Sea Treasures

Suggested soundtrack: Styx- Boat on the River

The snow globe was old and weird. The nontraditional scene inside depicted a weather-worn fisherman standing on a rock, mid-cast, his rod frozen overhead. A tiny hook and striped bobber completed the line. The bottom third of the globe was deep, dark ocean, with the white crest of a wave licking up the side of the glass.

The base of the heirloom was a kraken. Strategically rendered so that its rounded purplish red body supported the snow globe’s sphere. Its single, large eye was tilted upwards as if keeping tabs on the fisherman from below the water. Several tentacles reached around the globe, whether protectively, or possessively, it was hard to say.

Sammy woke to the familiar motion of the houseboat rolling over gentle swells. He padded his way, barefoot, to the incineration toilet nestled in a closet between the three bedrooms below deck. On his way above deck, he passed his uncle in the tiny galley kitchen frying some eggs for breakfast.

“Sammy! Good morning!” His uncle exclaimed. “Be a good boy and go help your mother with the chores on deck!”

Sammy thought about telling his uncle the mouse was back — he had caught a glimpse of a tail — and decided against it. He kind of liked the mouse. The stowaway rats, however, he would have ratted out in a heartbeat. One had bitten him once, while he was sleeping. He had leapt out of bed as if a whole swarm of angry bees was after him, but the rat was already gone.

Above deck, Sammy said hello to his mother and went about the remaining chores: first he checked that the solar panels were uncovered and working properly as they provided power to the whole boat. Next, he hand-pumped seawater into the huge holding tank leading into the gravity filter. It would take two days for it to be fully desalinated and potable. Finally, Sammy made his way past the domed greenhouse at the boat’s midpoint and over to the small fishing nets dragging below the hull. He pulled up the first and transferred two herring into a dry cooler. From the second net, he harvested a mackerel and a conch shell. The mackerel went into the cooler, the conch he kept in his hands, turning it over and over in fascination, marveling at the colours, the bony ridges, the weight of it.

“You know, if you put your ear to it, you can hear the ocean,” Sammy’s mother said, coming up behind him.

“Moooooooomm,” groaned Sammy, “why would I want to do that? I already hear the ocean every day, we LITERALLY live on the ocean!”

Mom sighed. Sometimes she forgot that at just nine years old, Sammy had never lived anywhere but their floating house. He didn’t remember the time before the Floods. When cities, and farms, and schools existed on land.

The conch was placed on top of a bookshelf along with the snow globe heirloom, a dried rose, and other assorted baubles the family had managed to save.

“Happy Biiiirrrrrthdaay, dear Saaaaammmyyy…….”

Sammy sat sullenly as the horribly off-key notes faded from the air. They didn’t have candles or cake, but after a bit of successful bargaining with a barge-farm, Uncle had procured a dozen green apples. 11 of the apples were arranged in a circle on the table to represent Sammy’s 11 years of life.

“I want to go somewhere for my birthday this year,” Sammy griped. “I’m tired of this houseboat. Why can’t we go visit one of the floating cities?”

“You know why,” his mother warned him, “they’re not safe.”

Sammy tossed one of the precious birthday apples overboard as a display of his frustration. Uncle was prepared to fish it out with a net, but it never bobbed up. The apple sank like a stone and disappeared.

In the middle of the night, the family was awoken by a series of hollow thunks and then footsteps on deck.

PIRATES!

Sammy could see that it was too late for his uncle. His blood was already soaking into the wood, his eyes wide and unseeing. Two of the pirates were dragging his mother towards their boarding vessel.

Sammy raced to look for something, anything of value that he might be able to trade to the pirates in exchange for his mother. His eyes settled on the bookshelf of baubles and he grabbed what he could quickly reach.

To his dismay, the ransacking and commandeering of the only home he had ever known was in full swing. His mother had disappeared. The number of pirates on deck had doubled and they were eating their way through the rest of his birthday apples, rummaging through the greenhouse dome and carefully preserved jars.

“Hey! Uhm, excuse me?” Sammy tried to sound brave, but even the most courageous folks would avoid confrontation and give pirates whatever they wanted.

Instead of getting an answer, three of the motley crew were dispatched to deal with the boy. In the end they wanted none of his treasures and would not take a trade. They wanted only the stored food, the contents of the greenhouse, and the houseboat itself.

Sammy was set in a small dinghy, booted off his home, and told never to return. All he had with him was a jar of water and his three treasures: a kraken snow globe, a conch shell, and a dried rose.

He was all alone in the world. It was there, when he believed he had hit rock bottom, that he finally put the conch to his ear and heard a seductive, whispered offer:

“Do you want a story about the past... Or a story about the future?”

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This story was written for The Kraken Lore’s Mash-up #3 and was also inspired by the “Hope Springs Eternal” September prompt #1 for the partnership of Microcosm and The Dystopian Project. Thank you for reading!