This private cruise to Svalbard was financed by adventurous foodies, by gastronautic dreams
Of incomparable and illicit sights, aromas, and that first brave promised taste and swallow.
With the Arctic melting, icebreakers have widened the ship lanes further, and the roving eye
Of food frontier fashion has turned north, watching, hungrily, as the monster squid,
(As the tweeters named them) began to be found frozen beneath the melting lid
Of Arctic ice, where they’d apparently once, long ago, gathered to spawn and die,
The ice between them riddled by acres of unanchored egg cases. Spawn, freeze and die.
But are the eggs dead? You’re here because you’ve heard our claim, dream of dreams,
That Norwegian scientist-opportunists asserting their national rights over the icy lid,
Beneath which the frozen treasures waited, have experimented and, hard to swallow,
Hard to believe, but true as toast, the eggs can be hatched, live paralarvae god squid,
Infant monster squid, big as a man’s fist, miniatures of the adults, with each eye
No bigger than a man’s thumb. You know the largest of the adults found so far has an eye
Big as the TV screen in our standard cabin. These hatchlings are revived in order to die.
To die by the most delicious means possible. Sure, you’ve had calamari before, mundane squid,
But the god squid paralarvae preparation is in the Ortolan Bunting style; every Frenchman dreams
Of that taste, of the songbird first caught and fattened, force-fed, required to swallow
Twice its size in food, drowned in brandy, and tossed whole beneath the roasting pan’s lid,
To be eaten whole, bones and all. The diner covers his head and face with a towel, before the lid
Of the serving plate is lifted, so the rich aroma is trapped, and the diner’s face is hid from the eye
Of God—at least that’s tradition, mon Dieu, our tradition. The same God who counts the swallow
Before it falls. The sparrow. The songbird. But will he mourn the hatchling, the next to die?
I think another eye is watching. The dead, frozen, monstrous mother. I see her in my dreams.
Of course I dream of squid. It’s our livelihood now. Nothing to it. Just you wait to see the squid,
The Mother of All Squid, waiting in the ice hotel in Svalbard. They took the largest squid,
Carved the ice around her to a thin layer, an extraordinary ice sculpture. The base forms the lid
Of the dining room table. You literally eat on the ice that houses her carcass. In my dreams,
Her huge eye, that would look out upon the table, were it not closed, that hideous shut eye,
Turns to face me wherever I sit, no matter how I hide behind my towel. Better to die
Than know what happens when that eye opens. Better that the seas rise up and swallow
Our ship. Better that you jump overboard and freeze than wear the towel and swallow
The hatchling, the paralarva, the spawn of the mother, and let the tentacles of that tiny squid….
That tiny squid…What? Forgive me. I’ve lost my train of thought. A momentary lapse. Die,
Indeed. Folly. Better to eat. Better to taste. Better to know the forbidden. Open the lid
And swallow the forbidden food whole. Fear is part of the savour of the illicit. Let the eye
Of law be blind. Let risk be our reward. We are adventurers. We will live our wildest dreams.
If by live, I mean die. Or, rather, live squid-ridden, like me. The hatchling will swallow
Your brain. Your will. Your dreams. Her will. My Lady. My Mother. The Mother of All Squid
Is hungrier than you. Watch! The lid opens. It’s all been worth it. Her glorious, dinner-plate eye!
LOTTIE VERSUS THE MOON HOPPER
By Pamela Rentz
Pamela Rentz is a member of the Karuk Tribe and a graduate of Clarion West 2008.
“I THOUGHT THE Space Barn had its own cleaning crew,” Lottie said, trying to sit up straight. She’d come straight from her shift and her old bones ached for the mattress.
“We don’t call it the ‘Space Barn’,” Phyllis said.
Phyllis came from a family of tall, humourless Indians. Her first job at the United Tribes Space Travel Center had been on Lottie’s cleaning crew. Now she was Special Assistant to the Vice-President of Facilities, with an office like a museum. Lottie sat in an uncomfortable leather chair with polished wood armrests. Must be nice to have your brother elected to Tribal Council.
Lottie rephrased the question, “I thought the Moon Hopper Storage and Refitting Hangar had its own crew.”
“Used to,” Phyllis said. A wall-sized calendar behind her highlighted the monthly missions in bright yellow.
“Then what happened?” Lottie asked.
“Thirty percent pay raise,” Phyllis said. “I’d bring you on permanent. If you’re still interested.”
Why wouldn’t Lottie be interested? Everybody who came through the front gate wanted to work on the Moon Hopper, even the janitors and lunchroom cooks. “Why me?”
Phyllis folded her hands on the desk. The smooth surface reflected an upside down image of her tight smile. “Why not you?”
“I applied for Moon Hopper crew a bunch. You told me I couldn’t keep up,” Lottie said. She’d given up a long time ago, but she could still summon the weeping fury she felt over that tangle with Phyllis. Phyllis had said everything except the words, “You’re too old.”
Phyllis pressed her fingers to her mouth as if trying to remember. “Huh,” she said, at last. “Well, I need your experience. You’ve seen it all. I know you won’t let me down.”
It was Lottie’s turn to say, “Huh.”
“I got new workers. A space vessel can have unexpected….” Phyllis flapped a hand up by her head.
Lottie had no idea what the woman was going on about.
“You have to make sure the entire crew looks good. I need the whole thing to not be fussy.” Phyllis gave Lottie a knowing nod.
“Not fussy?” Lottie said, not sure what she was being asked.
“It’s a tough job,” Phyllis said. “But you’re unflappable.”
“I can flap,” Lottie said.
If prodded, Lottie would have confessed to a trembling, schoolgirl thrill over going to see the Hopper for the first time. She’d cleaned at the Space Center for years, but only in the offices, never the Space Barn.
A well-scrubbed girl waited at the security entrance next to the Barn’s giant, rolling door.
“You the crew?” Lottie asked.
“I’m Hazel,” she said. “Do they let elders clean the Moon Hopper?”
“Elders that want to,” Lottie said.
Hazel had dark hair that reached to her elbows in one smooth sheet. She wore slacks and a long-sleeved blouse, like she expected to sit at a desk. She looked like she’d never gotten her hands dirty in her life.
“You work cleaning crew before?” Lottie asked.
“Oh, no,” Hazel said. “I’ve been at Stanford.” She paused here and Lottie understood that she was supposed to be impressed.
Instead, she said, “All that fancy college to clean the Moon Hopper?”
Hazel’s brightness faded. “I intend to do Moon missions. Lead Moon missions. This is the entry-level step.”