9

Sabrina

“We’ve fired the irons, so don’t give us any trouble,” grumbles my burly handler. The burns on my arms, back, and tentacles itch at the sound of his voice. Little round buttons of torture dot my body, reminders of the times I had the energy to fight. Between living in my own excrement and cramped conditions for my tentacles, my body is too sick to lash out at my captors.

He lifts the lid off the watertight barrel that has been my home for the last two weeks. I’m blinded by the early evening sun after sitting in complete darkness for hours. Despite the filthy water’s rancid taste, I cower deeper into the oversized barrel. He grabs me by the shoulders to drag me from my prison. I hit the floor on my elbow and cry out from the impact. My tentacles slither from the barrel to coil around me like armor.

“Shut up,” he yells as he kicks me in the back.

I cough and sob as the agony races up my spine. What I wouldn’t do for an hour in the sea?! I’d stretch my tentacles along the warm sand of the bottom, cleanse my gills, feed on fresh fish, and never take my freedom for granted again. My daydream takes my consciousness away as I’m groped and manhandled by the show’s stagehands. Weights are chained to my tentacles to slow me down. My wrists are bound to my neck in an elaborate, beaded harness connected to a leather leash. I hold onto my vision of the open water—that way, I don’t think about who this harness was originally made for or what became of her.

“Never thought I’d see the day she’d submit,” says Ol’Barnabie with a belly laugh. He crouches so his cigar dangles an inch from the end of my nose. “This fish was a maneater who took on six men with whaling nets. Now she’s my little doll who lets me pull her strings in any fashion I want.”

His evil laughter chills me to the bone.

“You stay sweet until after showtime, and I may have Rufus and Dolbie put new saltwater in your tank. Would you like that? Have you had enough of swimming in my piss, or have you enjoyed adding your own?” When I drop my chin to cry, he kisses my forehead. The slimy imprint of his lips is worse than the burnt brands from the irons .

Thankfully, Rufus throws a bucket of cold seawater over my head. If I had a warning, I would have opened my gills to clean them. Outside the barrel, I use my lungs to breathe, but inside, my gills must filter air from the piss-soaked water. My head is jerked backward as one of the men pulls my hair off my shoulders. Their dirty hands wring gray water from the strands. Satisfied I won’t drip on the stage where Barnabie would slip, they tuck the mass into my collar.

“Can’t let the fringe cover what the audience is here to see—the menfolk, at least. Our profits rose by two since we added you to our freak show,” Rufus laughs. The joke’s on him. The venue doubles in size with each island we visit. I bet Barnabie is raking in doubloons hand over fist but tells these nutmegs the revenue raises slightly to keep the excess.

“Yeah,” Dolbie chimes in. “I bet the boss could do better if he allowed the punters to pet her dairy. Then we would be rolling in coins.”

“Nah,” Rufus says with a yank on my leash to follow him. “We’re not that type of show—that would anger the local madams who help us fence the authorities.”

“The authorities are in the audience!”

“On the islands, yeah, but on the continent? No way would those Puritan scoundrels be caught dead at a show with a woman’s body exposed. Half the wenches aren’t allowed to show their shoulders or ankles. A breast might send the preachers to the golden gates early.”

Lifting each weighted tentacle is a struggle. I must concentrate to get one weight off the ground. My palms slap the ground as I crawl when I normally glide upright. The beaded chains on my chest scrape the dirt, and a dust cloud tickles my nose. Still, my handlers pull my leash, angling my neck so my chin touches my collarbone. Black spots wink in my vision as my air is cut off. My gills moan and wheeze as they compensate for my lung’s lack of air.

“Let’s go,” Rufus whispers tersely before grabbing my two front tentacles. Their weights dangle from his arms. Their cuffs cut into my flesh. Blood beads where tentacle meets metal.

“He’s telling the story of how she capsized his ship and he wrestled her to shore, so it will be a tick before she’s needed,” Dolbie says while picking up my back two tentacles. He’s mindful to scoop up the weights as well.

With half the tentacles’ weights to move, I use every ounce of strength to slither across the floor. I’m grateful Rufus and Dolbie carry my fore and aft tentacles instead of pushing me forward with the branding iron—although my position above the ground makes me walk on tentacle tips like tiptoes—I’m swiftly transferred from the show’s creature wagon to my show tank. The bearded lady, the lizard boy, and the cyclops nod their heads in respect as I pass. I hear their conversations at night, but none dare to speak to the monster in the barrel. After my arrival, their time in the show was cut. Less work and better conditions make me a hero in their eyes—even if they are terrified of me.

I’m glad someone is because I feel myself slipping away.

The fantasies of Captain Teeth and his demon pirate crew rescuing me kept me alive and fighting the first few days. For several days following that, I fought out of rage against the branding irons. Now, I hope for the end. I have two more days until the full moon. Maybe I’ll be lucky and suffocate in my piss barrel. As much as I wish I could take out these vile men and save Bettina from ever meeting them, I don’t have it in me to save myself.

Not anymore.

With the grunts and grabby hands, Rufus and Dolbie dump me into my show tank. I dodge my chains and the weights on my tentacles as they are carelessly thrown in after me and sink to the bottom. Ahhh, fresh water. It’s not saltwater, but it’s clear enough for the customers to gawk at me through the glass on the front of the enclosure, so it’s free of feces. I scrub my scalp to coax my hair from my collar and shake away debris. My precious moments of sunlight end as a tarp is thrown over the tank. The wooden wheels squeak and groan as I’m transferred to the stage.

“And here’s the she-devil! The Beast of the Caribbean! The Kraken who sunk my boat, ate my crew, but was no match for me—”

I roll my eyes at Barnabie’s blustering. One look at his shiny boots would tell anyone he’s never worked a deck a minute of his life. As if I had the appetite to eat a crew of men? No wonder the rotund, balding man could catch me! I’d be stuffed to the gills and too sick to fight back. Ha! Barnabie’s act would become a comedy if this tank didn’t stifle my sarcasm. If the glass were thinner or metal reinforcements didn’t adorn the seams, I could throw one-liners from under the tarp to punch holes in his ludicrous story.

The crowd gasps when the tarp is removed. They always do. Men lean forward and adjust their spectacles to sneak a glimpse of my naked breasts before their wives catch on. Some children point while others hide in their mother’s skirts.

They aren’t the worst. The worst are the women in the crowd. Furious at their men, most of them want to butcher me and serve me on their kitchen table— according to what they yell at my tank. But I suffer worse abuse than words at small shows. Will Barnabie grip my hair, pulling against the tentacle weights, so my human half hangs limply over my tank in a display of his dominance? At least the women don’t give him the admiration he seeks. Small justice. The ladies cover their noses with handkerchiefs at my smell. Lower-class women throw rotten produce at me.

He’s ignored…so he books increasingly larger crowds… Based on the size of this audience, he will keep me enclosed. He’s packed the tent to the rafters. I scan the frightened faces as Barnabie’s tale drones on…

Wait?! Could it be? It is!

In the far reaches of the crowd sit a dust-coated bunch of children. Unlike the rest of the children in attendance, these sit still with wide eyes ringed with the black shadows of poverty. Like the shining beacon of a lighthouse, Bettina’s preacher’s stove pipe hat calls to me. I swim to the opposite side of the tank and press myself against the enclosure seam. Ignoring the hisses and squeals of the front row, I scan the sea of urchins for my sister.

She waves her gloved fingers. Her jaw rests on the high-neck collar of her dress.

Yeah, I know. Shocker. Now get me out.

We stare at one another until Barnabie finishes his story. The audience is invited to roam the space and get close to his creatures. I was tonight’s finale, but the cat man, the four-armed lady, and the mermaid—who I suspect is a manatee in makeup—are also in tanks around the room. Some nights, I flash my breasts at the snobby women who approach my tank. Other nights, I ball my tentacles and sulk until Barnabie pokes me with a hot iron in front of everyone. Those nights are the worst because none of the people bat an eyelash at the abuse.

Bettina will care. She’ll scream at him until he loses his hearing in one ear.

As my sister rushes to my tank, I’m smacked by the realization that she’s on legs. How is she in human form? The full moon is in two days. How is she walking? While the crowd gapes at me, I gawk at her plain linen dress. She places her gloves flat against the glass, and I press my palms to my side. Her eyes fill with tears. I shake my head at her that this isn’t the time for a rescue. More than Rufus and Dolbie, Barnabie bribes the port authorities to act as security guards during the shows. Even in Kraken form, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Almost makes you believe she’s a woman,” Pastor Richard whispers.

His breath fogs the glass. Wide eyes roam over my body. I drop my connection with Bettina to fold my arms and tuck my hands in my armpits to shield my breasts. In all the years I’ve swum nude under the sea and stripped to my human skin in bawdy taverns, I’ve never felt as dirty as under his stare. My skin crawls where his gaze lands. Bettina squints at him as if she’s about to unleash one of her purity tirades when Barnabie’s shadow darkens their shoulders.

“Want to pet her, Pastor?” The slimy showman worms his way between Bettina and her date. She trips over the hem of her dress as she backs away, but Barnabie’s arm snakes around her middle to catch her. I don’t miss the way his fingers press into her breast under her arm. Bettina gasps but otherwise doesn’t give into her Kraken instinct to rip into the man.

“Oh no, she’s an abomination,” Richard states indignantly as if he wasn’t salivating over my curves a second ago. “A soulless monster like her should be put down. Sending this demon back to hell, instead of tempting my parishioners to touch her flesh, would be the righteous thing to do.”

“How do you know she’s a demon?” Bettina asks from under Barnabie’s arm. Her eyebrows wiggle at Richard to rescue her from the groping showman, but he ignores her plight. “Just because her body is different doesn’t mean her heart can’t be pure.”

“I can assure you,” Barnabie says, leaning to peek inside my sister’s dress. Ha! Bettina’s neckline doesn’t give away a freckle under her chin, let alone a glimpse of cleavage. “Her body is identical to a woman’s—tentacles aside—and I invite you to feel for yourself.”

“Well, I never,” Bettina says with her hand over her heart.

“That’s quite enough,” Richard declares. Just when I thought he’d forgotten them completely, he grabs the hands of the two closest children. Great idea—bring impressionable kids to a show that goes against your teachings. What was he thinking? “The island's residents will hear the Lord’s opinion on your show. I would never return to Trinidad if I were a businessman like yourself. Your seats will undoubtedly be empty! Come along, children, we must repent for what we have seen.”

I wave goodbye to Bettina while Barnabie’s back is turned. She’s my last hope, but her pastor will never let her help me now. If she’s on legs, she gave him her soulbeak, and he chose for them to live as humans. Based on his attitude toward me, I doubt she told him our Kraken lifestyle was an option. She’s in love and living happily ever after, surrounded by children. I can’t ruin her life. At least she won’t wonder what happened to me.

I won’t live past the full moon.

“He can be quite feisty,” Bettina says to Barnabie, but loud enough that I believe her message is to me. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Barnabie launches into his usual threats about how the port authorities side with him and how his following on the continent makes touring the islands not worth the hassle. As he drones on about how his visits are acts of charity, Bettina stares at me over his shoulder.

I point to my teeth.

For the first time since I last saw her in her Kraken form, my sister smiles.

Help is on the way, but will he reach me before my human form drowns?