THE TATTOOED PENGUIN
In Which September and Saturday Tell a Lie to Avoid Death by Octopus, Meet an Out-of-Work Cuttlefish, Take in a Show, and Get Matching Tattoos
Four Pieces of Eight fired themselves at Saturday, exploding out of their jars, cannons of fiery-colored, tentacled hate.
“HALT!” trumpeted the lead octopus, a stream of bubbles punctuating her sentences.
Saturday came up short, floating in the deep blue sea, everything lit by the unearthly glow of Mumkeep Reef.
“Not you,” the Octopus Assassin sneered. “I have no quarrel with you, Marid. Enjoy your visit to Mumkeep, leave a donation in Anne Bonny’s skull—you’ll find it over by the wreck of the Revenge.” The octopi fell into formation around September’s Bathysphere, flaring their fiery limbs, ready to drag her down at one word from their captain. “Her. How dare you bring a dryhair here? I can smell the dirt on her from here. She does not belong! She’s already seen more than any dreary two-arm should!”
The others snapped their sharp cerulean beaks at her. They fanned out, whipping the water into white foam. The Bathysphere clanged and shuddered as an octopus lashed its tentacles around the glass dome. Another wrapped its arms around the bronze bottom of the tub. They began to drag Fizzwilliam down, down, down to the sharp crags of Mumkeep. September yelped, gripping the broom handles, trying valiantly to pull up. All she could hear was Fizzwilliam’s terrified, chattering cries as he tried to jerk free of the marauders.
“Drown her!” one hissed.
“Crack that tub like an abalone!” bayed another.
“If she can breathe water, she can stay. If not? Too bad!”
“Pull her out and give her the Luminous Eight-Handed Thrill-Throttle!” They all agreed.
The Bathysphere crunched into the plain of anemones. September could feel Fizzwilliam’s bruises and bent clawfeet. “We’ll get you free and safe again,” September promised him. “You’ll see your brothers and sisters again and they won’t even notice the dents!” Fizzwilliam assured her in his gleaming voice that it was not in the least her fault. He should have asked for anti-octopus modifications for Abyssmas.
The leader swirled over the top of the Bathysphere. She snapped her tentacles together and flung them out again in fury. “I am Hugger-Muggery, High Assassin of the Pieces of Eight! I personally throttled Scylla, Charybdis, and Mr. David Jones and they thanked me for the privilege! You have but two choices, biped! Come into the open water and show me you are a creature of the Sea, even though you’ve got dirt and drought written all over you, or let me in.” She coiled and uncoiled those flame-bright tentacles to show that September would not enjoy it if she chose the latter.
“She will do no such thing,” Saturday said.
“Don’t make a ruckus in your grandmother’s house, Marid!” Hugger-Muggery’s huge, round black eyes narrowed in her bulblike head. “She likes her quiet. She does not like clumsy cows chewing on her china!”
“I’m not a cow!” September said finally. It is very hard to get a word in edgewise with octopi. They love to talk. Only manatees love it more.
Hugger-Muggery dismissed her with one tentacle. “All dryhairs look the same. Cow, cheetah, wallaby, who cares?”
“September has every right to visit Mumkeep,” Saturday continued as though no one had said a single thing—though September could hear the tremble in his voice. “She is my wife. By law, she owns half my secrets. I have brought her to meet my grandmother. Isn’t that what a good grandson does?”
September held her breath. She was not anyone’s wife, thank you very much. But the way Saturday said it, wife sounded like something exciting, something daring, something a bit scoundrelly, like pirate or bandit. And they were bandits, of course. Come to steal the Heart of Fairyland.
The Pieces of Eight stared in at September. “She’s not your wife,” Hugger-Muggery finally said. “Where’s her tattoos?”