“Warm,” croons the Pania. Her eyes are black and flat, shark eyes. “Warm.”
And then she is on him, and her hair and her flesh smell of smoke and salt and the great white bones of her jaw are opening towards him, nuzzling into his thighs and his side and the thick, fleshy column of his neck, and Karitoki feels her whole body against him. She is cool, cool like the ocean under thermocline, and the oil has washed off her and the heat has washed out. He realises, then, in the thin space between shock and screaming and the hard, hydra impact of her sisters, that all his dreams are sea foam. There’s no place for her in Napier town, and she’ll never sit with him in the art deco blocks of cafes along Marine Parade and eat her mussels with a spoon, with saffron and spices and sauvignon. He can’t cover her up with butter and oranges, can’t make of her anything other than Pania, a guardian and predator in one.
There are mussels smoking on the beach. He had put them in raw, left the heat and the smoke to open them up while he swam with the Pania and her coconut. He would have made a sauce of parsley and Pernod and tarragon, with the remnants of mussel oil for garnish.
He knows, as her teeth sink into his shoulder, into the raw, massed, mussel-fed flesh of him, that the Pania would never have eaten it.
Inspirations & Influences
On the east coast of New Zealand’s North Island is a place called Napier. It’s known for two things: its art deco architecture, resulting from the city rebuilding after the massive 1931 earthquake—and the statue of Pania of the Reef.
The statue’s based on a local legend of the same name, where the sea-maiden Pania comes ashore and falls in love with a man called Karitoki. It doesn’t end well. As with a lot of stories like this there are a number of variants, but the one I grew up hearing had Pania heading back to the sea each dawn, and sneaking back to Karitoki at dusk so that they could spend their nights together. This wasn’t enough for Karitoki. Hopelessly in love, he wanted her with him all the time and he learned that if he could just get Pania to swallow cooked food, she’d be trapped on land with him forever. So one night he waited until she was asleep and slipped a morsel into her mouth—but Pania woke before swallowing and was highly unimpressed to have the decision taken from her. She spat out the food and ran back to the ocean for good. Pania and Karitoki’s son became a sea guardian off the Napier coast.
This rather bleak outcome has always appealed to me. There’s no love conquering all, and no coming back from Karitoki’s mistake. Pania had her boundaries well and truly stomped on and that was it: off she went home, and no second chances. It’s interesting to compare this to the story behind another watery statue of a sea-maiden who fell in love with a human. Copenhagen’s The Little Mermaid was prepared to give up everything for love and chose to take her own life when that love wasn’t returned. Pania has a little more of the feminist about her.
So when I saw the Book Smugglers calling for subversive fairy tale retellings, I thought of Pania and wavered. As much as I loved the story it was already fairly subversive. What could I do with it?
It was the idea of the sea guardian that showed me the way. I’ve a handful of speculative fiction stories concerning the New Zealand fishing industry. This in itself is a family thing, I suppose—my Dad was a marine biologist who worked in fisheries, and I did some myself at uni though I was always more interested in algae. And if you live in an island nation, as I do, marine conservation and ecology is a fundamental concern.
I thought I could make Pania the sea guardian instead of her son, give her a role other than wife and would-be victim. And not just her—she would be the Pania, a singular creature from a species of Pania that exist to protect the ocean mammals of our waters. And if the Pania is going to guard dolphins and whales and seals from hungry predators, from careless fishers, then she’s going to need some serious heft to her. Pania of the Reef was never a submissive little girl—this Pania has teeth and claws and a mission she’ll defend to the death.
But even with this, I didn’t think my version would be enough for Ana and Thea. So I decided to focus on the act of consumption. On what it would take to convince a Pania to eat cooked food, to seduce her away from the sea. It drifts a little into food porn in places but I like to cook and I like to read about cooking so this is something that could, I thought, underline the potential sensuousness between Karitoki and the Pania. He’s treating her like a date, almost. Trying to please her, trying to get the right combination of food and drink to tempt her away from raw fish and crab guts.
Trying to make her human.
A Chat with Octavia Cade
The Mussel Eater is a retelling of a Maori myth, Pania of the Reef. What drew you to this particular legend and the figure of the Pania? Are there any particular themes in the existing stories about the Pania that you wanted to explore and subvert in your version?
When I was a kid I was obsessed with the New Zealand author Maurice Gee, who wrote fantasy and sci-fi stories for kids. They were set in NZ—one was in my town, even, at places I went to all the time!—and it was just so different from my diet of (usually) Brit-based fantasy. It was as if he was writing just for me, about places I knew, about environments and settings I was absolutely familiar with.
I was enraptured. That’s never gone away. So when I saw The Book Smuggler’s call I knew I wanted to do a NZ story. And Pania’s always fascinated me—she didn’t exactly say “I don’t think so, mate. I’m not putting up with this shit” but I like to think it’s a near thing. She loved the ocean too much to give it up. That’s something I can understand.
As with many tales of this type, there are variants. I picked the one I liked best and went with that. This is a story of desire so perhaps my motivations suit. Pania’s a particularly modern heroine for a folk tale and I like that. I like that the story works well with the theme of subversion. I also like the idea that I can go see her, perched in bronze on the waterfront in Napier.
Though I have to say, as much as I like oranges and sauvignon blanc and butter, I’m not actually a fan of mussels. Like the Pania, they’re beautiful to look at… just don’t try and eat them.
Speaking of fairy tales and folklore, are you a fairy tale enthusiast? Do you have any favorites you’d like to share with our readers? Conversely, do you have a least favorite fairy tale (you must also tell us why, of course).
My favourite would have to be The Wild Swans. Not so much for what happened in the fairy tale itself, but it’s always piqued my imagination for what happened afterwards. There’s the youngest brother, and his shirt wasn’t completed before the spell broke so he’s got to spend the rest of his life with one normal arm and one swan wing. I’ve always wondered how that worked. It’s on my list of things to write a story about.
Also on that list is a spin-off of my least favourite fairy tale. This is going to make me unpopular, I know, but unless it’s got Ron Perlman in it I’m not at all fond of Beauty and the Beast. She’s such a little show-off with her ostentatious goodness, and I’ve always thought it was covering up something darker.
I mean, you’re Beauty’s Dad. You’re off on your business trip so you ask your girls what presents they’d like. The two oldest are greedy, but you can live with that. At least they’re straightforward with it. The youngest, though… she wants a rose. And oh, isn’t it sweet. Never mind the fact that she could plant a rosebush by the back door if she really wanted roses—but she doesn’t, not really. She’s not interested in roses at all. What she wants is attention. And a rose is a pain in the arse. It wilts. You’ll have to wrap the stem in wet tissue every day of the trip home, you’ll have to watch every second that it doesn’t fall off the cart—because your baby girl wants a rose, and you can’t disappoint such a simple request even if it costs more time and trouble than all the rest put together. You’ll end up carrying it yourself the whole journey so that it doesn’t roll and bruise. And every night, when you stop at an inn, you’ll have to ask the inn-keeper’s wife for a vase and some wat
er, and then you’ll have to explain why you want them, and they’ll coo and congratulate you on having such a loving girl and make a fuss. (The fuss won’t be about you.)
But cut flowers die, and no matter what you’ll do, no matter all the trouble you’ll go to, by the time you get back home the thing’s going to be half-dead anyway, all wilted and with the petals falling off. And Beauty… Beauty will look at her sisters with their expensive, easy requests and that bottom lip will quiver, just minutely, and then she’ll smile at you and thank you for the present and say that your coming back safe was all she really needed anyway. And all this ridiculous sequence of events has been set up, by her, for your next line, because there’s only one thing you can say at this point, confronted with that brave, martyred little face and that sad little flower.
“You’re such a good girl, Beauty.” (So much better than your sisters.)
I bet her sisters wanted to slap her. I bet her Dad was glad to get rid of her.
We’d love to hear about your experience writing short fiction. You have written novellas such as Trading Rosemary as well as short stories—do you prefer one format over the other? What would you say are the advantages and potential pitfalls of writing short fiction?
Short is my natural length—especially novellas. I love short fiction. It’s elegant and it’s not very forgiving of waffle. This can be a challenge in the sci-fi and fantasy genres, which are I think the most overstuffed stories of today, but I think that can be turned to advantage. You don’t have room to meander, to lead your readers by the hand through every last connection. A good, tightly written novella can pack in as much meat as a novel.
I actually have written a sci-fi novel this year (The August Birds), although at 48K it’s still a short novel. I don’t see myself writing fiction any much longer than that. Haven’t sold the thing yet, but it’ll go sooner or later.
I will say this: the best part of short fiction is that you’re not chained to a story. You can write different things, in different universes, without worrying that you’ve got three more books left to deliver in your series before you can take a break and go on to other things. There’s space for eclecticism. I like finishing up a project and then starting something completely different. Perhaps that makes me a magpie, always after the new and shiny. Don’t care. It keeps me interested.
What are you working on next?
More novellas! I’ve had two published this year by Masque Books, and I’ve self-published another two. Several more are in various stages. I also have a poetry collection currently in press with a small publisher, and am working on a non-fiction study of symbolism in fantasy that I hope to finish over the next few months.
My birthday was in October, and I’ve given myself a challenge of producing something substantial for each month of the subsequent year. Most of these will be novellas. October’s was The Life in Papers of Sofie K., a fantasy bio of the 19th century Russian mathematician Sofia Kovalevskaya. It’s a different look at the monstrous feminine than that in The Mussel Eater, but I like approaching the same theme from different angles.
November’s novella is Vita Urbis, an urban fantasy story about a woman who’s impregnated by—and eventually gives birth to—a city. It’s based on an old short story of mine, and is intercut with retellings from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. That too is a different angle to TME, but I enjoy retellings, especially when I can give them a subversive slant. And December’s will be The Burnt Man, a sci-fi piece based around the last night of the philosopher-priest Giordano Bruno, who was burnt at the stake in 1600 for, amongst other things, believing in extraterrestrial life.
I haven’t sorted the rest yet, but there’s one on vampires set amidst the kauri gum fields of 19th century NZ, one on a death-circus of microbes, one on WW2… Short fiction really does give a remarkable amount of freedom.
Finally, a question we ask all of our interviewees: We Book Smugglers have faced threats and criticisms concerning the sheer volume of books that we purchase and read—hence, we have resorted to ‘smuggling books’ home to escape scrutinizing eyes. Have you ever had to smuggle books?
Ha! No, never. I’m shameless that way.
About the Author
Octavia Cade has very nearly finished her PhD in science communication at the University of Otago in New Zealand. Her short fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Cosmos Magazine and Aurealis, amongst other places. Her most recent novella, Vita Urbis, is also stuffed full of retellings…
Book Smugglers Publishing
Book Smugglers Publishing: Fall 2014
Hunting Monsters by S.L. Huang (10/7/2014)
In Her Head, In Her Eyes by Yukimi Ogawa (10/21/2014)
Mrs. Yaga by Michal Wojcik (11/4/2014)
The Mussel Eater by Octavia Cade (11/18/2014)
The Astronomer Who Met the North Wind by Kate Hall (12/2/2014)
The Ninety-Ninth Bride by Catherine F. King (12/16/2014)
For other original & subversive fairy tales, visit goo.gl/XE14Wl.
Copyright Information
The Mussel Eater
Published by Book Smugglers Publishing
Copyright © 2014 Octavia Cade
Cover Illustration by Kris Kamikakushi
The Mussel Eater Page 2