Darren Shan: City of the Snakes

Abandoning the search for a memorable farewell, I settle for the simplest of all. “Goodbye, Bill.” And after pausing to set down my second gift to the wizened old man — the varnished finger which has hung from a chain around my neck these past ten years — I leave him to his wreck of a house and ruin of a life, sitting on the floor, surrounded by snakes, cradling the Paucar Wami doll to his chest, weeping softly at the thought of the freedom and peace that are his for the taking.

The train station. The sun’s setting in the west and I’ll be heading after it, at least for an hour, before the train turns north. Riding off into a long, rosy sunset like a cowboy. My ticket will take me to the end of the line if I want to travel that far, but I suspect I’ll get off somewhere along the way, in a quiet town or village, or maybe just hop off in the middle of nowhere. I’d like to find a nice spot by a river and do some fishing for a year or two, push all other worries from my mind. Travel later if I feel like it. Sit by the river and grow old slowly if I don’t.

The train pulls out on schedule and I lean back in my seat, casting my weary gaze over the landmarks one final time. Hard to believe I spent so much of my life here, confined by gray buildings, beating blood-drenched streets, living so tensely, so brutally. What keeps people in cities when there are the wide open spaces of the world to explore? It must be madness or an addiction.

I find myself staring at my reflection when the train enters a tunnel. With my snakes painted over, my short crop of hair, and a hunger for new challenges in my eyes, I can almost pass for the man I was ten years ago, before my descent into the subterranean world of the Incas. I must keep the snakes covered. Perhaps one day I’ll pay a surgeon to remove them. Or maybe I’ll hang on to them, reminders of the darkness. It might be good in later years to wipe the paint away every now and then, study the coils of the insane past, and appreciate how fortunate I am to have come out of it alive, intact and in some way human.

Across the aisle, a young boy — four, maybe five — pulls away from his tired mother and makes a break for freedom. She lunges after him but misses. I catch him before he escapes and hand him back. “Thank you,” she smiles, then scolds him in a low, harsh voice. Out of the jumble of words, I hear her warn him, “If you don’t behave, Paucar Wami will come and eat you!”

I turn away to hide a wry smile. Paucar Wami won’t ever eat any little children again, but let him live on in legend if that’s how people want it. I like the idea of him surviving that way. He stepped, fully formed, out of a fantasy and it’s only fitting that he should now return to the land of shadowy myths.

Me? I’m through with legacies. I don’t want anybody telling stories about Al Jeery. I’ll happily pass into obscurity when my time comes, and leave nothing but the dust of my bones behind. Let Capac Raimi have his eternity, and Paucar Wami his notoriety. I’ll settle for whatever years I have left and a soothing, dark hole in the ground at the end.

The train clears the suburbs and picks up speed. I look for a sign to say we’re leaving the city but none materializes. Maybe kids have made off with them, or perhaps nobody bothered to erect any since the city always seems to be expanding, devouring more ground with every passing year. One day it may cover the entire planet, but that’s not my problem. Let future generations deal with that one.

As we head into the glow of dusk, away from the shadows of the city, I lie back and close my eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun through the glass, listening to the whine and screech of the engine and the wheels. After a while I doze, not a sound sleep, but that state halfway between dreams and the real world. In that in-between realm, I’m sitting on the greenest bank of grass in all the world, fishing in a river of purest blue. Bill’s close by, fixing bait

( not a worm, but a tiny snake )

to a hook. He catches my eye, winks and casts off. Behind us, ghostly figures flit in and out of the scene — Ellen and Ama, Capac Raimi and Ferdinand Dorak, Nicola Hornyak, Rudi Ziegler, Sard, Ford Tasso. Frank Weld hits the party with Hyde Wornton, both bitching about the way they were killed. My father doesn’t appear. I’ll dream about him often in the years to come, but he has no place at a friendly gathering like this.

There’s a barbecue sizzling in the background. Someone tells Bill and me to get busy — there’s a lot of hungry people who need feeding. We look at each other, laugh, crack open beers and engage in the mother of all contests. Soon the bank around us is overflowing with fish, every shape and variety, but all pale-skinned and blind.

“That’s it!” Bill cries, abandoning his line to the river. “You win.” He stands, claps my back, then vanishes into the crowd behind me, to dance with his young, giggling sister and a smartly dressed, prim and proper lady who would have been Margaret Crowe in another universe. “Coming?” Bill calls faintly.

“Soon,” I murmur, both in the dream and on the train in the real world. Settling back, I slip further into the dream and welcome more familiar faces — Howard Kett, Dr. Sines, Ali. And, arriving like a lord, a playgirl on each arm, the ancient, smirking Fabio. As the party swings into high gear, I cast my line far out into the heart of the river and carry on fishing, savoring the cool breeze and the scent of fried fish, looking forward to a night of wild tales and fond reminiscences, spent in the company of lost, loved friends.