Mette Solvik turns the wheels on her cheese-cave shelves every third morning, and what she notices first about a darkmantle is a dry rind. Everything in the Lindeskog cave sweats. The roof drips, the rinds bloom gray-green, the shelf boards keep a skin of damp. Then one wheel, three shelves down from its neighbors, is dry and pale as a plate, and the ceiling above it has stopped dripping. A limestone roof does not dry in one spot unless something is drinking from it.
She raises her lamp. The thing is the gray of the rock, a wrinkled hood fourteen inches across with its tentacles folded under it, and the rim of the hood has a notch missing, as though someone took a bite from a flatbread. One eye, ringed in sulfur yellow, sits low in the folds and does not follow the light. What it is doing is dull. It reaches a tentacle tip up, wipes a smear of drip from the stone, draws the tip through its beak, and reaches again. It will keep at this for an hour, as a cow keeps at a cud, and Mette lets it, because a creature busy with water is not busy with her.
The lamp is the trouble. Its heat reaches the beak and the eye stops being slack. The darkmantle lets go, lands across her head and shoulders, and the tentacles close over her scarf, each tip a cold knuckle. Black pours from under the hood, thick as smoke from a snuffed wick, and the lamp goes out inside it. The cave mouth thirty paces off, full of noon, disappears. Pulling only tightens the suckers, so Mette stands still, which gives her apprentice time to reach the door, where every household in Lindeskog and Orrevik keeps a crock of sour whey. He empties it over her shoulders. The tentacles slacken at once, and the animal climbs the wall in a gray clump and settles back on the roof. Mette wears rings of welts, thumbnail wide, for a week. Bat bones lie picked clean under every dry patch, which is how cave workers track one before it finds them. Nobody stands under a spot where the damp has stopped.
The rule holds in every cave but one. In the dairy cellar at Orrevik a darkmantle has hung directly over the whey crock for six winters, and milkmaids with warm heads and hot lamps pass under it twice a day. It has never dropped. Mette puts it down to the sour air. The dairy hands say it is lazy, and they pour the whey around it.
- Classification
- Cave-dwelling ceiling-clinging cephalopod
- Habitat
- Limestone caves, cellars, mine roofs
- Danger
- Moderate
- Size
- 14 inches across the hood
- Activity
- Always
- Realm
- Underground damp places
- Binomial
- Cryptoteuthis tectorum
- Diet
- Bats, cave fish, cellar rats
- Temperament
- Patient, sullen, drops on warmth










