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Peeking above the blue plastic rim of a cheap backyard children’s pool, Korbius’s giant eye blinked absurdly beneath the shade of an old nylon beach umbrella. It was a sweltering afternoon. Beside the kiddie pool, a small a device – a “sprinkallor” if Korbius understood correctly – made a futile effort to keep Korbius comfortable, it’s meager spray pfftzing in a slow back and forth arc. Only about a third of the warm spray landed ineffectually on or about Korbius’s bulbous head.

Doubt bubbled up in Korbius’s guts. Doubt and hunger. And waste byproduct, which Korbius held in abashedly. All three of these things gurgled within Korbius as he mulled over his frustration at the Cantor’s unwillingness to use his power for Korbius’s comfort.

When Cantor Byron urged Korbius to pull himself out of the place beneath Kitchen and to come to this new place, backyard, Korbius thought for certain that Cantor had used his powers to arrange for proper amenities.

As Korbius dragged himself toward backyard, over land, through the dry heat, his sensitive skin scalded by the sun, Korbius told himself things were about to get better. Korbius allowed himself to imagine a floating sphere of cool sea water. Maybe a magical, bottomless net of sea slugs and giant blood shrimp. Perhaps, if Master Cantor was exceedingly kind, a small harem of Octopodiae awaited him!

But when Korbius turned the corner into backyard, there was only a small tube of spraying water and the large blue bucket which Cantor Byron referred to as Pool. Korbius barely fit inside Pool, and with Korbius inside Pool there was even less room for the sad, hot water coming from the tube. Cantor Byron filled Pool as high as he could, which was not very high, until the water was sloshing over the edge. Then the Cantor set up the insipid spraying machine – the sprinkallor – which Korbius quickly came to despise for its incompetence.

Since then, Korbius had watched the Cantor, very carefully. It was true that Cantor’s human form was unfamiliar to Korbius, but the Demonlord of the Octopodiae was beginning to think something was not right about this Cantor. Indeed, Korbius was beginning to wonder whether this Byron was a Cantor at all.

For two hours Cantor Byron had been sitting in a lawn chair, under his own pink, flower print nylon beach umbrella, hunched over the insipid book, The Demon’s Cantos. It was unclear to Korbius what incantation the Cantor was seeking out all this time, but it certainly was taking him long enough.

Byron, for his part, had a serious stress headache, the result of trying to read the Cantos without sounding out each word aloud. The task was proving nearly impossible, but the alternative, Byron knew now, was dangerous.

The Cantos was broken down into sections, the first being “Manipulations.” The first spell in the Manipulations section was entitled simply “Flame”. Each spell page was broken into three sections: Channeling words, Description, and Advanced Techniques.

When he first picked up the book Byron scanned the “Flame” page and worked his way through pronouncing the three channeling words, speaking them each out loud. He thought they might have been in latin, but the Cantos included helpful phonetic spelling as well:

• Flammis. Meipsum. Imperium.

• Flah-miss. May-ip-some. Im-pee-ree-um.

No sooner had he uttered the final syllable than his right hand began to glow with a fierce, red heat, like a hand shaped ember. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it tingled intensely like his hand had fallen asleep. Byron freaked out a bit, threw the Cantos off his lap and went to douse his blazing hand in sprinkler water. It took several minutes for the water to stop steaming violently when it contacted his skin, and another few minutes after that before his hand was cool to the touch again.

The whole time Korbius watched in silence. It made Byron nervous.

Since accidentally turning his hand into a hot coal, Byron had been attempting to read without speaking, for fear of accidentally summoning a lightning bolt, or some other giant monster from another universe. But it was slow going. He had barely scanned through Manipulations in all that time. The descriptions and advanced techniques sections were too hard get through with any accuracy, but the simple titles of the spells were easy enough. The things the Cantos offered to manipulate seemed to run the gamut. There was “Flame”, “Earth”, “Air”, and “Water” – then “Metal” and “Glass”. Then was a spell entitled “Organics”, and another called “Emotions”. From there, things got pretty broad – culminating in two spells called “Space” and “Time.”

As Byron struggled to read through the Cantos, he could not stop thinking about the message from the disembodied spirit of his Nan. “Blackbeard’s Grave” is what she’d said and, although he hated to admit it, Byron knew exactly what his Nan had been referring to.

Ocracoke Island, on the shores of North Carolina, was about a 7 hour drive from Lumberton. Byron hadn’t been there in nearly five years. Nan used to drive him out there before she got sick. They’d spend a week or longer at a time just laying on the beach, Nan taking in the sun like she wasn’t 90 years old, Byron jumping in and out of the ocean, scanning the beach for jelly fish, old sea glass, and any other remarkable thing fate offered up.

Ocracoke had been a hangout, allegedly, for Blackbeard and his pirate crew. When Blackbeard died, beheaded in a battle with the English navy, he was supposedly buried somewhere in the shifting sand islands, in a mass grave. Or so the locals say. Whether or not Blackbeard’s remains were actually buried on Ocracoke, Byron was certain that was where his Nan wanted him to go.

But why?

Right about then Korbius decided he had had enough.

Cantor Byron. I must protest. You keep me in Pool, with this despicable machine, this “sprinkallor.” I, Korbius, kept in Pool? Urinated upon by sprinkallor? It is too much. I beg of you, master, if you are a Cantor, use your powers and raise me from this lowly place.

Byron began to panic. He had figured eventually Korbius would start asking questions. Byron had just hoped he would know what to do by then. No such luck. He cleared his throat.

“Korbius, I…uh…” Byron considered what to say. All the options seemed terrible. “…I haven’t found the spell I need…yet…” then, in the hopes of coming off as more imposing, Byron added a nervous “…slave” to the end of the sentence.

Korbius, though impressed by the imposing reply, simply could not accept another second inside of Pool.

Master…Cantor. Byron. I must insist you take action.

Byron swallowed a lump in his throat. He flipped back through the pages within the Manipulation section and arrived at the “Water” spell. “Yes…um…OK. Yes, I shall use my, um, power, now.” Byron was beginning to panic. He forced himself to focus on the page as Korbius eyed him suspiciously. “Just, one second.”

Korbius sensed weakness, as a Decashark in the Nether Sea can taste the tang of blood from hundreds of miles away. Something was not right about this “Cantor”. Perhaps, Korbius dared consider, his powers could be overcome. Perhaps, Korbius further considered, the human had no powers to speak of.

Slowly, very slowly, Korbius began to mobilize his tendrils, moving them up and out of Pool and inching closer to Byron as he focused on the book.

Byron skipped the section on channeling words and went straight to the description, reading each word outloud, his attention completely drawn by the book, not noticing the slow approach of Korbius’s tentacles.

“The manipulation of water,” Byron recited slowly, “is one of the four core manipulations. As with any manipulation, the spell first requires incantation and priming. Once primed, the Cantor can freely manipulate the element of water, as he would any other element.*”

There was an asterisk, so Byron ran his finger down to the bottom of the page and found it. The footnote read “for manipulation basics, read the introduction to this section entitled ‘To Manipulate,’ pages 3-13.”

Byron looked up from the book, his voice high pitched and panicky, “ten pages?”

At that moment Korbius pounced. His tentacles leapt the final few feet through the air and grasped at Byron around the legs and waist. Byron let out a yell as Korbius dragged him toward Pool. “What are you doing? Korbius! Let me go! I order you to let me go!”

Korbius held onto Byron tightly.

What are you Human Byron? Is Korbius to believe you – you! – brought Korbius here? Korbius has seen past your ruse! You wield the Cantos but cannot use its powers. You are no Cantor.

Korbius squeezed Byron harder.

Where is the Cantor? Korbius must leave this terrible place. Tell Korbius where the Cantor is or all life shall be crushed from you.

Byron could feel his breath being forced from his lungs. His bones began to crunch under the strain of Korbius’s grip. Byron still held the Cantos in his hands and, desperate, he read the three channeling words for the “Water” spell outloud using the very last of his breath.

• Aqua. Meipsum. Imperium.

• Ah-qwa May-ip-some Im-pee-ree-um.

Byron just barely managed to mutter the words through Korbius’s vice-like grip. Like before, Byron felt the sense of tingling all over his right hand, except this time his skin glowed blue.

Korbius ignored the fleeting attempt at magic, overcome with frustration, and raised Byron off the ground, squeezing even tighter.

Where is the true Cantor? Reveal him to Korbius or die.

Byron felt the blood rush to his head like it was trapped up there. He could feel consciousness beginning to slip away. Adrenaline shot through his body as Byron realized he was going to die – crushed by a giant octopus in his grandmother’s backyard.

Fueled by desperation, half unconscious, Byron raised his glowing blue hand up and aimed it towards Korbius, whose single giant eye stared up at Byron from almost four meters below, Byron suspended in mid-air in Korbius’s grip.

Byron’s hand splurted and sputtered and then, all at once, spat out a sprinkle of water, not unlike the sprinkler on the ground.

The small spritz of cool water splashed onto Korbius, who raged psychically and tightened his grip even more.

You insult Korbius? You think Korbius will not destroy you! You think you are ohaaghh!

“Ohaaghh” was not a word, but rather the psychic version of Korbius’s astonished exclamation. It might have been an even longer and more astonished exclamation had Korbius not been immediately consumed by a veritable tidal wave of water – A literal tsunami pouring freely out of Byron’s glowing right hand.

In the brief half second, before the surge of tens of thousands of gallons of cold water smashed into him, his eye wide in astonishment, Korbius cursed his abject stupidity. He had tried to kill a Cantor. A real Cantor. Now he was doomed. Doomed.

As the wall of water impacted it picked Korbius up bodily and smashed him into the side of the house. Byron fell into the swirling gyre, his hand still pouring out a roiling squall’s worth of water, which spewed forward and consumed his grandmother’s house entirely. The water raced out in front of him, angry foaming waves of powerful sea spray, pinning Korbius to the house’s old brick wall, scouring the home clean.

Byron got carried away. In his mind’s eye he imagined an entire ocean of water behind his hand, relishing in the sense of power, the incredible strength of all that liquid, under his control.

Korbius yields! Master Cantor, Korbius yields!

The psychic plea pulled Byron back into reality and the image of the ocean disappeared. With it the flow slowed to a trickle and then stopped, the blue glow of Byron’s right hand receding until his skin appeared its normal color.

It took another 30 seconds before the water mostly receded, flowing around the side of the house, down the country street. Byron assessed the damage, standing ankle deep in the tidal mud flat that a moment earlier was a well-mown backyard. The grass had been gouged up completely and an old apple tree, as tall as the house itself, had been uprooted in the tidal wave and was now lodged half a tree trunk deep in the side of Nan’s old home, or what remained of it. All the windows were shattered, the interior of the house soaked and filled with water, its contents ruined completely – all of Nan’s old things, all her ceramic animals and hand knitted clothes and blankets – all of it had been shattered and torn in the maelstrom of Byron’s magical assault.

Pinned up against the wall, his one eye blinking in terror, his tentacles flat against the brick, Korbius waited for Byron to decide his fate. Would he be broiled alive? Electrocuted? Taken apart piece by piece and put back together in the wrong shape? Why had Korbius been so foolish! So hasty!

But the Cantor’s swift retribution never came. Instead, Byron fell to his knees in the middle of the pool of mud that had been his Nan’s backyard, behind the gutted husk of what used to be his Nan’s home, and stared in stoic amazement at his right hand.

To his left, the Demon’s Cantos floated brightly on top of the brown, murky waters, undamaged and unblemished.

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