Andrus Kivirähk - The Man Who Spoke Snakish

So I was left alone — with the Frog of the North. I have been his guardian for forty years now, and I’ve grown quite old. Lately I’ve been going out more and more rarely. I sleep a lot and I dream. Most often that I am a child again, sitting in Uncle Vootele’s cellar, and Uncle Vootele is teaching me Snakish. Then suddenly his face turns white, he falls spread-eagled, and dies, but I’m not dismayed. I crawl in under his flanks and I’m nice and warm. I don’t care about the rotting stench emanating from my uncle. It doesn’t upset me; it actually feels so familiar and secure. Then I wake up and I find myself beside the Frog of the North, but that same stink is still in my nostrils. I know that smell doesn’t come from the Frog of the North, for he is eternal; it comes from me, an old man.

I hiss a few Snakish words into the void, the same ones once taught to me by Uncle Vootele, and those words clear the air. Everything else in me may decay, but the Snakish words always remain fresh. The Snakish words and the peacefully dozing Frog of the North.

And I am not concerned about anything; I too can quite peacefully close my eyes on it all again. No one disturbs my sleep. We can rest undisturbed — the Frog of the North and the last man who spoke Snakish.