Vonda McIntyre: Dreamsnake

“Let me help you. Please.”

He touched her shoulder and helped her stand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so in need of rest…”

“Let me wash your hand,” Arevin said. “And then you can sleep. Tell me when to awaken you—”

“I can’t sleep yet.” She collected herself, straightened, tossed the damp curls of her short hair off her forehead. “I’m all right now. Have you any water?”

Arevin loosened his outer robe. Beneath it he wore a loincloth and a leather belt that carried several leather flasks and pouches. His body was lean and well built, his legs long and muscular. The color of his skin was slightly lighter than the sun-darkened brown of his face. He brought out his water flask and reached for Snake’s hand.

“No, Arevin. If the poison gets in any small scratch you might have, it could infect.”

She sat down and sluiced lukewarm water over her hand. The water dripped pink to the ground and disappeared, leaving not even a damp spot visible. The wound bled a little more, but now it only ached. The poison was almost inactivated.

“I don’t understand,” Arevin said, “how it is that you’re unhurt. My younger sister was bitten by a sand viper.” He could not speak as uncaringly as he might have wished. “We could do nothing to save her — nothing we have would even lessen her pain.”

Snake gave him his flask and rubbed salve from a vial in her belt pouch across the closing punctures. “It’s a part of our preparation,” she said. “We work with many kinds of serpents, so we must be immune to as many as possible.” She shrugged. “The process is tedious and somewhat painful.” She clenched her fist; the film held, and she was steady. She leaned toward Arevin and touched his abraded cheek again. “Yes…” She spread a thin layer of the salve across it. “That will help it heal.”

“If you cannot sleep,” Arevin said, “can you at least rest?”

“Yes,” she said. “For a little while.”

Snake sat next to Arevin, leaning against him, and they watched the sun turn the clouds to gold and flame and amber. The simple physical contact with another human being gave Snake pleasure, though she found it unsatisfying. Another time, another place, she might do something more, but not here, not now.

When the lower edge of the sun’s bright smear rose above the horizon, Snake got up and teased Mist out of the case. She came slowly, weakly, and crawled across Snake’s shoulders. Snake picked up the satchel, and she and Arevin walked together back to the small group of tents.

Stavin’s parents waited, watching for her, just outside the entrance of their tent. They stood in a tight, defensive, silent group. For a moment Snake thought they had decided to send her away. Then, with regret and fear like hot iron in her mouth, she asked if Stavin had died. They shook their heads, and allowed her to enter.

Stavin lay as she had left him, still asleep. The adults followed her with their stares. Mist flicked out her tongue, growing nervous from the smell of fear.

“I know you would stay,” Snake said. “I know you would help, if you could, but there is nothing to be done by any person but me. Please go back outside.”

They glanced at each other, and at Arevin, and she thought for a moment that they would refuse. Snake wanted to fall into the silence and sleep. “Come, cousins,” Arevin said. “We are in her hands.” He opened the tent flap and motioned them out. Snake thanked him with nothing more than a glance, and he might almost have smiled. She turned toward Stavin and knelt beside him. “Stavin—” She touched his forehead; it was very hot. She noticed that her hand was less steady than before. The slight touch awakened the child. “It’s time,” Snake said.

He blinked, coming out of some child’s dream, seeing her, slowly recognizing her. He did not look frightened. For that Snake was glad; for some other reason she could not identify, she was uneasy.

“Will it hurt?”

“Does it hurt now?”

He hesitated, looked away, looked back. “Yes.”

“It might hurt a little more. I hope not. Are you ready?”

“Can Grass stay?”

“Of course,” she said.

And realized what was wrong.

“I’ll come back in a moment.” Her voice had changed so much, she had pulled it so tight, that she could not help but frighten him. She left the tent, walking slowly, calmly, restraining herself. Outside, the parents told her by their faces what they feared.

“Where is Grass?” Arevin, his back to her, started at her tone. The fair-haired man made a small grieving sound, and could look at her no longer.

“We were afraid,” the eldest partner said. “We thought it would bite the child.”

“I thought it would. It was I. It crawled over his face. I could see its fangs—” The wife put her hands on her younger partner’s shoulders, and he said no more.

“Where is he?” She wanted to scream; she did not.

They brought her a small open box. Snake took it and looked inside.

Grass lay cut almost in two, his entrails oozing from his body, half-turned over, and as she watched, shaking, he writhed once, flicked his tongue out once, and in. Snake made some sound, too low in her throat to be a cry. She hoped his motions were only reflex, but she picked him up as gently as she could. She leaned down and touched her lips to the smooth green scales behind his head. She bit him quickly, sharply, at the base of his skull. His blood flowed cool and salty in her mouth. If he was not already dead, she had killed him instantly.

She looked at the parents, and at Arevin; they were all pale, but she had no sympathy for their fear, and cared nothing for shared grief. “Such a small creature,” she said. “Such a small creature, who could only give pleasure and dreams.” She watched them for a moment more, then turned toward the tent again.

“Wait—” She heard the eldest partner move up close behind her. He touched her shoulder; she shrugged away his hand. “We will give you anything you want,” he said, “but leave the child alone.”

She spun on him in a fury. “Should I kill Stavin for your stupidity?” He seemed about to try to hold her back. She jammed her shoulder hard into his stomach, and flung herself past the tent flap. Inside, she kicked over the satchel. Abruptly awakened, and angry, Sand crawled out and coiled himself. When someone tried to enter, Sand hissed and rattled with a violence Snake had never heard him use before. She did not even bother to look behind her. She ducked her head and wiped her tears on her sleeve before Stavin could see them. She knelt beside him.

“What’s the matter?” He could not help but hear the voices outside the tent, and the running.

“Nothing, Stavin,” Snake said. “Did you know we came across the desert?”

“No,” he said with wonder.

“It was very hot, and none of us had anything to eat. Grass is hunting now. He was very hungry. Will you forgive him and let me begin? I’ll be here all the time.”

He seemed so tired; he was disappointed, but he had no strength for arguing. “All right.” His voice rustled like sand slipping through the fingers.

Snake lifted Mist from her shoulders, and pulled the blanket from Stavin’s small body. The tumor pressed up beneath his rib cage, distorting his form, squeezing his vital organs, sucking nourishment from him for its own growth, poisoning him with its wastes. Holding Mist’s head, Snake let her flow across him, touching and tasting him. She had to restrain the cobra to keep her from striking; the excitement had agitated her. When Sand used his rattle, the vibrations made her flinch. Snake stroked her, soothing her; trained and bred-in responses began to return, overcoming the natural instincts. Mist paused when her tongue flicked the skin above the tumor, and Snake released her.