“The Great Lakes Octopus” by Brian Lintner

"Great Lakes Octopus" by Brian Lintner

(Inspired by the Arowhon Writing Retreat in Algonquin Park)

The Great Lakes Octopus – ten tentacles, because "ten" is in tentacles. None have ever been caught, but they have been spotted, usually at dawn or late dusk, feeding. A tentacle is an occasional sight on small placid lakes, far from shore, far from people. The first signs are present are the ripples, created as the tentacle breaks the water surface from below. A long black arm, as though stretching from a nap, reaching skyward. Two long pincers at the end of the tentacle flex and snap at the air. A reflex? The tentacle may sway for moments, longer if you’re lucky, silently slip back beneath the surface. Another ripple.

With patience, the octopus tentacle can be spotted resurfacing elsewhere, repeating the process. Stretch, snap, dip.

It is believed they feed on medium sized fish. But if hungry enough, they will near the shore and snack on leeches, frogs, or occasional ducklings.

***

This was my first writer’s retreat. I was there to kill two birds with one stone; to learn how to better tell stories and depart the mundane cycle of routine.

I drove from the city wasteland until the tarmac was no longer flat. Small lakes and forests were the boundaries of the road. I arrived at the destination sign that said ‘turn here.’ The laneway was gravel and dust, a ribbon of tight hilly turns amid the cathedral of conifers and maples.

Was I in the right place? It was too nice.

Long drives create full bladders, and I wondered if I took ten paces into the bush to relieve myself, would I lose sight of the beaten path? People have been lost for days, only meters from the main trail. Panic, dehydration, eventual death. Did Stephen King have eyes in the forest that could spot me? Would Hercule Poirot stand over my mosquito bitten lumpy carcass, disembowelled by predators and raptors, and find the missing clue? Lunatic silliness. I could wait for the loo until I arrived. A sign said the hotel was around the corner, past the big tree, dead ahead.

At the car park, I knuckle-rubbed the glare of the drive from my eyes. I could hear the quiet of remoteness. Eerily quiet, save for the buzz of mosquitoes and occasional squawking water fowl.

***

At dinner, I met the other writers. The evening was full of enlightened chatter as they spoke of their stories, themselves, titillations and imaginations. Would my titillating imagination compare? Could I flock with these birds of a feather?

I told my fellow writers of the Colossal Great Lakes Octopus that occupy the lake water next to our cabins. Their tree limb tentacles come with one evolutionary difference to their smaller cousins; their snapping phalanges have developed into spiney-spike beak-claws. Their favoured meals, rumours of course, are monster sturgeon. However, when foraging, they are capable of coming close to shore to snatch turtles, dogs, or misbehaving children.

I asked them if they had noticed any children running about.

There was a breath-beat of unanswered thought.

***

After this richness of supper and company, I strolled beyond the trail to the water’s edge, to the guest dock, beside the staff dock, where anyone can borrow a canoe. By now, it was night. The air was filled with humid earthy dew and the haze of distant fires. The forest silhouette and blue-purple horizon shimmied on the flatness of lake. Tranquility.

Was that a ripple?

Voices and someone with a headlamp approached the staff dock. They chattered. Two young men and a woman. They removed a canoe from the storage rack. There were hollow bumps and thumps as it was dragged across the lawn. It scratched the shoreline as they slid it into the calm water.

They loaded themselves into the canoe. By the amount of topsy-turvying going on, I wondered about their skill.

I watched the woman step into the middle seat and lean on the gunnels for support. The canoe dipped to the tipping point.

The fellow with the headlamp sat in the back. He said to the fellow at the front, “Turn left, now right…”

I’d understood that the rear seat in a canoe was the steerage control. Those kids must have a new way of doing it.

I watched them zig-zag almost out of sight. I saw the flicker of a lighter, a couple of times. Their laughter became quieter. Tranquility once again.

Splosh! Snap snap! Splashes. Ripples. Then, a creepy quiet.

***

The next morning, I returned from breakfast and crossed paths with a fellow guest, a hiker, not a writer. She told me her name was Agatha. Her mosquito net head-covering topped a mop of white hair, her false teeth aligned looked new, not stained by tea or nubbed with age. With her walking sticks and gloves, it was obvious she was on an exercise mission. We paused at the bridge adjacent to the cabins and looked out to the water, where there was a ripple.

She pointed and said with delight, “A crane!”

“Yes, a crane.” I lowered my voice and asked, “Have you ever heard about the Great Lakes Octopus?”

She smiled, a gentle smile, and said “Oh, I’m not concerned about the octopus. It fed well last night. Besides, I don’t have any children … anymore.”

Like an apparition, Agatha disappeared into the woods.

***

Brian Lintner is a veteran and former corporate guy who loves good stories and word salads. He and his tolerant wife of 37 years have dragged their kids around Canada and overseas, and now live somewhere in the armpit of the Golden Horseshoe. When not writing, he is known to paint (www.zendenart.ca) and continues to pluck away at his ukulele, or occasionally babysit the grandkids.

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