Devilfish Story

Have you heard about the Squolox? They say it's a sea monster with a beak like an octopus and dark, expressive eyes like a seal. They say it has two long, whiskery tendrils like a catfish that extend from its cheeks like serpents. They say it's a broad beast, wide as two great white sharks side-by-side, and that its body tapers to a lashing tail, at the narrowest still thick around as a man's waist. They say it shoots through the water like a squid, propelled by more than muscle in motion.

They also say it has a wicked personality, destroys human boats for fun, chomps the undersides of vessels 'til the rush of water is too much to contain. They say it likes to watch humans scramble for their lives in the water. They say this sport is “amusing” for the beast. And they claim that no expedition: not explorers, or fishermen, or vacationers, or anyone else, has ever witnessed the Squolox and returned without losing one of their number.

I can confirm, or reinforce, many of these rumors. For at this very moment I’m swimming in the cold, grey waters of the bay, perhaps soon to be the latest victim of this legendary monster.

I've seen the mighty beak, large enough to snap my head off. I've heard the beak at work, bending and crushing the floorboards of my friend’s yacht. I've felt the serpentine tendrils brush against my legs as I went overboard, slide off my ankles as I kicked and flailed. I make no claims as to the monster’s personality, or whether it enjoys watching us struggle, and can’t imagine what my friends and I did to anger it. We were just three amicable college boys out for a pleasure cruise. We’d had a few beers, but were on our best behavior. We hadn’t even broken out the fishing lines yet.

I’ve seen no blood as of yet, and don’t feel injured, though I suppose it can be difficult to tell with the salty waves buffeting my face. I’m a strong swimmer at least, all those Saturday afternoons at the university pool paid off. I barely even feel cold, though the water must be freezing.

My destination is a rocky islet, barely the area of a bus stop but a full five feet tall at its highest point, a monolith of sharp granite sticking out of the bay.

I'd been watching that little island just before the Squolox struck, a sad little pile of rocks buffeted by grey waves. I was thinking about how it might serve as a pathetic port in choppy waters. I imagined clinging to the highest point, a little outcrop that the waves barely reach. This image seemed to last but a moment in my mind before I felt the boat rock and my companions shout in alarm.

Was that really just minutes ago? Perhaps my mind invents a narrative to distract from the cold, from the terror, from thinking about the situation other than that I need to stroke, stroke, stroke. The freestyle was always my best event.

My left hand crashes into something hard. Pain rushes into my brain. My right hand seeks something to hold onto, and then the waves carry me past my destination… I kick hard, then lash out with my whole body in the direction I think my salvation lies, better to dash myself against the rocks than be lost back into the grey abyss. Somehow both hands find firm holds. Within seconds I scramble onto the rocks, not so different from climbing out of a pool, but everything is sharp. Everything is a point.

I try to wipe the salt from my eyes, but everything is wet. I blink until I can stand to focus, and notice that my left hand is gashed and bloody, but still has feeling in it. Things could be worse I suppose.

The world around me is all grey, but grows more distinct as I stare. I can now make out swirls of light and dark amongst the rocks. I find a seat on one of the flatter areas. I feel no warmer, but surely I’ll conserve more heat than if I were submerged. As I gaze into the morass of waves, dread closes in around me. For the first time my mind is free enough to know fear.

I think I see movement in the waves, but it’s difficult to tell. I close my eyes and listen: I hear nothing but the relentless patter of the bay. Have my friends found timbers from the yacht to cling to? Or perhaps the monster has taken them…

I open my eyes and turn to glare at my new home, trace the grey-on-grey lines of my rocky abode. If I can wait long enough, death or salvation will come for me eventually. I think my friend managed to turn on the distress signal before the yacht went under, but I can’t be sure. But will deliverance find me even if it comes looking? If a rescue ship arrives, they may miss me if I don’t call out to them.

How long has it been? Somehow I feel wetter than when I was in the water, like the sea is seeping into my guts, into my soul. Now my muscles ache. I yearn to lay down. I’ll have to turn away from the comforting rocks to find a place to stretch my legs, to fit myself into my new craggy home.

I turn. The Squolox is there, its burnt umber fish face stares back at me from between lapping waves. It holds a position perhaps thirty feet away. I am not afraid, I am too helpless to need fear.

Membranes slide over the creature's muddy eyes. I can see now why they compare them to a seal's. Despite being dark and opaque, their quivering activity gives the creature a sort of animation, almost a sympathetic appearance.

Muck or mucus stains the beak, making it seem like moist, pursed lips. The seallike eyes bulge and shake. I imagine it is looking me over, taking in my pathetic little form on my pathetic little roost.

How will it come for me? I'm out of reach of the beak. Would it beach its anguilliform body on the rocks? Stretch a tendril up toward my leg? With these thoughts I know fear again. I reach behind me, hoping to find holds to scrabble for a higher spot.

The Squolox opens its beak, wide, wider than I’d have thought possible, and a wretched, shrill groan pours out of it: “Eeeeeeek.”

I freeze. It almost sounded like an utterance, like language. Over many moments we share eye contact, my fear is so great that I almost feel like laughing at this monstrous, clownish face. Anything to release the tension.

Again that awful sound burbles up from deep within the Squolox, more distinct to me now for having heard it previously.

“Speeeeeeeak.”

Surely I didn’t hear right. The creature's head bobs with the water, but otherwise holds its position.

“Speeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak.”

I cannot delude myself. The monster is talking to me. But is it simply stating what it is doing? It says “speak”, therefore it speaks, like a gruesome Rene Descartes? Or is this an order? Or a request? Perhaps it wants me to speak.

My eyes dart to behind the creature. I seek my comrades, or for pieces of our wrecked vessel. I hope to notice planks from the red-painted hull. Somehow even that bright paint job is lost in the ever-present grey.

I hear the monster inhaling, sucking wind like a marathon runner. I will obey its impatient order.

“Hellooooooooo,” I find myself almost cooing. My penchant for mockery lives. And this time I find myself laughing, laughing in the face of fear.

The dark eyes shift, pulsate. The hinge of its beak flexes, opens and closes without speaking. In agitation? Or excitement at achieving a response? If I could tell the difference between anger and joy for the Squolox, I could write a killer term paper about it, and wouldn’t that shock the old greybeards?

Finally the beak opens wider than before, and seems to crack at the edges with the strain. I can see deep down into the creature’s gullet. I can see horrid brown bladders and livers, or perhaps the creature's fetid soul. And it speaks again.

“Deeeeeath…”

Then it gnashes its beak at me, it sounds like castanets. I imagine it seeks to intimidate, reminds me of the sort of professor who rules by fear. The sort of professor I’d flatter to their face while mocking them behind their back. But why pretend with a ugly monster like this? I find myself laughing again: first giggling, then roaring with terrified mirth.

“We all die sometime…” My voice takes on a sing-song quality. Where is my confidence coming from?

The monster’s head dips under the water, then its tail rises up and smashes down, sending a wave straight at me. I barely close my eyes before the salty sea slams my face and chest.

"Ha ha! Now you’re angry!” I shout.

The beast’s visage returns as it continues thrashing, contorts its eellike body in ways I wouldn’t have thought possible. The eyes bulge and retract, the beak gibbers like it’s lost connective tissue. The wretched head bobs into and out of the water like a malevolent cork.

Cold grey water batters me as the waves grow higher and more violent. Does the Squolox seek to send me tumbling from my perch? I’ve heard that killer whales do something similar to knock seals from icy enclaves. But I won’t let the creature have me so easily.

I turn my back, embrace the stone pillar with all my strength. Perhaps the creature will have me, but I’ll not give it the satisfaction of seeing the look of fear upon my face. All I can do is wait and suffer now. I should think of something to distract me, or to remind me of humanity, my companions perhaps, wherever they are…

But their faces do not pop into my head. And I can barely recall an anecdote about them. When I try, my face seems to grow heavy, my mind drifts away, like if I were trying to perform calculus or listen to a professor expound on Greek history.

I can recite a few biographical details only. I met the two other men, my closest friends, during freshman year. We were distinguished by all hailing from wealthy families (though mine the least wealthy) and all being sardonic and clever (though I the cleverest.) We are moderate sportsmen and students, and not popular with most professors.

Even their names don’t come to me, no matter how hard I try to concentrate. One was tall, and the other portly. And I think one had a large mole on the left of his forehead. And the other’s family owned the yacht. What a disappointment that will be for them. It was a lovely yacht, dubbed The Crimson Skipper.

But why dwell on sadness for distraction? Why not be merry? I start to sing. I belt out an old drinking song about a clumsy football team set to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.” Surely the Squolox won’t get the references, but must know I’m mocking it.

I hear the first foghorn blast, but don’t register it, so loud am I singing and laughing. I reached the fourth verse, one about a field goal kicker who always falls down. I hadn’t even noticed that the waves had stopped buffeting me. On the second blast I turn my head and grow quiet: a coast-guard cutter has arrived! And the Squolox is nowhere to be seen! I’m saved! I still can’t stop giggling as they toss me a rope and life-jacket.

Minutes later, I am warm, and laying on a simple, but infinitely comfortable bunk. Someone holds my hand. I glance over to see an EMT wrapping a bandage round my gashed palm.

“My friends?” I ask.

She places a hand on my forehead. “Rest for now,” she says.

I should probably fake a few tears, or something, but I’ll simply do as she says. I stare up at the white ceiling of this grand cutter, less luxurious but more pleasant than my friend's yacht. I wonder when I’ll remember their names or faces.

On the plus side, this little tale is something I can tell my grandchildren about one day, and anyone else who will listen. Perhaps they’ll be amazed by my confidence. Or sit in awe at my quick, clear-eyed thinking. They’ll revel in my victorious battle-of-wills with the Squolox!

But what about you? You’ve heard the whole story now, what do you think? You do believe my story, don’t you?