the Turtles and learn what dream he dreams.
ERRATA
When I received Jeff VanderMeer's "story," reproduced below, my first impulse was to forward it to the writer's family, to whom it might be more relevant than to the
readers ofArgosy. (The two photographs that accompanied the story - one of a kitchen freezer and the other of a waterlogged lobby - were more than a little disturbing to both myself and my wife, and I have declined to reproduce them within these pages.)
Unfortunately, my brother James had been quite explicit when he called to check on the progress of the issue two weeks before Mr. VanderMeer's story arrived. He insisted that I include the story in the magazine "no matter how unorthodox it may appear to be. "At fames' request, I had already slapped- rather bemusedly - some images of farm equipment and seals into the allotted space in the main volume ready to be replaced with the tardy story whenever it came in. According to James, whom I have not heard from since, VanderMeer's story "must be published both in the magazine and in a separate chapbook entitledsim- ply Errata. "James pays the bills, so despite any instincts to the contrary, I have no choice but to publish this "story" as he desires - although that doesn't mean I have to do so without comment or fair warning to the reader.
- Jeremy Owen
Lake Baikal, Siberia - North of Yolontsk, Near Olkhon Island
Dear Jeremy:
I am writing this sitting in the waterlogged lobby of a rotting, half-finished condominium complex. I am surrounded by cavorting freshwater seals and have two pearl-handled revolvers in my lap, a bottle of vodka in my right hand, a human body in the freezer in the kitchens behind me, and a rather large displaced rockhopper penguin staring me in the face. Upstairs, on the second floor, is the room I've made my headquarters. It has a bidet but no bath. The toilet seat refuses to stay up. The wallpaper has succumbed in places to a grainy black fungus, despite the moderate climate. I smell mold everywhere. (Would you believe fish have appeared in the lobby on occasion?) Sometimes the electricity works, but mostly I hope it doesn't because I'm convinced that with all the water everywhere I'm likely to be electrocuted, perhaps even while I sleep.
I don't know the name of the condominium complex because the dilapidated sign out front is in Cyrillic, but it almost certainly includes the words "Lake Baikal" in the title. Lake Baikal Prison Camp Suites, perhaps. Or, Lake Baikal Indoor Swimming Pool & Seal Habitat. Or, Lake Baikal Zoo Suites.
Still, it has a magnificent view. The front wall of the lobby has eroded to the point that the windows have fallen out, so there's nothing between me and the lake but a bit of mortar and marble. Sunsets are particularly magnificent, even if the atmosphere is marred by the seals snuffling in to sleep on the soggy carpeting, on the couches, and sometimes even on the tables. As for the penguin, her name is Juliette.
Did James tell you that the local shaman has inscribed my contact lenses with tiny mystical symbols? The shaman goes by the name of "Ed" because his real name is so convoluted that he long ago gave up making anyone learn it. The symbols supposedly bring me luck and ward off the Devil. I'm not sure it's working. I'm also not sure how he managed the inscription.
I also admit to being more than a little confused as to how I wound up here. (And, for a while, I was confused as to how Juliette got here. Trade winds? Hitchhiking?) But, then, anyone would share this feeling, if put in my position. That I blame your brother is understandable, I think. That the vodka permeating this part of the world like a particularly harsh cliche dulls most of my anger is also understandable.
My splendid isolation - although how can one truly feel isolated surrounded by a convocation of such magnificently oratory mammals? - has been interrupted by several calls from your brother. Right here in the lobby. On this weathered battle tank of a telephone next to me, a black phone that looks like a prop from Dr. Strangelove. The last call came just a few days ago. Did James tell you about it? I imagine not.
"Jeff," came his voice crackling through the bad connection, with what sounded like traditional Russian folk Muzak bleeding into the background.
"James," I said. "What the fuck am I still doing here? Tell me exactly what you want me to do."
Your brother's money had just about run out, rubles drifting through my hands, and I was thinking about asking Juliette to go hunt me up some fish.
"It's time," James replied with a kind of quivering anticipation in his voice. "It's time."
"No shit, it's time. It's past time," I said.
"You must write now."
"I must write now. Great. What do you want me to write about?" He'd told me while I was still in Florida that I would be writing a short story, but since I'd gotten to Lake Baikal, it had quickly become clear that I wasn't just writing a "story."
"All of it," James said. "Even this."
I paused for a second to think about that statement. "Even this?"
"Yes, even this."
"And how about... this?"
"Yes, yes - all of it! It's all important. Phone conversations. The shaman. Gradus. Your life. Hell, even the penguin. Just start at the beginning - whatever you think is the beginning. And don't forget the Errata part. That's important for the Change."
"Jesus Christ."
"It's so important, Jeff," James said, and I could tell he was pleading now. He thought he had to convince me. He'd forgotten I had been talking to Ed a lot. He'd forgotten what I'd left behind. He'd even forgotten what I'd had painstakingly etched into the edges of my contacts.
James' voice broke with some unidentifiable emotion as he said, "Jeff, it'll all be worth it. You'll see."
"I hope so," I said. "Because my room doesn't even have a bath. And that lake is fucking freezing."
That's when I hung up. Juliette, standing patiently by the chair, looked up at me with a stare that said, "Maybe you shouldn't have done that. Maybe he had more to say."
Well, if he did, it couldn't have been important, because he hasn't called back.
So let me throw both you and James a bone: Here's your first correction. Ed helped me with it by consulting his Book (more about that later). Hell, in a way even Juliette helped me with it. Finding it. Picking this bit over any other. Weighing the "exact pressure of each word as it impacts the world," as James had once said. I can almost feel that pressure in the way the ice hanging on branches in the early morning seems brittle, ready to fall.
And when it does? What will happen then?
Erratum #z: `Box of Oxen, "Alan Dean Foster, forthcoming in issue four
The son of Russian immigrants, one of the observers peering through powerful binoculars immediately recognized the Cyrillic letters stamped on the side of the cylinder. His hasty translation provoked consternation and not a little alarm among his coworkers. Frantic, coded messages were sent to various parts of the country.
should read..-
The son of Russian immigrants from the Lake Baikal region of Siberia, one of the observers, named Sergi, peered through powerful binoculars and immediately recognized the Cyrillic letters and shamanistic symbols stamped on the side of the cylinder. There were also some mutterings in Russian. His hasty translation of the Cyrillic provoked consternation among his co-workers. Frantic coded messages were sent to various parts of the country. As for the symbols, Sergi failed to mention them to his co-workers, for they promised both the destruction and redemption of humankind. They brought back to Sergi memories of vacations with his family, of walking through a forest of silent fir trees only to emerge at the banks of Lake Baikal near Shaman Rock, which rose from that limitless blue like a shrine. His father had told him that the strongest of the heavenly gods lived there, and negative or bad thoughts could disturb the god's slumber. He had always been careful, therefore, to never complain while on their vacation, and to live always in the moment, absorbing the mysteries of that clear water and the stillness that wavered forever between peaceful and watchful.
Deathless prose it ain't, but according to Ed and the Book, that is the appropriate correction. We are now Closer than we were to the Change, as James would say.
But James also said to start at the beginning, and that's a good deal more difficult. How do you determine that? Beginnings are continually beginning. Time is just a joke played
by watchmakers to turn a profit, don't you think, Jeremy? Well, maybe not. That could just be the vodka talking.
Maybe it starts with meeting James for the first time at the World Fantasy Convention in 2003, where he was debuting Argosy. But I talked to him for about four minutes, tops, so that's probably not it.
Perhaps it starts with the writers' convention in Blackpool, England, where a dozen or so of us writer-types - Liz Williams, Jay Caselberg, Neil Williamson, Jeffrey Ford, and others - wound up trapped in a small woodpaneled room at the butt-end of a couple of spiral staircases and a maze of corridors. We were there for a reading, but found no audience, so Gwyneth Jones told us the uplifting story about how she walked downstairs one night to the sounds of a frog screaming as a cat disemboweled it.
That was the first time I felt my world shift in a way that signaled potential cataclysm. I mean, there were less personal harbingers, like 9/11, the war in Iraq, and any number of other calamities. But for some reason, sitting there next to Jeffrey Ford in that town that seemed like a combination of hell and a carnival, where the next event slated for the convention hall was a double bill of Engelbert Humperdinck and David Cassidy - somehow that moment signaled a downward spiral. I remember thinking, Is this what being successful is going to be like? Trapped in a closet with a bunch of other successfulpeople? Somehow, even though the rest is murky, I can see the connection between that moment and this one - sitting here, drinking vodka and talking to a penguin.
I've tried giving vodka to the penguin, by the way. She doesn't like the taste. The seals, on the other hand, seem designed to imbibe the stuff. Clearly, they are Russian, while the penguin is not. Ed explained Juliette to me the first time he came over. An escapee from a passing circus. In love with an Antipodes or Falklands that she (he? sexing penguins is one skill level beyond me) will probably never see. Far from home, just like me and the man in the freezer.
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