Crossing The Line

As the ship drew closer to the line of the equator

the sea king began to lick his lips in anticipation

of the celebration which would mark the occasion

and of the fat fresh tadpoles 

which Big O and his waiters

would serve when he returned from the ceremony.

Of course,

tadpoles that could swim in the ocean were unknown,

but Big O knew that the frogs on board

would have given birth long before the line was crossed.

Tadpoles were the king’s favourite party food

and he had already a collection of shells to serve them in.

He had been training the waiters for some time.

He always did when they heard

that a ship was approaching the line.

His octopuses were in great demand.

With eight arms they were the king’s waiters of choice

and he had more standing by ready to become wine waiters.

They would serve the rum that would be gifted

when the king went on board

and roared

and waved his sceptre around a bit

and struck the deck with three loud raps

to signal his judgement on which tadpoles

should become food for his homecoming party

and which he could call his sons and trust

to raise frogs to supply his future treats.

The octopuses waited wondering how hard they must work

before the king and his retinue were sated and sleepy

from fat tadpoles

and watery rum.

It would all depend on the bargain struck on board,

tadpoles for now or more tadpoles for later,

rum for the king, or more rum for the waiters.

Big O always tried to assess the king’s mood before

he made his judgement.

It would be a clue as to how many shells would be needed

after the ceremony.

Small shells were easy for the waiters to collect,

but the large ones to hide the rum for later

were hard work and needed several arms

to fill them and stash them in the sand out of sight

for when the king and his followers slept.

As usual the sleeping king dreamt

of octopuses dancing drunkenly

on his table

and was that Big O wearing his crown?

He woke, combed the weed from his hair,

retrieved his crown from under the table and pondered.

Did he really see it on the head of Big O in his dream?

Recurring dreams were such a strange thing, he mused.

Then, puzzled he surveyed the broken shells

on the table.

He wondered how they came to be broken.

Had his dream come true?

He straightened his crown

and looked for his sceptre

to bang on the ground.

He really must speak with Big O.

Somehow, he thought,

a line had been crossed.

https://terrorhousemag.com/crossing/