by John Morano
Binti continued crawling across the sandy plain until she felt the unmistakable burn. Her mantle had broken through the water’s surface. The sun beating down on her naked flesh both warmed and chilled her. The chill came from the thought of what would happen to her if she were trapped and exposed to the power of the burning orb for too long. Binti had seen jellyfish baked on the sand.
The octopus emerged from the sea. The surf rolled but didn’t crash. The sand was hard, wet, and warmer than the water. Binti would use any moisture as a buffer. When she felt dry, flaky sand cling to her skin, she would retreat, dragging herself back, closer to the sea. But what if she spotted her shell further inland, perhaps at the base of a sun-seared sand dune? Would she abandon the shell or her plan for survival?
Sev was right. The beach was a virtual treasure trove of shells. Binti was ashamed that she hadn’t thought of this herself, but she didn’t give Sev all the credit either. The octopus believed that the turtle had help, that he was a conduit used to carry directions from the spirit-fish, directions that led her to land.
In a way, it made ironic sense, Binti observed, that a mollusk who didn’t have a shell would have to leave the ocean to find one on land. An insight like this, she optimistically decided, had to be a sign from the spirit-fish that she was on the right track. Binti began examining shells.
There were so many to choose from that the octopus established two guidelines. First, because she was going to live in it, the shell must be a good fit. Most of what rolled around the beach was obviously too small and could be ignored. Secondly, and more importantly, the shell must be perfect. It must be chip free and without cracks—no barnacles, algae, or damage of any type. In short, the shell must be stunning. Since the spirit-fish was perfection, could one really hope to come closer to the spirit by adopting anything less than perfect?
The octopus conducted her search, paying particular attention to her two guidelines. With so many shells automatically eliminated, and with seven out of eight arms in good working order, the search went quickly.
The mollusk casually disqualified scallops, clams, conches, a trident, angel wings, razor clams, mussels, and a shoal of other shells. Finally, after hours of chasing the changing tide and digging out shell after shell, Binti crawled into a shady pool, stretched out, and considered whether something in Sev’s message had eluded her.
The way the turtle had talked, only asking questions, she might’ve missed a vital clue. The loony leatherback could be as annoying as sand in your siphon, but Binti believed that if she were really worthy of the shell, she would understand the turtle and why she was sent to the shore.
Her solitude was broken by a question. Binti heard a muffled, “What are you going to do?”
It sounded to Binti like the voice came from inside of her, but it definitely wasn’t that voice.
Again, she heard the voice. “Eat me or let me go, but this is ridiculous.”
Afraid of what danger might be attached to the source of the sound, Binti was reluctant to move or answer. In need of a better vantage point, the octopus carefully slid to the other side of the small pool.
Across from Binti, smashed into the sandy wall she’d clung to moments before, an engulfed hermit crab peered out. Apparently, when Binti had plopped into the puddle, she’d pushed a hermit crab into the depression’s sandy side. The wall was fairly soft, and the crab was well protected by her shell but was pinned against a wide, flat rock within the wall. Naturally, the crab assumed she was about to become dinner. So when the octopus merely sat on top of her for such a long time, the crusty crustacean became cranky.
“So what’s the deal?” the crab questioned. “If I’m supposed to be lunch, let’s get it over with. But if you’re not eating, could you try not to sit on me anymore?”
Binti, who had other things on her mantle, replied, “You would be wise not to worry about what I do. Just be glad that I’m not eating right now.”
“What is that? A threat?”
And then, perhaps it was the power of suggestion, but for some strange reason, Binti got hungry. She thought back to her last meal. It was well before she’d spoken with Sev. The octopus saw the hermit through new eyes—hungry ones.
“Normally, I wouldn’t be overly concerned with what someone else was doing, but when you slam yourself on top of a crab and prevent her from breathing, not for nothing, it does tend to pique one’s interest.” The crab stopped speaking. She noticed that hungry look in Binti’s eyes. “You did just say that you weren’t eating?”
The octopus pounced. She spread herself wide and crashed down a second time on the diminutive crab, who buried herself deep within her shell. When Binti probed inside the armor with the tip of an arm, the hermit went wild, snapping and crushing whatever her claws could grab. The crab was no pushover. She dug deep into Binti’s flesh, turning and twisting a massive claw.
For the oppressed, victory would not be measured by the octopus’s death. That was beyond the crustacean’s capability. All she hoped to do was show the predator that there would be a painful price for her flesh.
Binti wrestled her arm free and backed off.
“So that’s how you feed yourself? You introduce yourself to your meals, tell the victims you’re not hungry, give them false hope, chat for a moment, and then when they’re feeling safe, you attack? I know octopuses don’t have bones, but I didn’t think they were without hearts too.”
“Actually, I have three hearts.”
“Well, they certainly don’t feel anything, do they? What? You introduce yourself to your meals? You’re one sick cephalopod.”
The blushing Binti responded, “No, I didn’t mean—”
“Your kind disgusts me.” The crab backed into a corner and waved her claws menacingly at the octopus. “You think you can take me? You want a piece of this? Come on back. I got a little something for you. Ever been decked by a decopod?”
Binti stretched out an arm just beyond the hermit’s reach. “No,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. I know the code of the kill as well as anyone. Don’t meet who you eat.”
The crab lowered her orange claws. Her carapace was dusted with white spots within larger black spots. Two eye stalks studied the octopus. “Ahhh, no harm done, I guess. I’m okay. It’ll hurt more in the morning.” But the crab quickly raised her large claw, opening it, and then snapping it shut. “You’re not setting me up again, are you?”
“No, no. I’m not really myself right now. Maybe I’ve had a little too much sun, a few too many shells. I don’t know.”
“You eat shells?”
“No. I’m looking for one. Don’t ask.”
“Name’s Elaber,” the crab volunteered.
“You’re a tough old crab, aren’t you?”
“Remnants. Remnants of a glory that once was. But there’s still plenty of pinch left in me.” Elaber sat quietly with Binti for a moment or two. Even though they were situated at different ends of the pool, the crab could see that the octopus was sullen, troubled. Elaber crawled toward Binti. “I know I should be minding my own sand, but it doesn’t take eyestalks to see you could use a friend. I’m gonna take a snap here. If it’s a shell you’re looking for . . .”
Binti brightened. This was the moment. This was why the turtle had sent her here. She could feel it coming. “Yes.”
“Like I was saying, if you need a shell for some reason, I have a shell for you.”
Binti was hanging on Elaber’s every bubble. “Where is it? What do I have to do to get it?”
“Clam down,” Elaber said as she waved a claw. She bent over, looked out from under herself, and said, “Could you just help me get it off? It’s a little tight right here.”
Binti was speechless. The crab was talking about her dilapidated shell.
By now, Elaber had managed to wriggle out of the puny shell herself. She held it up and looked it over one last time. “I know it’s got a few waves behind it, but it’s a good shell.”
Binti mumbled,
“Well, thanks, really, thanks a lot, but I couldn’t bear to—”
“Stop. I won’t hear of it. It’s nothing. I can find another. It’s easier for me. Take it. I want you to have it.”
A blushy pink began to overrun Binti. “I could never accept this.”
The crab paused. “Is something wrong with it?”
“No. Nothing.”
“At least be honest.”
“It’s just, I don’t know. I guess it’s a little too small for me.”
“Yeeees?”
“And it’s kind of cracked right there . . . and there. The colors aren’t quite right either. Actually, it’s tough to tell what color it is under all that algae and those barnacles.”
“I sea.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture. It’s quite overwhelming. But I think I’m just looking for something else.”
“Oh, I get it,” Elaber quipped. “A shell has to be like an octopus—smooth, colorful, form fitting, flashy. Its worth is determined by how it looks. That’s a pretty narrow view coming from one with such a large mantle.”
“And how should my view change? Wouldn’t my shell—an octopus’s shell—need to be all those things?”
“Try not to judge a shell by its luster.”
“How should one be judged, Elaber?”
“If you really believe what you’re saying, then maybe you’re better off without a shell. Trust me, the shell I’m offering you is unlike any other you’ll find. It may be smaller, older, dirtier, but so what? A shell is as much a concept as it is a thing. A shell is an understanding, a state of mind. While this removable carapace might not look like much, it can take you where you want to go.”
Elaber grinned. She leaned the shell upright on the sand between the two of them. A small piece of seaweed floated by and stuck to a tiny barnacle that clung to the shell.
“It can take me where I want to go?” Binti repeated. The octopus lifted one of her arms to pick up the shell.
Elaber interrupted Binti by holding out her larger claw and saying, “There is always a price to pay.”
The octopus nodded pessimistically. “I should have known. What do you want for your shell?”
“First, this is not my shell. It is a shell. Secondly, I give it to you because I must. Lastly, once you have accepted this gift, let it guide you. Agreed?”
“Yes, of course.”
Elaber backed off and allowed Binti to approach the shell.
The octopus asked, “Are you sure you haven’t been sprayed recently?”
The crab climbed out of the tidal pool. She sat high on a sandy ridge and looked down at Binti. “I’ve been sprayed by the spirit.”
When Binti heard that, she reached for the shell. The husk rose by itself from the sand to her arm and nestled snugly into a sucker. A flash of light shot out of the shell’s twisted tip. It spread and flowed into the pool, filling it, illuminating it. Algae and barnacles attached to the plastron turned into fine white sand and fell to the floor of the shallow where it radiated out to the soft walls that encircled the water. Soon, all of the sand in the tidal pool was white.
The shell, now clear of its dirt and debris, sparkled like a little rainbow of mother of pearl. Its soft colors spread soothing up Binti’s arm. Red, blue, yellow, indigo, violet, orange, and green swirled from arm to arm, then up to her mouth. The colors converged at the base of her mantle, rising until the entire octopus was dressed in a rainbow. Binto gazed up at Elaber and into the sky above her. She tingled.
Relaxing, she saw the beauty of what Elaber had given. The crab she’d tried to kill only moments before had stripped herself of her best defense, her most valuable possession, to help an octopus she barely knew. Bathed in golden sunlight, Elaber nodded from atop the little sand cliff.
“Sometimes it’s easy to miss something that’s everywhere,” she said.
A lone cloud, nudged by the breeze, blew across the sun, eclipsing it momentarily, muting its glare and revealing a disturbing sight. Something was diving at the pool. A bird that had hidden in the brilliance of the blazing orb was attacking. Binti didn’t know whether she or the crab was the intended target. In a moment, the question would be answered.
The octopus knew what to do. She stretched an arm out of the puddle toward Elaber so she could return the shell, Elaber’s protection. Binti tried to slip it back over her, but the crab, apparently unaware of what approached, scurried away, laughing.
“No re-gifting! It’s yours now!”
Elaber stood tall on the sand, raised her gaping claws to the sky, and faced the sea. Her eyes were opened wide. Binti prepared for the strike in her own way, yet she continued to watch her friend until the cloud that covered the sun blew on, unmasking the full face of the star. Blinded by the light, she instinctively covered up and hunkered down, turning black and releasing ink into the pool so she couldn’t be seen.
There was no splash. The water was undisturbed. The bird hadn’t seen the octopus. Binti peered out from the tidal pool and saw nothing. No Elaber. Then she spotted a solitary gull flying over the ocean, chasing the cloud that had abandoned the sun. Was Elaber in its beak? she wondered. Was the crab a meal being digested or perhaps a minion being welcomed home? The octopus couldn’t decide.
Binti lowered herself back into the dark water. She tucked the shell into a large sucker at the base of her arm. It was the most secure place on her body. Through her flesh that surrounded the shell, she saw gentle flashes of rainbow and could feel the warmth radiate from it.
Suddenly, her wonder was replaced with panic. She felt something she’d never felt before, something she prayed she’d never feel in her lifetime. Fingers! A human had plucked her from the pool.
With nothing left to do for Meela and with Bao boatless, Kemar decided to stroll the shore. He hoped to find enough food so that he could return the meal that Meela and Al had given him. It was a good day. The boy already had a dozen crabs, a pair of lobsters, and an assortment of shellfish stuffed into a canvas bag.
Gathering seafood from the surf and shallow tidal pools reminded Kemar of visiting his uncle Neang, who lived on the banks of the Mekong River. When the water spilled out onto the flood plain, the fish followed. They gorged themselves on insects, plants, and other food that the flood enabled them to reach. But when the waters receded, thousands of fish always wound up stranded in little pools all along the plain.
Kemar and his family would scour the muddy puddles for fresh fish. He’d always found this to be the most enjoyable fishing. He needed neither bait nor net, so in a sense, it was a free meal. To Kemar, it was as if the river had delivered the fish to him. Scavenging along Makoona’s shore reminded the boy of better days in Cambodia.
On his way back to Meela’s shop, he ran into Al, who was also combing the shoreline, but for a different reason.
“Hey, kid. Looking for treasure?”
Kemar answered the question with one of his own. “You are not fishing today?” The boy laid his bag on the sand, a sign, Al noticed, that he planned to chat and an indication that the youngster was getting more comfortable with those who lived on Makoona.
“I don’t fish every day.”
“Why not? Bao does. That’s how you make money.”
“That’s Bao, not me. If I thought life was about money, I wouldn’t live here.”
“But you sell fish.”
“You sound more American than I do. Yeah, I sell fish. But I try to strike a balance, you know?” Al opened his arms and waved them to encompass the totality of their setting. “Can’t put a price on this.”
Kemar enjoyed hearing people’s different philosophies, their variety of beliefs. He asked, “So you take, but how do you know when you’ve taken too much? What is the limit?”
“I just know.” Al dragged his foot through the sand and nodded. “Well, maybe it’s not something I know. It’s something I feel. And it starts with knowing that there is a limit. There has to be.”
Kemar spotted a c
rab moving along the rim of a puddle. He poked at it with a stick, backing it up against a waterlogged piece of driftwood. When the crab latched onto the boy’s twig, Kemar picked up the crustacean and dropped the crab, stick and all, into his sack.
Al smiled. “Looks like you’re gonna eat well tonight.”
“It’s not one of your door knobs, but it will make a nice meal.”
Al gave the boy a friendly shove. “Doormat, not door knob. They call ’em doormats because they’re big enough to wipe your feet on.”
“You wiped your feet on our dinner? Wouldn’t your feet get all slimy and full of scales? I bet they’d be dirtier after you wiped them.”
“No, I didn’t do that. It’s just an expression.”
“It makes no sense to me, but I did enjoy the meal.”
Al nodded. “Thanks, we’ll do it again sometime.”
Kemar held out his bag. “I am hoping you and Meela will share this with me.”
Al took a corner of the bag and opened it. “Let me see what you have in there.” He closed the bag, saying, “Only if you let me do the cooking. And don’t let the mechanic touch a thing. Every time she tries to cook, it comes out tasting like it was marinated in crankcase oil.”
“You are a good cook.”
“Catch it, cook it, eat it. That’s what I do.”
Several thin streams of water rising from the sand wet Kemar’s face. Al dropped to his knees and dug briskly. A few seconds later, he held three clams in his hands and deposited them into Kemar’s bag.
“Pisser clams really liven up a bouillabaisse,” Al observed.
“A bouillabaisse? You cook an awful mess?”
Impressed with the boy’s mastery of French, Al explained, “Not everything’s literal, kid. It really means a collection of sea food, kind of like an ocean stew.”
The Cambodian and the American walked on. Al stopped, picking a piece of plastic out of some dried seaweed. He cut away a tangle of fishing line with the fillet knife that hung from his belt and stuffed the monofilament deep into a pocket. When he was done, he passed a piece of bright yellow plastic to Kemar for further inspection. Perplexed, the boy handed the trash back to Al.
