Lily and the Octopus (24 page)

With one last great effort, I swing completely around and jam my foot under the octopus’s chin, pushing his jaw in the direction opposite Lily’s pulling. The noose tightens further
and his grip on my neck becomes tenuous.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” I yell to Lily, wrestling the octopus arm from around my neck.

The noose now tight, Lily lets go of the rope long enough to chomp down on the wound from the bottle. She gets a mouthful of flesh and shakes her head violently until it tears. I’ve seen
her do this, too, with stuffed toys—grip their bodies, shaking them savagely to snap their necks. It’s always a little unnerving, the instinct bred within her to kill. But now I cheer.
The octopus lets go of me and swats her away and she flies across the room with a chunk of his still-human arm. I lunge for the rope and pull tightly again, and his face turns a deeper shade of
purple. Both arms flail and strike at whatever they can, as the flames in the back of the cabin encroach.

Lily slides to a stop under the table, two of its legs already on fire. “Lily, look out!” Lily turns to see the flames and scrambles out from underneath the table just as it
collapses on one end. Sparks fly, igniting some cushions. The cabin is choking us rapidly with smoke.

I pull the octopus by the rope around his neck. There are three steps up to the deck. He pulls at the rope with his octopus arm, slithering the tip underneath to give himself just enough slack
to breathe. Lily chomps down on his Achilles tendon and he writhes with pain. I yank the rope hard up the stairs, me dragging the octopus-man, the octopus-man dragging Lily.

“Say good-bye to this world, you sonofabitch.”

“GLRZHKZZZT,” gargles the octopus, struggling for air.

There’s an ax strapped just underneath the gunwale, and before I can process the decision to free it I’m already wielding it in my hand. I wrap the noose around my left hand and
bring the ax down with all my might, grunting a murderous yowl. The octopus rolls on his side and I bury the blade deep into the deck.

“Lily!” I need both hands to free the ax, so Lily takes up the slack. She pulls at the rope, wrapping it around a cleat bolted to the deck. I pull at the ax, wiggling it free of its
vise. Lily runs back around the octopus and pulls at his pant leg, again tightening the noose. I raise the ax again, taking aim at his one octopus arm. This time the blade connects, severing the
arm with a deafening squish.

The octopus screams in pain.

He kicks Lily, who sails into the bulwark. There is just enough slack in the rope for him to scramble to his feet as I struggle to free the ax from the deck. Lily, stunned, shakes herself
upright. The octopus limps starboard and turns back to look at us one last time.

“Be seeing you, governor,” he says. Just as I free the ax, he calmly tosses himself off the side.

Lily barks and we both rush to the edge, expecting to see him hanging from his broken neck. Instead, he gasps and spits and chokes, hanging from the rope, his legs submerged in water below the
knee. The ocean bubbles around him as he thrashes, and he’s engulfed in a cloud of purple smoke. We can just make out his two legs becoming four, then five, then six. His upper body loosens
as he fully retakes octopus form, and the last thing we see is his look of spite and hatred as he again becomes an invertebrate, slipping out of his noose.

F
uck!” I spin around, grasping for a plan. One of us will regroup first, and I’d rather it be us than him. C’mon, focus.
Focus!
We cannot be so close to victory just to stagger backward into defeat. But the octopus has the home field advantage. We need a miracle. I look at the spot that held the ax and
something bright catches my eye. Farther down the ship’s side wall is an orange case. I race for it and pry it free. My knuckles are cold and achy. My fingers tremble in fear and
anticipation. I struggle to open the case, but when I do we are rewarded. Inside are two flare guns.

Lily barks portside. The sea erupts and an octopus arm emerges over the side, jerking the boat counterclockwise. I’m alarmed at the sheer size of it, at this monster’s ability to
grow. Lily charges fearlessly at the arm, retreating only when a second arm emerges to pierce the windows of the cabin and send flames shooting over the deck. I grab the guns and charge the octopus
as he rips a hole in the side of the yacht and we start taking on water.

We have only one chance—to make it back to our boat, where we at least have the advantage of the trawls.
Fishful Thinking
floats calmly a good thirty feet away, safely out of reach
of the fire. We can’t jump. We can’t traverse a plank. The only way to get to her is to swim. We have to enter the water, and to do so we must distract the octopus.

I whistle for Lily and slap my hand against my thigh. She immediately comes running and I crouch, catching her as she leaps into my arms; she hasn’t moved this nimbly in years. I set the
gun case down just long enough to untether
Fishful Thinking
from the sinking, burning yacht. Then I grasp Lily tight, grab one of the guns, and shout in the most pathetic and terrified voice
I can muster. “Hey, octopus! I give up. You want her? You can have her. I don’t want to drown!”

The octopus has spent enough time with us now to wonder if, when truly pressed, I’m not just this selfish. He raises his eye into view to see if my offer is true. Instead of seeing Lily
outstretched in offering, he’s staring down the barrel of my flare gun.

“Fuck you, you piece of shit.” I pull the trigger.

The octopus is already retreating into the water as the flare strikes him like a lightning bolt on the top of his head. He makes a sound like a pile of hissing, screaming snakes as he sinks
below the surface. Flames shatter another window in the cabin and broken glass explodes against the deck.

“We have to go.
Now!
” I drop the gun and hug Lily tight and we dive off the starboard side toward
Fishful Thinking
. I kick hard and try to cover as much of the distance
underwater as I can. When we surface, I paddle furiously with one arm as Lily kicks with her short little legs. We have maybe ten feet to go. Behind us there’s an explosion aboard the
Owe
Too,
the flames having finally reached the engines.

The rope the octopus had tossed earlier inviting us aboard hangs off the side of our fishing boat. I give it a good tug. It’s still secured tightly to the cleat. I grab on and lift us as
high as I can out of the water before boosting Lily the rest of the way. She scrambles over our boat’s wall just as the octopus wraps a tentacle around my neck.

“Li—lheeee,” I manage before he cuts off my airway. It’s enough for Lily to recognize her name and she ducks just out of the octopus’s reach as a second arm strikes
Fishful Thinking
’s deck.

Just as my fingers turn white and I can no longer hold on to the boat, Lily reappears brandishing the jagged filleting knife from our set in the deckhouse. She stabs it into the tentacle around
my neck, severing just through to my skin; I can feel the knife’s craggy point at my jaw. The octopus lets go, giving me enough time to clamber aboard.

I run straight for the deckhouse to flip the trawler winches, and mercifully the squall has not robbed them of power. The side trawler whirs to life and I lower the net on the port side. The
boom swings wide, and I worry about hitting Lily. I yell for her to stay low and close and she sidles up beside me. Instinctively, I turn on the echo sounder and watch breathlessly for any sign of
life. After about thirty seconds, the octopus moves.

Blip.

“There!”

I turn over the engine.

Blip. Blip.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon . . .”

The engine sputters and coughs.

“Come on!”

Blip. Blip. Blip.

The octopus is upon us.

I pound my fists on the engine control panel and suddenly the engine wheezes to life. I pull the wheel hard to the left and
Fishful Thinking
starts her tight turn.

Blip. Blip.

We pass over the octopus, but the net sensors give no sign of a catch. Lily grabs the strap of our harpoon gun in her teeth and heads for the stern. She sets it down and stands with her hind
legs on the transom.

Blip.

The octopus is getting farther away.

Silence.

Fishful Thinking
completes her turn and we head into the surf. I scan the ocean in front of us, wiping the windows with my sleeve to clear the deckhouse of steam. The silence is thick and
eerie.

I race for the stern and fasten the harpoon gun to the mount so it takes aim at the waters behind us. Lily can swivel the gun with her nose, and I show her how to do so. I tell her the few
secrets I know about firing a gun—to put the butt square in her shoulder and weld her cheek to the stock—and how to hit a moving target, tips I’ve learned from my mother’s
husband, who is himself an impressive shot. She listens and nods with determination.

Blip. Blip.

The echo sounder picks up something off the stern. I run back to the deckhouse and call to Lily. “He’s behind us! Headed right for you!” I see her place one paw on the harpoon
gun’s trigger. The octopus is forty feet away. Thirty. Twenty. “Steady! Steady! Get ready to fire on my command!”

Lily takes careful aim.

“Remember what I told you!”

I turn back to the echo sounder. Ten feet.

Lily makes one final adjustment, nosing the harpoon gun down just a hair.

NOT! WHERE! THE! OCTOPUS! IS! WHERE! THE! OCTOPUS! IS! GOING! TO! BE!

“Fire!”

She pulls the trigger.

The harpoon catches and I pump my fist with excitement. Lily knocks the gun from the mount as the rope pulls taut and the gun rides up the side of the boat, anchoring just under the lip of the
gunwale. I pull the wheel sharp, to the right this time, causing the net to drag toward the stern.

“Lily! Switch!”

Lily scampers to take the wheel as I charge to the back of the boat. I pry the gun loose, reeling in the rope attached to the harpoon. I give it one final yank as I see the net open wide and I
drag the stunned octopus in.

“Raise the winch!”

Lily jumps with all her might and noses the winch switch upward. The net snatches closed as the jib starts to rise. The net emerges from the water slowly, the weight of its monstrous catch
holding it down. The octopus rises from the ocean, beak first, his seven remaining arms pinned backward behind his head.

“Hello, octopus,” I say coldly. “It’s good to see you again.” And like this, helpless, hanging in his prison of woven rope, for the first time I can say this is
true.

Lily trots up beside me and sits.

“Let me out of this thing!” the octopus bellows. His breathing is shallow, his arms pinioned to his body by the net. I can see they are tightly covering his gills.

“You try to kill me, we have business. You try to kill my dog, you die.”

Lily noses me in the calf as if to ask if this is really necessary. I look down at her in that way that I do when I ask for her trust—when we get in the car and we’re not going to
the vet and I want her to know we’re about to have fun; when we try a new walk and she balks at the unfamiliar route; when I place her in a cool bath on the hottest of summer days, knowing
this will end her discomfort. The way I did when I told her we were going on this awfully big adventure.

“
You can’t kill me! You’ll never kill me!
” The octopus starts to rock and the net begins to swing. The boat sways and the jib creaks and moans. Then the octopus
crashes into the side of
Fishful Thinking
and the rope holding the net jumps off the pulley. The net plummets into the ocean and rope rapidly unspools off the crank. At the last second, Lily
grabs the rope with her teeth and hunkers down with everything she’s got. She’s barely able to keep the rope from disappearing as her claws plow deeply into the deck.

“
Hold on!
” I sprint for the deckhouse, straighten the wheel, and give the engine full throttle. The boat lurches forward. I dive toward Lily and grab the rope. The octopus
gives such a tug at the other end that it splinters painfully in my fingers. Together, Lily and I are able to maintain our tight grip as the boat gains speed, the rope sliding around to the stern.
I know with his arms pinned back flush against his gills he can no longer breathe underwater, and with his beak exposed we only have to plow forward and force enough water down his throat to drown
him.

If we can just hold on.

The more the octopus fights, the more we dig in our heels. I don’t care if I lose all my fingers to splinters. I brace my feet against the bulwark as
Fishful Thinking
rams full
speed ahead. I can feel the octopus flailing.

“If we can just grasp on for ten more seconds!” Lily nods and bites down harder.

I count backward from ten.

“Ten. Nine. Eight.”

I loop the rope tightly around my left hand and pull.

“Seven. Six. Five.”

There is a great final tug from beneath the surface of the water and I can hear one of my fingers break with a deafening snap.

I scream in agony.

Lily steels herself and takes up my count, gargled, though, with her mouth full of rope.

FOUR! THREE! TWO!

I look over at Lily and we lock eyes. Together we say, “
ONE!
”

It’s only after the count hits zero and I keep a stranglehold on the rope for even another good thirty seconds that I realize the octopus stopped fighting when our count reached three.

I look to Lily. “It’s done.” My shoulders droop with relief and I loosen my grip on the rope. “He won’t bother us again.”

Lily lets go with her teeth and tackles me back onto the deck. She climbs my torso and stands with her feet on either side of my sternum and starts madly licking my face. It may take ten tickles
to make an octopus laugh, but it only takes a few licks from a dog to get me going. We shower each other with kisses, laughing until we can’t breathe.