Vonda McIntyre: Dreamsnake

“I am sorry to take your life,” Snake told it. “But there will be no more fear, and I will not hurt you.” She closed her hand gently around the animal and, stroking it, grasped its spine at the base of its skull. She pulled, once, quickly. It seemed to struggle for an instant, but it was already dead. It convulsed; its legs drew up against its body and its toes curled and quivered. It seemed to stare up at her, even now. She freed its body from the net.

Snake chose a small vial from her belt pouch, pried open the animal’s clenched jaws, and let a single drop of the vial’s cloudy preparation fall into its mouth.“ Quickly she opened the satchel again and called Mist out. The cobra came slowly, slipping over the edge, hood closed, sliding in the sharp-grained sand. Her milky scales caught the thin light. She smelled the animal, flowed to it, touched it with her tongue. For a moment Snake was afraid she would refuse dead meat, but the body was still warm, still twitching, and she was very hungry. ”A tidbit for thee.“ Snake spoke to the cobra: a habit of solitude. ”To whet thy appetite.“ Mist nosed the beast, reared back, and struck, sinking her short fixed fangs into the tiny body, biting again, pumping out her store of poison. She released it, took a better grip, and began to work her jaws around it. It would hardly distend her throat. When Mist lay quiet, digesting the small meal, Snake sat beside her and held her, waiting.

She heard footsteps in the sand.

“I’m sent to help you.”

He was a young man, despite a scatter of white in his black hair. He was taller than Snake, and not unattractive. His eyes were dark, and the sharp planes of his face were further hardened because his hair was pulled straight back and tied. His expression was neutral.

“Are you afraid?” Snake asked.

“I will do as you tell me.”

Though his form was obscured by his robe, his long, fine hands showed strength.

“Then hold her body, and don’t let her surprise you.” Mist was beginning to twitch, the effect of the drugs Snake had put in the small animal. The cobra’s eyes stared, unseeing.

“If it bites—”

“Hold, quickly!”

The young man reached, but he had hesitated too long. Mist writhed, lashing out, striking him in the face with her tail. He staggered back, at least as surprised as hurt. Snake kept a close grip behind Mist’s jaws, and struggled to catch the rest of her as well. Mist was no constrictor, but she was smooth and strong and fast. Thrashing, she forced out her breath in a long hiss. She would have bitten anything she could reach. As Snake fought with her, she managed to squeeze the poison glands and force out the last drops of venom. They hung from Mist’s fangs for a moment, catching light as jewels would; the force of the serpent’s convulsions flung them away into the darkness. Snake struggled with the cobra, aided for once by the sand, on which Mist could get little purchase. Snake felt the young man behind her, grabbing for Mist’s body and tail. The seizure stopped abruptly, and Mist lay limp in their hands.

“I am sorry—”

“Hold her,” Snake said. “We have the night to go.”

During Mist’s second convulsion, the young man held her firmly and was of some real help. Afterward, Snake answered his interrupted question. “If she were making poison and she bit you, you would probably die. Even now her bite would make you ill. But unless you do something foolish, if she manages to bite, she’ll bite me.”

“You would benefit my cousin little if you were dead or dying.”

“You misunderstand. Mist can’t kill me.” Snake held out her hand so he could see the white scars of slashes and punctures. He stared at them, and looked into her eyes for a long moment, then looked away.

The bright spot in the clouds from which the light radiated moved westward in the sky; they held the cobra like a child. Snake nearly dozed, but Mist moved her head, dully attempting to evade restraint, and Snake woke herself abruptly. “I mustn’t sleep,” she said to the young man. “Talk to me. What are you called?”

As Stavin had, the young man hesitated. He seemed afraid of her, or of something. “My people,” he said, “think it unwise to speak our names to strangers.”

“If you consider me a witch you should not have asked my aid. I know no magic, and I claim none.”

“It’s not a superstition,” he said. “Not as you might think. We’re not afraid of being bewitched.”

“I can’t learn all the customs of all the people on this earth, so I keep my own. My custom is to address those I work with by name.” Watching him, Snake tried to decipher his expression in the dim light.

“Our families know our names, and we exchange names with our partners.”

Snake considered that custom, and thought it would fit badly on her. “No one else? Ever?”

“Well… a friend might know one’s name.”

“Ah,” Snake said. “I see. I am still a stranger, and perhaps an enemy.”

“A friend would know my name,” the young man said again. “I would not offend you, but now you misunderstand. An acquaintance is not a friend. We value friendship highly.”

“In this land one should be able to tell quickly if a person is worth calling friend.”

“We take friends seldom. Friendship is a great commitment.”

“It sounds like something to be feared.”

He considered that possibility. “Perhaps it’s the betrayal of friendship we fear. That is a very painful thing.”

“Has anyone ever betrayed you?”

He glanced at her sharply, as if she had exceeded the limits of propriety. “No,” he said, and his voice was as hard as his face. “No friend. I have no one I call friend.”

His reaction startled Snake. “That’s very sad,” she said, and grew silent, trying to comprehend the deep stresses that could close people off so far, comparing her loneliness of necessity and theirs of choice. “Call me Snake,” she said finally, “if you can bring yourself to pronounce it. Saying my name binds you to nothing.”

The young man seemed about to speak; perhaps he thought again that he had offended her, perhaps he felt he should further defend his customs. But Mist began to twist in their hands, and they had to hold her to keep her from injuring herself. The cobra was slender for her length, but powerful, and the convulsions she went through were more severe than any she had ever had before. She thrashed in Snake’s grasp, and almost pulled away. She tried to spread her hood, but Snake held her too tightly. She opened her mouth and hissed, but no poison dripped from her fangs.

She wrapped her tail around the young man’s waist. He began to pull her and turn, to extricate himself from her coils.

“She’s not a constrictor,” Snake said. “She won’t hurt you. Leave her—”

But it was too late; Mist relaxed suddenly and the young man lost his balance. Mist whipped herself away and lashed figures in the sand. Snake wrestled with her alone while the young man tried to hold her, but she curled herself around Snake and used the grip for leverage. She started to pull herself from Snake’s hands. Snake threw herself and the serpent backward into the sand; Mist rose above her, open-mouthed, furious, hissing. The young man lunged and grabbed her just beneath her hood. Mist struck at him, but Snake, somehow, held her back. Together they deprived Mist of her hold and regained control of her. Snake struggled up, but Mist suddenly went quite still and lay almost rigid between them. They were both sweating; the young man was pale under his tan, and even Snake was trembling.

“We have a little while to rest,” Snake said. She glanced at him and noticed the dark line on his cheek where, earlier, Mist’s tail had slashed him. She reached up and touched it. “You’ll have a bruise,” she said. “But it will not scar.”