Octopied Mind

I had this dream maybe eight months ago. There was very little I had to add to make a story out of it. This is what happens to me when I sleep. As a side note, octopi (octopussies) are awesome.

Giant octopus bodies lie in a huge field of mud. Some lay out lengthwise, tentacles stretched flat, unmoving. Some twitch. Some have missing tentacles, chopped short by the fishermen who caught them. Still others remain completely active, competing with neighbors for space. Colorful, even in the vague mist of the morning. Red, blues, turquoise, thin striping highlights on the edge of where the suction cups hide.

            From a distance I see a woman, a girl, really, weave her way between the seemingly occupied octopi. As she starts to move away from a particular pair, one breaks away from its posturing. It raises its body up, powerful tentacles able to support its body. The impending shadow looms before her, she swiftly turns, screams, and is bodily lifted into the air, utterly helpless. It seems so surreal that I chuckle to myself, “Ha, got her.”

            She is carried toward the main path next to the mud field and hurled down into a massive puddle, facedown. She doesn’t move. I lose interest in her fate as the path brings me very close to a particularly massive specimen. A deep midnight violet color with banana slug yellow piping with enough mud spattering to convince passerby that it hasn’t made any significant movement for a long interval, long enough that it’s probably safe. The giant body still shudders and heaves as it struggles to draw breath. A profound sense of foreboding takes root in my chest.

            Unable to halt my progress, my feet carried me ever closer. It was impossible to tell whether my brain wouldn’t allow my lungs to draw breath, instinctively trying to eliminate all telltale signs of prey, or if I had simply lost the capability. The entire body heaved once. I ran.

            Without a second thought I made for the old abandoned market stalls along the opposite of the path. The first one I reached was nothing more than the standard; a doorway large enough for a Mack truck, the ceiling two stories high, the open rectangular window where the numerous tables and stands used to display countless sea-found objects. There was one door to the left of the entrance. I dove through it, slamming it shut behind me.

            A small window about eight feet up provided a view of the path directly outside. I jumped up a peered out. I saw nothing but the recently churned path. I heard nothing but the distance and omnipresent cry of seagulls. I slid back down to the floor.

            My gaze drifted to the door as I gulped down air in an effort to calm my heart. The door appeared rather flimsy, clearly made of another piece of flotsam. It did not meet flush with the floor, leaving a gap large enough for mice to scamper under if only there was something to draw them in. I looked around. The Lyceem pirate raid had left nothing behind but ash and dust. A shadow appeared under the door.

            The tentacle slid under the door silently. Probing, searching for flesh, my flesh. I unconsciously jerked away. It froze immediately. Again I felt my entire body seize up. My mind raced, the only part of me determined to escape. Unfortunately my only the option, the window, was only large enough for my head. Without the rest of my body, though, my head would have considerable difficulty making good on its getaway. I knew depending on passerby was not viable. My own response to the girl only moments ago was example enough of what I could expect. As I began to acknowledge the hopelessness of my situation the tentacle retreated. Expecting the entire door to be ripped away, I was surprised when the shadow lifted.

            After a moment, unbelieving, I jumped back up to the window and looked out. I was just in time to see the octopus cross the path. It settled amongst its brethren, bespattering itself in mud. Seconds later it was indistinguishable from those that surrounded it. If I hadn’t watched the process I would have had no way of knowing that it had moved at all. As I contemplated my next move, two basgams trod into my view. The emerald bodies of the reptiles rippled with muscles, their movements reminded me of the lions I had once seen in the menagerie of the sea gypsys.

            Without dropping back to the floor I glanced over at the door just as the first of the predators began scrabbling at the crack along the floor. I decided my imaginary mouse wouldn’t enter because of what lay within, but because of what lay without. Deep growls menaced as the sturdiness of the door prevailed. Short, guttural barks called out in the emptiness of the former market stall. Claws clicked on the hard coral floor and then there was silence. I turned my head just in time to glimpse the short tail of a basgam as it trotted down the path in the direction I had come from. Had they been following me all along, or did they have some way of communicating with the cephalopods? Such interspecies cooperation seemed eerily possible, especially given my current situation. I sank to the floor. I did not like my chances at all. I had only seen one basgam retreating. Despair began to take hold.

            I’m not sure if I nodded off or not. It seemed as though my mind was working the entire time, but a long interval clearly had passed. Through the window I could see the sun had shifted directly overhead. The afternoon heat seemed magnified rather than tempered in my closet.

            Uncertain if the intervening time had given me courage or if nihilism had taken hold. I slowly opened the door. I committed fully right from the start and took several steps before opening my eyes. When I did I saw the other basgam. Curled up and sleeping, it lay only feet from the door. I tiptoed maybe a dozen feet before I could no longer contain my fear. I broke into a run. The moment my foot hit the path, my heart jumped into my mouth. In my worry about the missing basgam, I had completely forgotten the octopus. It had not forgotten me.

            It rose from the mud. Tentacles seemed to be everywhere. The forty-foot width of the path was all that separated us. I could see one of its eyes. The square pupil stared back at me, completely devoid of emotion yet emanating a sense of hate. In that moment my mind gave up. Fortunately, my feet did not. I ran. Again.

            My ears were full of the pounding efforts of my heart, the dull thud of my bare feet on the dirt path, and the otherworldly shrieks of the octopus, joined by the baying of basgams on the hunt. Apparently my oh-so-subtle plan had fooled precisely no one.

            An older gentlemen seemed to appear out of nowhere on the path ahead of me. I saw his eyes attempt to escape his head before he turned to run. His beard was long enough that it trailed behind as he ran. Surprisingly fleet of foot, the old man darted into an opening in the market. Without regard for my previous predicament precipitated by this very same strategy, I followed. We plunged into what seemed to be a sort of promenade, lined with thick pillars that only had a few inches space between them. Light at the far end gave the sense that it was open. We tore down the corridor.

I drew abreast of the old man. As we ran step in step, my synapses began to fire again. Slowly. If I could get in front of the old man and stay there, the fearsome monsters chasing me would encounter him first. That would give me a better chance of escaping. Okay. I had a plan. I stole a glance at the old man. By chance, perhaps, he glanced at me at the same moment. He winked.

My brain kicked into overdrive. That wink. Clearly the old man was plotting exactly what I was plotting. Only seconds separated us from the end of the promenade. Ahead the pillars ended, replaced by chain link fence for maybe thirty feet before there was a gap where we could egress. With a prodigious effort my brain beheld the entire situation. While busy worrying about the old man’s scheming, I had neglected the central problem. The octopus is a clever beast. In a flash I knew it would cut us off at the exit. As we flew past the last pillar I threw myself to the ground.

Seemingly out of nowhere the octopus appeared, looming before the exit. Supported by half of its tentacles, the rest were free the writhe with menace in the air, framing its gnashing beak, silhouetted by the late afternoon sunlight. I knew I was looking at death. Several yards ahead of me the old man stood with his hands on his hips, chest heaving only slightly, as if he had jogged the promenade rather than fled for his life. A basgam skittered past the fearsome cephalopod, its claws struggling to find purchase on the path.

Tentacles grasped the chain link, suction cups fit in the square gaps of the fence. With one brutal movement the octopus ripped the entire thirty-foot length of fencing away, the screech of mangled metal only a grace note in the cacophonous symphony of screams emanating from the enraged predator.

The old man stood calm. His mouth moved, but I could hear no words. He raised one arm as tentacles stretched toward him, pointing back down the promenade. The din shrank to a dull roar, then a mere rumbling. Suddenly the octopus retracted its tentacles. The basgam fled back in the direction it had come, the cephalopod swiftly followed.

Stretched out on my stomach I looked at the old man in disbelief. Hand replaced on his hip, he held my eyes. A smile might have hid beneath his exceptional beard