I’m taken aback by the question, and when I finally understand what she is asking, the whole thing is like a meaty punch to the gut. “No. No, of course not.”
“But you said a person’s actions in the present—”
I cut her off. “That’s just it. A person’s. Dogs, on the other hand . . . dogs have pure souls. Look at me.” I grab her chin and look straight into her eyes. “Dogs are always good and full of selfless love. They are undiluted vessels of joy who never, ever deserve anything bad that happens to them. Especially you. Since the day I met you, you have done nothing but make my life better in every possible way. Do you understand?” Lily nods. “So, no. The octopus did not find you because of karma.”
She nods again and I let go of her chin. I throw back the last of the scotch and set the empty glass down on the floor with a clunk.
“Shall we?” I climb into the bunk with her. Something is catching me not right under my back and I reach under the blanket and produce red ball. I set it on the floor next to the empty glass. I tap on the Witchie-Poo charm for luck and I blow out the candle in our lantern. Lily gives me a gentle kiss on my nose and I kiss her back in the groove between her eyes.
I don’t tell her what I’ve wondered myself in the darker moments since our ordeal began: if the octopus, in fact, did come to her because of karma.
But not karma for her actions.
Karma, perhaps, for mine.
Midnight
I’m straddling Lily, punching her repeatedly in the snout and yelling, “Die! Die! Die!” Tears are falling from my face and my knuckles are searing with pain and the air is fire and my lungs and my heart and my everything burns. I don’t remember anything but betrayal. The sharp realization that Lily is the octopus. That she has been deceiving me all along. I no longer know anything. I don’t know where the boat ends or the water begins, where the water ends or where the sky begins, where the sky ends or near space begins, where near space ends or where the darkness begins.
Or where the darkness ends.
I don’t know if the boat has capsized. I don’t know if the bed has crashed to the ceiling, if the windows will burst and water will rush in, if we will drown. I don’t know if the whole world is upside down, or just mine. I don’t know anything except the pain of betrayal as I pummel my sweet dog in the face.
And that’s when I wake up gasping for air.
I turn immediately to Lily, who is sound asleep. Her face is perfect, unmolested by violence. She is not the octopus. She could never betray me. It’s not possible, it’s not in her to do so. And yet the dream was so real, as if it were foreshadowing gloom. She looks so beautiful, so calm. I force myself to shake the feeling, but not before whispering, “Please don’t ever die.”
Which is an impossible request of any living thing.
There’s a wetness by my side and I’m immediately afraid that the octopus is back, but the culprit this time is me, or more accurately the now empty scotch bottle I find by my side. I reach to wipe my eyes awake but miss and hit my nose.
That’s when I realize I’m drunk.
Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip;
drink deeply, but never too deep.
And remember the night is for hunting,
and forget not the day is for sleep.
I don’t know the rhyme or why that’s in my head, or who said it or where it’s from. Kipling? It doesn’t matter. I just have the overwhelming feeling I’m breaking rules. Laws. Edicts. Things meant to be followed. Things not meant to be broken. Forces not meant to be tested.
Complete darkness falls over our quarters as the moon passes behind a cloud. As are we. Behind a cloud. We’ve lost sight of the journey, our purpose in being here. We are hunters, and the night is for hunting. And here we are drunk and asleep. If the octopus were to strike now, we would be easy prey. Pathetic. Ripe for the killing. How did this happen? How did I allow it to be?
I look at my sleeping love and silently beg her forgiveness. What have I gotten us into? She doesn’t need this. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t understand revenge. And while I prefer to think of our voyage as an offensive maneuver, there’s no denying that’s partly what this is. Revenge. You weighed anchor in our waters, now we sail deeply in yours.
I stumble out of bed in the way drunk people do, clumsily and with great kerfuffle. I stand up too tall and bang my head on the ceiling. I trip over the empty scotch bottle and it sends red ball scooting across the floor with a clang. Quickly I pick up the bottle to silence it. I look at Lily. If anything will wake her, it’s the sound of red ball roaring alive to play and bouncing against the clapboard. Yet she sleeps soundly through it, a sign of our thorough depletion.