The Snake

by J A Kellman

  Then things seemed to heat up: I could hear gunfire over the traffic, and it wasn’t just one or two shots. The firing petered off, then more sirens.

  What was going on? Even in my wretched state, I wanted answers.

  A few minutes later, headlights swung into the St. Patrick’s parking lot, passed the office, headed toward the church. No way could I get to my feet and run in time to elude trouble. I was caught like a raccoon in a crawl space.

  “There she is,” a familiar voice shouted through a half-open door as the car skidded to a stop at the end of the nearby sidewalk. “On the church porch.”

  “Ann,” Bill yelled as he ran toward me. “Is that you?”

  By the time Ochoa and Bill pulled the tape off my face and hands, checked me over, and wrapped me in a blanket, I was numb, cold, nauseated. My consciousness flickered like a loose bulb, and I couldn’t lift my arms. My legs were worthless, too—I had to be carried to the car.

  “We’re heading for the hospital,” Bill yelled over his revving engine.

  Hours later, checked by doctors, detaped, and back at Burr Oaks, Esperanza, Pat, and Zoila took over from the men. Clucking and exclaiming, they got me into a hot shower, dressed me in pajamas, and tucked me into my recliner with a pillow and blanket. Once I was settled, Pat handed me a mug of tomato soup. “Here, drink this. It will help.”

  I nodded, took the cup carefully, sipped cautiously at the hot liquid. It was heaven. I hadn’t had anything since that cereal bar—Lord knows how long ago—and the efforts of my escape made me shaky and lightheaded. After another serving, I felt more like myself and ready to ask questions.

  “How did you find me? And how did the police know about Olivera’s storage units?”

  “That email you sent tipped us off, especially the part that someone should check that storage place,” Bill said. “I’d called the cops earlier, just to let them know they should take a look at it, that something seemed to be fishy down at the far end.

  “Then, when you weren’t home by your usual time, and knowing your nosy nature, we began to worry. Ochoa and I decided to run out there. The police were raiding the storage place at that point. When it was clear you weren’t there, the church was a natural place to check. You know the rest.”

  “Thank God you found me,” I said, imagining several more hours encased in tape or worse. I dabbed at my eyes with the edge of my blanket.

  Pat broke in before I lost all control. “We should put something cold on your face. It’ll help reduce the swelling.”

  She headed for the kitchen where I could hear Zoila already rummaging in the freezer. Pat returned with a plastic bag of peas and a dish towel. “You’ll probably have black eyes from your adventures. They’re puffy and bruising now, but you’ll feel better once the swelling goes down.”

  I placed the peas over my eyes and lay back. The throbbing in my face began to ease.

  A knock sent Rosie under the bed where she had been hiding on and off since I got home. Bill answered the door. I could hear him conversing with someone in the hall.

  “Ann, can you talk with Officer Murphy now?” Bill said from my entry.

  “Couldn’t this wait? She’s barely back to herself,” Pat said, scowling from the chair next to my recliner.

  “Let him in,” I said. “I’m okay.”

  “I won’t take long,” Officer Murphy said. “But I want to hear what happened back there. All we have now is four Sinaloa guys in the hospital with gunshot wounds, another dead, and the guy who owns Cinco Gallos in intensive care with snakebite. Snakebite! Here in Big Grove! They say he may not make it since the bite was close to his heart and brain. He’d moved around a lot before they got him in, too, so his body is starting to swell. No one knows what kind of snake it was. The hospital’s checking with the zoos in Chicago, see if they can tell them anything.

  “The shed you were in is full of drugs that must have just come up from Mexico and Guatemala—a couple of the packages were even labeled Maya Gold, Petén,” Murphy added.

  “If that’s the origin of that shipment, the snake is probably a fer-de-lance,” Ochoa said.

  “I just got a quick glimpse of it crawling out of the shed,” I added, “maybe five feet long, dark brown splotches.”

  “Sounds right to me,” Luis said from the nearby sofa. “A fer-de-lance looks like that. They’re especially venomous as well. That would explain the state Olivera is in.”

  “Might help the guy’s doctor to know what it is, but my worry is that snake is somewhere on the west side of Big Grove. We’re in trouble if we can’t catch it right away, or it finds enough to eat and settles in.” Murphy was still muttering as he headed into the dimly lit hall to radio the information. “Poisonous snake loose in summer! Kids running around outside. People in flip-flops mowing the lawn. What hell!”

  ~ * ~

  Two days later, Olivera died of a massive heart attack caused by snakebite, according to the newspaper article that described his death.

  “The snake really got him,” Dr. Wilson, his doctor said. “Fer-de-lance venom is potent: it causes breakdown of tissues, internal bleeding, thrombosis. Mr. Olivera just couldn’t rally after that bite. For one thing, he moved around too much after he was struck; he even staggered into the ER on his own. We didn’t learn what type of snake it was until later, and the antivenin didn’t arrive until the next day.”

  The snake, the article continued, was still on the loose.

  Forty

  Big Grove, Fourth Week in June

  From the night of the raid on, the Feds were all over Big Grove. According to the news, millions of dollars of cocaine, heroin, and fentanyl had been stashed in the U-Store-It units. Other sheds in the six-block industrial area next to I-74 were found to have drugs in them, too.

  Big Grove, it turned out, was a transfer point, sitting as it does on the intersection of I-57 and I-74—two well-used north-south, east-west interstates—and just a short drive from I-55 and I-70, also major interstate highways, making it an ideal rerouting point. Several cities, including Indianapolis, Chicago, St. Louis, and even Detroit, were within easy reach. No wonder the drug trade had blossomed in Big Grove; how could it not, considering its location?

  “After the Feds were through, the drug traffic in town dried up just like that,” Bill said over cocktails one Friday, snapping his fingers to illustrate his point. “At least that’s what the guys at the gym said. It’s as if the whole cartel thing had never happened, that drugs never flooded Big Grove, at least not in the volume the Sinaloas provided.”

  Big Grove, First Week in July

  Life returned to normal in Big Grove. Ochoa and Esperanza returned to Guatemala laden with gifts for family and friends, hundreds of photographs, endless stories—including the recent installment of the Ruston/Tikal tale that featured the snake.

  My bruises faded to green-tinged taupe, but my startle reflex was still hair-trigger. I winced or ducked every time anything suddenly moved, or made noise in my vicinity. My fault, really. Why hadn’t I minded my own business? Maybe this time, I’d learned that lesson.

  Every once in a while, during the rest of that summer, someone thought they’d spotted the snake, but it was always a false alarm—a garter snake, a piece of rope, a section of hose in the back of a garage.

  School began as usual in the middle of August: students in shorts and Tee-shirts milled in front of campus bars, and parking places disappeared like ice on warm pavement.

  I began to feel more like myself as the familiar academic world reasserted itself, but I still wondered about the snake.

  Forty-one

  Big Grove, First Week in September

  On a rocky slope near the culvert that carried a thin thread of water under Patterson Road, the snake lay coiled, basking on a shelf of limestone. She had come to feel the arroyo next to the roadway was her territory, even though the air was too dry to be completely comfortable. It was a good spot otherwise, with several rocky overhangs and sheltered
areas, as well as a variety of rodents.

  She had regular success hunting in this new world, but the jungle with its moist dense greenery still called somewhere in her reptilian brain. She shifted lazily. At least there was food.

  ~ * ~

  Above the culvert, a state highway worker inspected the guardrail over the little creek. A motorist had sideswiped it yesterday, and he needed to make sure the rail was still sound. The man had just checked the cement at the base of the final post when he spotted the snake curled in the sun. “Whoa! That sure isn’t a garter snake! I thought that fer-de-lance would probably be dead by now.” He stood slowly so as not to frighten the creature, easing his way to his truck to call 911, just as the highway workers had been instructed to do, if they spotted the reptile.

  Half an hour later Big Grove Animal Control and the special Snake Task Force from the University Wildlife Clinic arrived at the bridge.

  “Now comes the tricky part,” the vet in charge said, unloading several large snake tongs, white cotton snake bags, and a plastic carrier box with air holes and handles.

  “It’s going to move fast once it knows we’re here,” he said, peering at the snake over the rim of the arroyo. “The highway will help cover our noise. We’re just going to get one shot at it, so we’ve got to do it right. Let me review the drill. We all move at once, slow as possible, and then station ourselves above and around the ledge.

  “Folks with tongs will lead. If you have a clear shot at it, grab the snake in the middle of the body. Baggers stay behind the people with the tongs, but keep the sacks open so the catcher can drop the snake in as soon as it’s caught.”

  He oversaw the distribution of equipment before continuing. “I probably don’t have to tell you, but stay away from it as much as possible. It’s short tempered, and it won’t hesitate to bite. Remember, it can puncture your boots. Those of you without equipment, stay back, but be ready to give us a hand on the incline if we need it. This embankment is steep. It’s going to be hard going.

  “I’m going in from the left rear. It’s a little less steep there, and it’ll bring me down outside the snake’s field of vision. Let me go first. If I miss, close in.”

  The vet eased his way down the weedy face of the cut. The others, slightly behind him, moved at the same time.

  ~ * ~

  The snake, made drowsy by the sun and the gopher she had eaten earlier, didn’t suspect a thing until the tongs closed around her body. Outraged, and terrified, she fought with every ounce of strength she possessed, twisting, winding in the air, striking at whatever held her, desperate to escape. It was no good; no matter how she struggled, the tongs held her firm until something soft and white closed over her. Still she fought, biting, straining, looping with rage.

  The shouting that surrounded her agitated her further.

  “Got it!”

  “Look at that sack thrash!”

  “Don’t drop it!”

  “We’ll get it out of the bag once we’re back at the clinic. No reason to struggle on the edge of the highway.”

  “Where’s that transport box?”

  The white trap swayed and clung, then she dropped, white substance and all, into a hard, small space. There was a snap above her. Sounds faded.

  Later that afternoon, released from the white clinging thing, the snake rested, tired but calm, coiled in her container somewhere dark, quiet, soothing. She couldn’t see the people checking on her from the far side of the room through the opaque walls of her current home.

  Forty-two

  Big Grove, Second Week in September

  Wednesday evening after the news, Zoila called with an invitation for cocktails on Friday. “I’m going to call Pat and Bill, Polop, too. They are part of this story. You can have your usual weekly festivities here. We’ll have drinks and watch the sunset, but first Luis says he wants to cast seeds. Would six o’clock work for you?”

  “Perfect. I’ll bring the offerings,” I said.

  When I arrived at Luis and Zoila’s condo Friday with gifts for the ancestors—cigarillos, a pint of bourbon, lilies-—and a hunk of Double Gloucester cheese for the rest of us, Luis was already in his recliner, his divining table over his knees. Pat, bearing a basket, and Bill, carrying a large shopping bag, were right behind me. Polop followed them with a servietta-covered platter. Copal wafted in the open balcony doors, filling the room with the smell of resin.

  “Since this is a special evening, I thought I’d go all out,” Pat said, putting freshly made bruschetta and dishes of toppings on the table behind Luis’s chair.

  “So did I, but don’t worry. My brother’s wife made the dip.” Bill grinned as he placed homemade cheese and frijole appetizer near the tiny tapas Zoila had set out. “This is going to be some feast,” he added, plugging in his dipping pot.

  “My special guacamole and tortillas,” Polop said, wedging his platter onto the crowded table.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Zoila called over her shoulder as she carried my offerings to the flat stone altar outside.

  “Ever since the authorities caught the snake, the ancestors have been closer than they’ve been since Tikal,” Luis said. “I’ve had lightning under my skin almost constantly and most nights I’ve dreamed of a serpent. It is clear we need to make offerings and cast seeds, and we all have to take part to pull the last threads of this story together, but before we start, you need to see what Esperanza sent.” Luis pulled the short ritual shawl from around his neck and handed it to me. “It just arrived this week. She found it in a little village in the Highlands, Santa Catarina Ixtahuacan, on one of her buying trips for her shop.”

  The shawl was unlike any other ceremonial piece I’d seen. Four feet long with alternating figured panels, it was a stunner. Three white rectangles with vultures, wings raised as if basking, and, toward the top, the ritually important double eagle or kot, wings and tail spread, were woven in red thread. Between the birds were sections of red serpent-like zigzag forms, each one enclosing a four-pointed star. The shawl was old, worn, frayed.

  “The images are amazing and those tiny stitches!” I said, tracing the raised figures with my finger. “I’ve never seen anything like it.

  “It reminds me of our story. It’s an outline of the narrative we’ve just lived. The vulture, the Vision Serpent bringing the ancestors, the snake as protector, just as she was in the storage shed.” I passed the shawl to Pat. “But Santa Catarina?”

  “As I said, when this entire business began with Ruston and his discovery of the stele,” Luis said. “This story was set in motion thousands of years ago. It isn’t a surprise to find traces of it, even there.”

  “The narrative began with the pectoral from Takalik Abaj and runs like a thread to our own time,” Zoila said. “The individual actors changed, but the roles remain similar from one age to the next. K’in A’jaw and Kan both tried to form new communities with the vulture as their symbol of lordship, but Kan was seduced by power. It was through him and the Nuevo the cartels began to expand their grip on the Petén and to pollute the ancient site of Tikal.”

  “In the end, the fer-de-lance was sent by ancestors as their emissary, their means of confronting evil,” Luis added.

  “Whoa! The fer-de-lance! The ancestors! How did that work?” Bill asked.

  “The snake was the ancestors’ proxy. She saved Ann’s life, and she killed the cartel boss who connected the Petén to Big Grove. She is Ann’s nahual, her spirit guide.” Luis placed his shawl around his neck again, smoothing it with his good hand.

  “I can hardly believe it,” Pat said. “Here we are in Big Grove, discussing what began thousands of years ago in the jungles of Guatemala. We know the people’s names, we’ve imagined their lives, we’ve even seen K’in A’jaw’s stele where it was placed to mark his village’s boundary.”

  Polop, who had been quiet, suddenly added, “I wouldn’t believe it began so early either if I hadn’t seen that little painted cave, the lord, the retainers, the offer
ed chocolate pot,” his voice faded as he remembered the scene.

  “It began then, if not before, led to Ruston, the vulture pectoral, and us—” Luis said, trailing off.

  The curtains moved in the breeze. Copal drifted in with the scent of prairie. The moon rose beyond the trees into the sky thick with stars. This time the owl was silent.

  Luis cast seeds, his chanting soft, calling on the ancestors and the lords of the Cauacs as he swept the seeds and crystals across the table, laid them out, swept again and again.

  “Look outside,” Luis said later that night as the moon rose higher. “Venus, a symbol of the serpent’s power, is keeping Ixchel and her rabbit company.”

  Big Grove, Late October

  Later that autumn, before the weather became unpredictable, Pat and I drove to Chicago for one of our periodic museum days. We’d added something new to our usual list of art, lunch, and more art—the zoo.

  I’d called to check on the fer-de-lance—whether she was on exhibit and if we could see her. She was, and we could, the information woman said. “She is in one of our smaller habitats. They are well lit, but the walkway in front is dark. You’ll be able to see her clearly.”

  A few days after my call, as we drove north on I-57 with the morning mist rising from the empty fields on either side of the road, I told Pat what I knew about the snake’s new home.

  “She’s in the Reptile House, along with amphibians and other reptiles. It sounds as if she has a space to herself, a place that reflects her native environment. I know this seems odd, but I’m eager to see her. I feel as if she’s my companion, a spirit guide.”

  “Considering what the two of you went through together, it’s no surprise,” Pat said. “You are bound together. She’s your spirit familiar, your nahual. Those thugs would have killed you without her intervention.”

  ~ * ~

  The exhibition space was dark. The rectangular glass-fronted habitats glowed jewel-like in a single row that circled the room like a diamond necklace.