Observations Regarding the Presumed Legend of the Mighty Kraken - Chapter One

O’ sundering Kraken! You great mysterious creature whose writhing tentacles and fantastic mass have been the death of countless ships. Your insatiable hunger seeking out those vessels filled with courageous men and women whose souls will give you the sustenance needed to grow untold sizes. Thou gargantuan beast, whose legends have stretched across a millennia, remain the terror of every human being bold enough to ride onto the great grey sea in search of wealth and adventure. This here is the tale of one such band of lonely adventurers, a disgraced intellectual, an enervated hunter, a drowned sea captain, and one humble observer, all of which went out seeking fame and fortune in the form of a dead kraken. Their story, which I recount for you now, is a tale of woe, a tale of danger, and a tale of great friendship.

A town called Drudge

I first heard tell of the kraken while in the small Rhode Island fishing town of Drudge, which was so miniscule in its population it seldom appeared on any maps. I arrived there early in the morning, passing through on my way to Washington from Martha's Vineyard, as my dear childhood friend had just been elected to public office and I felt personal congratulations were in order. Thus I happened to be in the small town of Drudge on May the 5th during a year where fish were rare and the eating was tough. I began my sightseeing in the local tavern, seemingly the only establishment open at such early hours throughout the whole town. It was a small, shabby building, but one story tall and the width and length of the house I had grown in as a child. It was constructed of driftwood and misshapen rocks, all seemingly scrounged from the ground and thrown together to make a city center, one I would bet in which the entirety of the town gathers for their nightly rituals and celebrations. With the outside looking none too comforting, I mustered myself and charged onward, into the humble ocean tavern. You can imagine my surprise than upon entering, where I found it to be one of the most comforting of establishments I’d seen in all my days. There was a rich fire crackling in the fireplace, a large cauldron hanging over it from which emanated the fragrant smell of fresh clam chowder. The entire building was but two rooms, the bar area and the small kitchen behind it. An elderly woman, likely from a nearby native tribe, sat behind the counter, meticulously whittling a small, firm piece of driftwood. She looked up on my entering, not quickly but welcoming nonetheless, and upon seeing me a stranger to the town she gave a large smile. Rarely have I encountered so warm a hostess as in this small elderly woman, who I learned was of the Wampanoag tribe and whose name was Aiyana, meaning eternal blossom. Her name was fitting, for her kindness was bottomless. She welcomed me in and sat me down at the bar, serving me a large bowl of chowder, a pint of fresh ale and a large cup of bitter, black coffee. I was quite hungry from my journey, first of boat and then of horse, and so devoured the contents of each separate dish. Once empty Aiyana refilled each, and sat behind the bar whittling away while I polished those off as well. My growling stomach now still I struck up quite a conversation with Aiyana, whereby we talked of a small fishing vessel belonging to the town as a whole that had gone missing a week before, wrecked in the ocean, with the only word from them being a bottle that had washed ashore with a small note in it. Aiyana gave me the context of the trip first, which went something like this;

“About 2 odd weeks ago the good ship Floom had set sail on a fishing trip, ‘twas to be bout a week long. The ship was but small, ‘ats for sure, but ‘twas a good ship anyways, made of good solid oak and nothin the lesser. The crew was hardy as well, all fine sailors. We ne’er were ones to discriminate in Drudge, ‘aint got the people fer it, so the cap’ain were a lass, and a fine cap’ain she were. She knew where all the best spots for fishin were, and when they moved she knew to follo’. Well it so ‘appens this perticular trip they ‘ad to ‘ead up north, and the seas aint ‘ad a chance to warm yet. The note found was jotted in quite some ‘aste, since she was quite neat, ever’one’ll tell ya. The messy writin’ aside, she seemed quite flustered. ‘Ere, I’ll let you read the note yerself, lest ye have to listen to me tumble me way through it.”

She reached under the bar and handed to me a small glass bottle, which looked as if it would hold medicine or the like. It had a cork stopper, and inside a yellowed piece of paper sat, tightly twisted. I uncorked the vial and turning it upside down allowed the note inside to fall into my hand. It was rough paper, had been made for the sea, made to withstand the watery brine that would inevitably cover it. The writing was scrawled, as Aiyana had warned me, and nearly indecipherable. A word was missing here or there, but the overall message was clear enough.

‘Our humble ship Floom is sinking. We tried our best to keep it afloat, to fight off that terrifying beast that so assailed us. ‘Twas a calm night, nary a wave to rock the boat, when all of a sudden a massive blast of water erupted all around us. The drops rained down as hail, the sound drowning out our voices. Once the water had all fallen we saw what had caused the stir, saw the enormous tentacles, taller than the buildings of New York city, standing all around us like the columns of olympus ‘erself, as if Poseidon had ordered our very demise. The fleshy towers crashed down onto us, smashing our sturdy Floom to millions of little pieces. The great arms grabbed me men, one by one, and dragged them into the depths, their screams silenced by the miles of water between them and the surface. I swam to a piece of flotsam left over from the ship, and thats where I sit writing this record in hopes that our town of Drudge sees it and knows what brought about our demise. ‘Twas the monstrous god of the sea, the Kraken.’

I could hardly believe what I read, myself being a man of science and fact and not superstitious in the slightest. I had heard tell of the supposed scourge of the sea, the Kraken, but had not heard so detailed and seemingly earnest a telling of the beast. As astounded as I was by the mythical telling of the creature, I had not much else to say to Aiyana herself except to thank her for the meal and to pay her. As I began to leave she called me back, and moving out from the bar handed me the chunk of wood she had been whittling when I came in. What had been a rough piece of salty driftwood merely an hour ago was now a masterfully carved statue of a cephalopod, a small squid the length of my hand with accurate dimensions as far as my undiscerning eye could tell. It was solid throughout, with details that would make any artist envious. I found myself brought to tears, not just by the sheer talent at display in this humble, wonderfully unique tavern in the innocuous fishing town of Drudge, but by Aiyana and her overwhelming heart. I strung the statue on a leather string I had in my pocket, and tying it around my neck thanked her for the momentous gesture and good will she wished me, a complete and total stranger. I left the tavern, feeling completely refreshed despite my lack of sleep, and moved onward with my journey, heading towards Washington D.C.. I was going to dine on the finest foods in the most prestigious halls of the country, with some of the most powerful men and women in the world, yet I knew that I would not feel nearly as honored or as well fed as in the unnamed Tavern in the Rhode Island town of Drudge.