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The Demon’s Cantos

Part 3


You haven’t been truly dirty until you’ve been slathered in the cephalopodic slime of a sentient Octopus, a fact Byron was learning the hard way.

With every sopping footfall on the plush carpet leading down the hallway and into his Nan’s room – my room, Byron kept having to remind himself – Byron felt his anxiety growing. The all encompassing feeling of cold, gloppy clothes stuck flat against his skin overwhelmed Byron’s senses, like the bright examination lights of the dentist’s office, times a thousand. Teeth clenched tight, body jolted by periodic twangs of overloaded nerves which shot up his spine as a physical twitch, it took every ounce of Byron’s mindfulness practice not to strip down in a panic and break into a sprint.

Korbius’s thick secretions pervaded Byron invasively.

Pervaded invasively. In his stress, Byron blinked and coughed and felt the words get lodged in his throat. He began to mumble unhelpfully to himself. “Invaded pervasively. Invasively pervasive. Pervasively invasive.”

Byron knew well enough that if he didn’t step in to break the repetitive pattern he would just keep repeating different variations to no end. Instead, he forced himself to breath, and focus on his breathing, just the way Nan had practiced with him.

“In through the nose and out through the mouth” Nan would say, whenever Byron began to panic or retreat inward, or, worse still, begin to repeat himself. “Remember Byron, no matter how bad it feels, it’s all just feelings. Either they’re gonna control you, or you’re gonna control them. Which is it gonna be baby?”

Byron breathed carefully all the way to his Nan’s old bathroom – my bathroom – and gingerly removed his oozed clothing. The clinging, icy pull of slime on skin was a sensorial experience of such intensity for Byron that it bordered on pain.

When, at last, he was free of his portable prison of gooey cotton, Byron practically leapt into the shower and opened up the hot water faucet nearly all the way. As steam began to plume out above the shower curtain, and the water slowly dragged the stubborn slime, kicking and screaming, down the drain, Byron finally felt himself begin to relax. His heart rate slowed, the spasmodic twitches up his spine stopped, and the muscles in his jaw slackened. Still breathing like Nan taught him, Byron carried out the final important step of the calming cycle.

“Ritual is important.” Nan used to say, especially in the beginning, when Byron doubted the efficacy of their practice, “No one believes in ritual anymore. But How you supposed get anywhere in this life without a map?”

As hot water rained down on Byron’s hair, and dripped off in sheets onto his shoulders, Byron raised his right hand up, looked at it pointedly, and finished the cycle. One by one, starting with the pointer finger, moving out to the pinky, and then back again, Byron touched the tips of each finger to his thumb, holding the contact for a careful second each time before moving onto the next. Like clockwork, by the time Byron’s thumb touched his pointer finger for the second time, he had calmed almost completely, his mind put at ease.

“Well done, baby.” Byron imagined Nan saying, “you did good.”

With a clear mind, Byron let the insanity of the last forty minutes wash over him along with the shower water. His Nan’s house – my house – was ruined; an octopus monster had taken up residence under his kitchen sink; and what Byron had thought was his grandma’s cook book had turned out to be a glowing magical tome.

Byron might have taken all this in stride, he might even have been able to navigate the situation without crying, except that his first, overriding instinct was to go to Nan and ask what to do, and Nan was dead. So, instead, Byron wrestled with the situation in the shower, alone and uncertain, his tears mingling in the spiral of the drain.


Back in the kitchen Korbius had fallen asleep.

In his dream, Korbius floated languidly in the wide, warm, crimson waters of the fecund Nether Sea. Around him Octopodiae servants, their small, brightly colored bodies swirling and bounding through the water, attended to Korbius’s every need. Nearly a dozen of these lesser Octopodiae massaged Korbius’s royal tentacles, while other brought their Lord succulent sea snails, writhing and naked, freshly harvested from their thick shells. Korbius devoured each snail with great aplomb, consuming it whole through his prodigious beak. As his servants worked tirelessly to the sole end of Korbius’s comfort, his host of consorts undulated sensuously in their harem, their undersides heavy with ripening eggs.

In the dream Korbius was about to begin the highly ritualized mating dance with his favorite consort, the beautiful Bloonth. She was approaching Korbius through the water, her tentacles arching in perfect symmetry, four to a side – the skin of her seductively bulbous central mass shifting in color from yellow, to green, to purple, and back again. Korbius reached out his tentacles and was just about to touch Bloonth when he was rudely awakened by the cessation of the flow of warm water onto his sleeping eye.

With a start Korbius woke, shaking the wooden kitchen cabinets he had blissfully forgotten he was still inside.

Byron jumped back from the sink, looking ridiculous in his Nan’s old, knee high rubber boots, with matching yellow, elbow length rubber gloves. He wore heavy goggles and standing there, feet immersed in the veritable pool of tap water and slime that used to be the kitchen, Byron’s aspirational bucket and mop looked woefully inadequate.

The insanity of the last forty minutes raced back into Korbius’s conscious mind; the portal opening below him in the Nether Sea; falling into this strange place, Kitchen; discovering he had been enthralled by a Cantor of all things! It was madness, absolute madness. Korbius found himself wishing he was still asleep. Yet, he dare not ignore his master – the power of a Cantor was far too great to chance causing offense. Anxious, Korbius reached out with his mind.

Master, welcome back to Kitchen! Welcome, yes, welcome back! Korbius has awaited your…um…resplendent return to Kitchen!

Byron recoiled at the unfamiliar sensation of having a voice appear in his head, which felt to him like the mental equivalent of a mouse crawling up your pant’s leg. With a deep breath, Byron managed to keep himself calm. “It’s, uh, nice to be back.” Byron lied, uncertain why the strange creature was so happy to see him. “I, um, was going to start, uh…” Byron looked around at what might as well have been a super-fund site’s worth of hazardous waste and made a feeble gesture toward his mop and bucket. He cleared his throat. “…cleaning up, um, a little.” The last words came out very quietly. Frustrated, Byron cursed and kicked over the bucket, which spilled into the already unbelievable amount of liquid pooling on the tiles.

Korbius’s single big eye scanned the room in confusion. His lack of context clues made it nearly impossible to tell what, if anything, was wrong with Kitchen. But Byron’s angry response made clear that something was not right. In an effort to be helpful, Korbius chimed in.

If master is dissatisfied with kitchen, perhaps master should use the power of the Cantos to rectify it?

The Cantos. Byron looked around the room for the golden book and found it had floated into a corner, impossibly buoyant on top of the mix of watery slime. With big sloshing steps, Byron made his way toward the book, Korbius watching anxiously from under the kitchen sink. Soon Byron stood over the tome, looking down at its glowing title. “The Demon’s Cantos.” Hesitantly, Byron bent down and picked the book up with his gloved hands. It was heavier than the cookbook had been and even through the rubber gloves Byron could feel a hint of warmth coming off it. Despite floating in slimy muck for over an hour the book was dry as a bone and unbesmirched. It’s shimmering golden title drew Byron’s eye intensely, and it took a force of will to tear his gaze away.

“What is this thing?” Byron asked, placing the book on the kitchen table and sitting in the only chair that hadn’t been broken to pieces or floated away.

Korbius tried to hide his confusion – a completely unnecessary effort given his inscrutable physiology.

It is a Demon’s Cantos, Master.

Byron looked down at the book and then back at Korbius. “OK. But what is it?”

Korbius’s single eye thinned suspiciously. He briefly tried to intuit the intent behind this obvious line of questioning, but ultimately decided it was too dangerous to try to guess at the intentions of a Cantor. Instead, Korbius answered the question as best he could, certain he was only recounting information the Cantor Byron already knew.

If legend is to be believed, it is a manifestation of true power – a guide with which to rule the universe as one might manipulate a colony of sea brine.

Korbius felt this was as good a time as any to get in some grade-A subservient pandering. He began to slither out from under the sink, continuing to speak as he moved.

I have never seen Demon’s Cantos. I should not be able to see one.

Korbius stopped in the middle of the kitchen, where the liquid was pooling the highest. Carefully, in the sign of complete Octopodiae submission, Korbius flattened his eight tentacles to the floor, splaying them out so their perfect symmetry could be appreciated. Then he flattened his center mass as completely as he could toward the floor. From that position he told a lie.

That fate should deem Korbius, Demonlord of the Octopodiae, worthy to be the thrall of a Cantor swells Korbius’s air sacks with pride! Korbius shall always remain…

Korbius’s dramatic speech was cut short when a loud crack reverberated through the kitchen, followed by a tumultuous roar of collapsing floor tiles, wooden slats, a waterfall of liquid, and the audible whine of a giant sentient octopus disappearing from sight and falling down into the basement.

Stunned into silence, looking up through the new, gaping hole in the kitchen floor, Korbius blinked. Byron, who had watched the whole thing in astonishment, got up, and peeked his head carefully over the lip of the crater, lifting the goggle onto the top of his head, his feet dislodging a couple of errant tiles which fell with a plop into the darkness.

“You OK?” He asked, deadpan.

Korbius would have sighed if he had lungs. He managed a terse response.

Korbius is . . . uninjured.

Then the two unwitting companions each took another quiet moment to curse their respective luck – Korbius laying prostrate in a pool of filthy water in the basement – Byron taking a resigned seat back at the kitchen table. All the while the Demon’s Cantos continued to glow optimistically.



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