CH 118
I stop dead in my tracks as I round the corner and come face-to-face with the Kraken.
My breath catches in my throat. The thing is massive, its tentacles reaching out in every direction like the writhing limbs of a nightmare.
One of its barbed appendages curves downward, almost grazing the ground, its textured surface so detailed it seems alive. Its gaping maw is lined with jagged teeth, and above that, its eyes—cold, predatory—seem to follow me wherever I move.
The air is cooler here, the hum of the museum replaced by an eerie stillness. Each display is meticulously curated, designed to immerse visitors in the rich, enigmatic world of Polynesian legends.
On the far wall, a massive mural stretches nearly the length of the room, its vibrant blues and greens capturing the tumultuous relationship between the sea and the sky. Tangled in the mural’s waves is Tangaroa, the god of the sea, rendered with intricate detail.
His broad, muscular frame emerges from the water, his features a mix of human strength and oceanic ferocity, with seaweed-like hair and eyes glowing like underwater phosphorescence. He holds a massive spear carved with swirling patterns, poised as though ready to defend his watery domain.
Nearby, a glass case houses a stunningly detailed model of a double-hulled canoe, its sails taut as though catching an invisible breeze. The placard beside it describes the legendary journeys of Polynesian navigators, who read the stars, waves, and winds to traverse vast oceans. Hand-carved paddles rest beside the display, their handles worn smooth, a testament to their symbolic and practical significance.
In the center of the room, the focal point of the exhibit looms: the massive Kraken statue. Its bronze tentacles spiral out in every direction, each one carved with barnacle-like textures that make it appear almost lifelike. The glint of the overhead lights on the bronze creates a rippling effect, as though the beast itself were moving in the shadows.
Its gaping maw is filled with sharp, jagged teeth, and its eyes seem to follow you no matter where you stand. A small plaque beneath it tells of tales where giant squids, known in Polynesian lore as Te Wheke-a-Muturangi, were said to sink ships and guard underwater treasures.
Wake stands just ahead, his arms crossed as he stares up at the monstrous display. His face is calm, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the sharp line of his profile illuminated by the soft, golden museum lighting.
“Holy… cephalopod,” I mutter, taking a cautious step back. “That’s impressive.”
I glance over at him. He’s still circling the room, studying the creature from every possible angle. His gaze flickers over each tentacle, every curve of its monstrous form, as if committing it to memory. The rigid set of his jaw and the faint furrow of his brow tell me he isn’t just admiring a well-crafted statue.
“You know what it is?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “We call it the Kraken.”
He pauses for a long moment before answering. “I have heard stories,” he says finally, his tone measured. “Beasts like this one… and worse. They nest in the deepest crevices of the ocean, in the pits of volcanoes, and in the husks of lost civilizations.”
I tear my eyes away from the Kraken to look at him. There’s a weight in his voice, something ancient and raw, and it sends a chill down my spine. “Do you happen to know how far back those stories go?”
He doesn’t answer, and I follow his gaze, realizing for the first time that we’re not alone in the room. The Kraken may be the centerpiece, but the walls are lined with other statues, each more unsettling than the last. A massive, serpent-like figure coils around a jagged rock formation, its mouth open in a silent roar.
A humanoid figure with webbed fingers and razor-sharp teeth crouches in a predatory stance, its eyes hollow and haunting. Another, shaped like a grotesque hybrid of shark and man, looms over a shattered canoe, its claws digging into the wood.
“What is this place?” I whisper, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.
Wake stops in front of the Kraken, his hands at his sides, fists clenched. “It is labeled mythology,” he says, his voice quieter now. “But I feel… recognition.”
“Recognition?” I echo, my stomach twisting.
He nods, his eyes fixed on the Kraken’s barbed tentacles. “I do not know these creatures, but I know they are more than myths. There is something in the air here. Something that speaks of worlds before this one. Worlds that neither my people nor yours can fathom.”
I stare at him, trying to process his words. “You think these… things existed? Like, actually existed?”
“I do not think,” he says, his voice steady. “I know.”
The room feels heavier somehow, the air thicker. I step closer to him, lowering my voice even further. “What are you saying, Wake? That there were entire civilizations before ours? That these creatures were… what? Gods? Monsters?”
“Both,” he says simply, his eyes still locked on the Kraken. “They were forces of nature, beings of power and destruction. When their time ended, the ocean consumed them, buried their worlds beneath its waves. But the ocean does not forget.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “And you think they’re… what? Trying to come back?”
He turns to look at me then, his expression unreadable. “The ocean has no need to try, Phoebe. It only needs to wait. All things that are buried eventually rise.”
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