She saw the boy—the Pure One—long before he saw her.
He clung to the centerboard with both arms, his legs hanging limply in the water. As she approached from below, he tried to pull himself onto the hull of the capsized boat, but his life jacket kept getting caught on the edge of the centerboard. Finally, he dropped back into the water and unfastened the life jacket. He kicked and flailed, fighting to free himself of the cumbersome garment.
Now you’ll taste better, thought Mrs. Smith.
Watching him struggle with the life jacket, Mrs. Smith recalled the days when her sacrifices would walk into the ocean without a stitch of clothing on their backs. Even in the dead of winter, with clumps of ice bobbing in the water, the Pure Ones would enter her realm as naked as a clam without a shell.
Too often, they would die before she could eat them. Their pink skin would turn blue. Their lungs would fill with water. They’d slip into oblivion without experiencing the searing pain of her teeth.
Sacrificial man-children were convenient, but Mrs. Smith preferred a fresh and lively catch. This boy, for example, with his frantic splashing and kicking, was vibrating with fear. His heart hammered like a finch in a cage. The neurons in his brain were firing at the highest speeds.
Terror would make his flesh taste even sweeter, so Mrs. Smith decided to let the boy see her.
She slowed her ascent, allowing her tentacles to unfurl like a flower opening to the sun. She stretched her mouth into a toothy grin and hovered a few feet under the boat’s hull. At this depth, the sunlight still penetrated the water. It put diamonds in Mrs. Smith’s black eyes. It made her teeth gleam like pearls.
Having lifted himself halfway out of the water, the boy stared across the centerboard and looked down.
He looked down and saw her.
At first, he seemed confused by Mrs. Smith’s humanoid face. But then he took in her hungry stare and open maw. He saw her massive, squid-like body spreading like an inkblot under the boat. He saw tentacles and claws. He saw the squirming eels.
He was arrested by the sight of her. She had to be an illusion. A nightmare.
Whatever she was, the boy knew that he was staring down at Death.
The boy didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He clung to the centerboard like a barnacle. All Mrs. Smith had to do was pluck him off.
She didn’t want to give him the chance to call for help, so she gave the boat a violent shove. The boy slid into the water like a coin. A shiny treasure minted just for Mrs. Smith.
She wrapped him like a mummy in her tentacles and dived to the bottom. Resting on a jumble of rocks and broken shells, she severed the man-child’s left leg first, rejoicing in the jolt of energy that filled her mouth.
It was like swallowing lightning.
After that first bite, she couldn’t control her desire. She bit and chewed, bit and chewed. She ate until there was nothing left. When she was done, she succumbed to the rapture.
The eels watched as she floated, belly up, inches above thesandy bottom. She’d succumbed to tonic immobility, which meant the two young humans in the other boat were safe.
Mrs. Smith was senseless. The eels, simple as they were, recognized the danger in this.
The rocky shore offered no refuge for the Mother. She was too big to slide between the boulders and wait for nightfall. She would have to stay close to the bottom, seeking protection in the deeper waters, until it was safe to return to the boathouse.
Mrs. Smith didn’t hear the boy with the red hair scream. She didn’t know that a severed finger had popped to the surface of the water like a cork. She was still in a trance, unaware that her children were battling over that finger, torquing and splashing in an effort to get a nibble before one of their larger brethren could swallow the morsel whole.
The red-haired boy screamed again. And again. And again.
The eels couldn’t hear well, but the noise vibrated through the water and pulsed inside their heads. In an instant, they became nervous and unorganized, swimming in figure eights and winding their bodies around one another like licorice twists.
They returned to the Mother and tried to rouse her. They nudged her with their noses. Caressed her with their slimy skin. They nipped her with their little teeth and slapped her with their tails.
By the time she responded, it was too late to capsize the other boat.
The humans heard the boy’s cry. They’re coming to rescue him.
The purr of distant engines grew louder as the V-shaped bows of motorboats cut through the water.
Mrs. Smith knew that the boats would converge above her, and the humans would begin searching for the missing boys. Soon they would blast their air horns and fire flares into the sky. They might even enter the water.
When they found nothing, they would become frightened. That fear would soon turn to anger.
