Octopi of My Secret Heart

1. Chapter 1

DAREN

Daren Montgomery waved to the larger passing fishing boat with its crowded deck. A family, he assumed, since two of them were dwarfed by their life vests and looked to be only five or six years old.

Just like he’d been when his father first took him on the water.

He was the only commercial fisherman in town, though calling him commercial was being generous.

The tiny coastal village he lived in on the coast of Nova Scotia was so small, they preferred to avoid importing more than they needed, so what Daren caught was most of the fish the locals purchased, whether to take home or to be cooked in restaurants for residents and tourists alike.

Daren enjoyed the small monopoly he had, inherited from his father, giving him plenty to occupy his quiet, lonely life, even if what he caught earned only enough to make ends meet.

He occasionally sold out of his home, more often from his small stall at the docks that still said Montgomery & Son across the top.

In the off season, when there were not only fewer fish but fewer tourists, he mostly sold directly to the General Store, which was a grocery store, bait shop, gift shop, and restaurant in one.

It was possible to fish year-round along their coastline due to their inlets staying mostly ice free, with deep channels and high saltwater content.

Even so, more often in the off season, Daren would do odd jobs around town, like snowplowing, construction, and boat maintenance and repair for others.

However, the previous year had been terrible for meeting his quotas, so he needed to continue fishing each day to keep enough stores through the winter.

He didn't mind, honestly, because it gave him something to do that didn't revolve around other people.

Sure, it was antisocial of him, but he preferred that most of the time.

He really had only one friend, since he rarely had time for them, which meant romantic entanglements were even more difficult.

He had read once that people with jobs that kept them out of the home for long hours were the most likely to divorce, but then he had also seen doctors and surgeons on a top ten list of least likely to divorce.

If everything was “lies, damned lies, and statistics,” Daren figured the real answer to happiness wasn’t dictated by profession, location, orientation, or even circumstance.

Everything came down to choice, and as lonely as he was, it was an easier decision to be out in the frigid, winter waters, where even a single other fishing boat was rare, rather than risk his heart on a gamble.

A splash in the water behind Daren broke him out of his reverie.

It had sounded like something large, and if that other boat had been any closer, he might have feared one of the kids got knocked overboard or foolishly jumped in on purpose—which was dangerous this time of year given the temperature of the water.

Daren was bundled up beneath his life vest, with jacket, gloves, scarf, and a winter hat.

Nothing appeared to be in the direction he looked, but not far away was a jutting of the rocky landscape, behind which was an area he hadn’t fished in before.

No one fished there. Local superstition warned people away.

Daren vaguely recalled his mother telling him once the story of why, something about it being a private sanctum for the gods and that to fish there without permission would evoke a curse upon whoever dared to trespass.

Daren was native Mi'kmaq on his mother’s side and of Scottish heritage on his father’s, leaving him darker of complexion with brown hair he kept medium length—mostly because he was too lazy to have it cut regularly, and any longer got annoying on the windy waters.

His eyes were his father’s though, a stormy blue-green that his mother had always said looked like the still waters in summer.

Was a lack of fish to catch and that telling splash an invitation from the gods to follow?

Mi'kmaq gods were more like nature spirits and folk heroes who had ascended to the same godly status, and if Daren was being invited, going into that possibly thriving estuary wouldn’t be trespassing, but simply following the gods’ will.

Worth the risk, he figured, given he had never believed the gods were real anyway.

He appreciated the cultural teachings of his heritage, that there must always be a balance, a give and take between man and nature to preserve harmony.

Him having a good fishing day would still be that.

His little town was doomed to dwindle into nothing if not even he could catch enough fish to supply his buyers.

After pulling in his empty net and weighing anchor, Daren started his motor to head in the direction of the hidden inlet.

Maybe the Mi'kmaq gods were more real than he gave them credit for, since as soon as he was around the cliff and recast his net, he caught a bountiful load of fish in hardly any time.

He had never even been to the spot other than in passing, but he liked it immediately, and not only for finally meeting his quota.

It was peaceful there, secluded, and therefore, concealed him from the few other boats.

It felt slightly warmer too somehow, though not enough to get him to remove his hat or scarf, almost like another nod from the gods that he had their permission to fish there.

Just as he was about to start up the motor again to head home, another splash jolted his attention back toward the bow of the boat.

A small, mauve-mouth drill seashell like a pink spiral rested on the bow’s ledge.

How? Without Daren’s engine running, the estuary was quiet and still enough to hear a pin drop, let alone a seagull dropping a shell onto his boat. And splash or not, no waves were rough enough to have tossed it there, yet it definitely hadn’t been in that spot a moment ago.

Kisulkw? Daren wondered wryly. Improbable as that was, who other than the creator god could conjure something out of nothing?

Daren approached the shell with halting steps.

He had seen hundreds of mauve-mouth drill shells in his life.

Thousands. This one seemed larger, pinker, and more perfect than any of them.

Leaning over the edge of the boat, he scanned the water for movement.

It seemed still. Closer to shore, the water might have been clear enough to see to the bottom, but not where he was fishing, where the depths disappeared into blackness.

If nothing else, the shell didn’t seem to be a warning against him having fished there, and so he took it, felt its impressively polished surface with his thumb, and pocketed it as a keepsake.

Just in case the gods did exist, Daren quietly said a prayer to the wind and sea and sky—and to his parents, should they be watching over him like he hoped.

He thought he heard another splash as he headed home for the day, as if the hidden coastal lagoon promised even more treasures tomorrow.

“Hey, Daren! Quite the catch you brought in today,” Curtis, Daren’s oldest and one and only friend, who was owner of the General Store, greeted him. Anything from the grocery area, bait shop, and gift shop could be purchased there, whereas the restaurant was separate.

Daren had already unloaded his fish around back, meaning it was time to restock on necessities, then get home for a hot shower and a late meal.

“Hey, Curtis,” Daren greeted in kind, hefting onto the counter his lone basket, which contained milk, coffee creamer, tea, a loaf of bread from the bakery, and ingredients for pan-seared steak and green beans.

He loved fish, but he couldn’t eat it every day.

“Got lucky for once. Found a great spot.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s that?”

They shared a grin, since it was common for Curtis to ask whenever Daren found a bountiful fishing spot. Daren’s answer was inevitably the same. “Now, why would I tell you my hard-earned secrets just so you can earn points with the tourists?”

“What tourists? It’s January!” Curtis laughed.

The two had known each other for their entire lives, unavoidable in a small town. Both had left after high school to attend colleges elsewhere—anyone who wanted a bachelor’s degree or higher had to go elsewhere—but both had eventually come home again, helping with their family businesses.

Daren might not have if his father hadn’t gotten sick.

He’d lasted a good long decade after they found the cancer but needed help with the heavy-lifting and long hours.

Daren hadn’t been able to say no. He hadn’t had any real plans, no career dreams of his own, and a business degree was useful in any self-employed profession.

“Steak for one?” Curtis asked with a sly slide of his eyes as he rang up Daren’s purchases.

Curtis was what the locals affectionately called a Tourist Trap.

He had charmed his way into many hotel beds and the backseats of rental cars.

He was over thirty-five now, same as Daren, not a carefree twenty-something anymore, yet Daren hadn’t noticed Curtis toning down his flirtations with strangers at all.

Just cranking up the hint of invitation toward him.

“’fraid so.” Daren liked Curtis. They were good friends, and Curtis was an attractive man, almost like a young Kurt Russell with long sandy hair and a matching beard.

“If you have any leftovers,” Curtis continued, grinning and batting his intensely blue eyes at Daren, “I get off at eight.”

Tempting. They had fooled around in high school a few times, but while options for male partners in town were sparse, Daren didn’t have the stomach for anything complicated, and starting something with Curtis would undoubtedly become that.

“Maybe another time,” he said.

Good guy that Curtis was, he merely shrugged and smiled wider as he reached for Daren’s payment. “Uh, I think it might be a little more than that.” He chuckled.