The Seven Serpents Trilogy

by Scott O'Dell

  The bowl held several kinds of fruit. Especially good was a small green melon with orange-colored flesh that melted softlyin the mouth, leaving a taste of custard seasoned with spice. As I ate it, I cast about in my mind for some small gift I could leave by the fire in return for the gifts left for me.

  Something. Anything. Alas, I was as poor as a mouse that lives in a village church. But gift or not, I wouldn’t rest until I had discovered the identity of my elusive vis itor and friend.

  CHAPTER 26

  NOW THAT I FELT SAFE, WITH A HANDY WEAPON AT MY SIDE AND A FIRE burning, I decided to sleep in the open, for the nights were hot. I made a bed of meadow grass against the front of the hut and lay down as soon as it grew dark, thinking to get my sleep before the hour when the visitor might appear.

  I awoke after midnight, judging by the position of the stars. As I lay in the open, encircled by the black jungle, I thought of my books, those I’d had to leave at home as well as those, the Canticles of St. Francis and the Bible, that were lying beneath the waters. I knew my books almost by heart, but it was always a happy moment when I took them up and turned the pages and saw the words again. It was like meeting friends you have not seen for a long time.

  A half-moon rose above the trees. From far off came the soft rumble of the volcano. A reddish light shone on the water; I presumed it to be a reflection of its fire.

  The stars that wheeled toward the dawn also looked down on the stone idol, who stood with her bloody tal ons gripping the same earth I lay upon. She had haunted me since the moment when I had fled the clearing. Soon, this very day, I must go back to the jungle and stand in front of her. I must meet her half-closed eyes and stony gaze and face her down.

  Toward daylight I dozed but suddenly awakened to the sound of Bravo neighing. Cautiously, I got to my feet, taking care to stand in the shadow of the doorway.

  Light began to show in the east and on the highest branches of the trees. Beyond the fire and the circle where the stallion grazed, at the very edge of the jungle, I saw a figure. It stood for a moment looking in my di rection, then, no more than a moving shadow, crossed the meadow in the direction of the beach.

  It was possible that there were two Indians, even more, who visited the camp. I waited, standing in the shadows. The lone figure disappeared from view.

  Now was the moment to follow and call out a greet ing. I hesitated, thinking that the visitor planned to re turn, possibly with a gift. Then would be the time to step forth quietly, to speak, to give my thanks.

  The eastern sky had grown light. There was no sign of the visitor. I started for the shore without delay. I found it deserted, but in the wet sand were fresh prints. I fol lowed them to the far end of the cove, where they moved about in a circle, then turned away from the shore.

  Here, I lost them in the grass. I stood for a while, un decided about what to do. I had an odd feeling that whoever it might be was not far away, perhaps hidden at the edge of the jungle, watching. As I stood there, gazing in all directions, I felt somewhat like a fool.

  After a moment it occurred to me to follow the path I had taken four mornings before. I went quietly. When I reached the grove of trees and thorn bushes. I paused to listen. I heard nothing except a pair of macaws chat tering in a tree.

  I made my way through the thorns, taking one careful step at a time. I reached the triangular clearing in front of the image. The evil place was still in darkness, save for a glimmer of light on the winged monster that adorned the head of the goddess.

  With the rising sun the light descended, revealing the stone face, the slashes across cheeks and chin, the half-closed eyes. I crossed myself and met her gaze. I did not move from where I stood.

  I became aware of the strong, not unpleasant odor of burning copal, which I had encountered on the island of gold. It rose in wisps of resinous smoke from a bowl that someone had placed at the foot of the goddess.

  I had thought I was alone. But as the light grew, I made out a figure lying prone, arms outstretched, before the stone image. The figure was clothed in a scarlet huipil. It was the same person, man or boy, I had seen in the meadow. The worshiper lay motionless, but I heard a few faint words, the same words said slowly over and over.

  It must have been my labored breathing, for I did not move or speak. Suddenly the worshiper arose and, with a cry of surprise, turned to face me.

  It was neither a man nor a boy who stood there be fore me, but a girl, no older than my young sister. Her hair was glossy black, reaching to her waist. She grasped it in both hands, whether in alarm or surprise, I cannot say.

  The next moment, without a word spoken, she was gone. Not by the way I had come, but by a different, a secret way, perhaps, toward the south and the volcano, on a path that led into the deepest heart of the jungle.

  CHAPTER 27

  THE GIRL WAS GONE SO SUDDENLY THAT I HAD NO CHANCE TO UTTER more than one feeble word of greeting.

  I ran along the path she had taken, past the stone im age to the far end of the clearing and the edge of the jungle. There I halted and, cupping my hands, shouted a word I had learned on Isla del Oro, an Indian saluta tion. I shouted it with all the breath I could summon. There was no reply.

  The path led into a tangle of trees, thorns, and loop ing vines so dense that, after a half-dozen steps, I gave up my pursuit and turned back. Yet the girl had made her way into this jungle and, without a sound, had swiftly disappeared. Who was she? Where was her home? Why had she come in the dark to bring me gifts? Why had she fled?

  These questions and many others I pondered.

  There was little doubt that the girl lived close by and, considering her age, which I took to be thirteen or fourteen, with her mother and father. On her way to the beach to fish or gather clams, she had seen me in the meadow, a tall, white-skinned stranger. She had seen the stallion. She had marveled at both, but she had kept these marvels a secret. For what reason I didn’t know, except that my sister loved secrets and often made them up when they didn’t really exist.

  Watching me as I went about the meadow, when I traveled to the volcano and came back with a shell full of ashes, seeing that I ate nothing but fruit, that I had to pin my shirt together with thorns, she had taken pity on me.

  CHAPTER 28

  I SLEPT OUTSIDE THAT NIGHT, AS I HAD BEFORE, WITH A GOOD FIRE burning, but apparently she didn’t return. If she did so during the brief times I dozed, she left no gifts.

  Nor did she return the following night, though I kept a wakeful watch. Toward dawn of the third night after our encounter, with a halfmoon shining in my eyes, I awakened to see a figure as it left the fire and started away. It looked to be larger than the girl, but this proved only a trick of the moonlight.

  I jumped to my feet, not pausing to see if she had left another gift.

  Determined to catch the girl before she reached the jungle, I wasted no breath on an idle greeting.

  She ran with her black hair streaming, not awkwardly with flailing arms as my sister ran, but gracefully, like a forest animal.

  Before she reached the stream, I had gained a few steps on her. I lost them when she came to a boulder and had to make a circle while boldly I leaped over it but stumbled as I landed. In the tall grass I gained back what I’d lost.

  At the very edge of the jungle, just as she was about to disappear from sight, I overtook the girl. I grasped her arm lightly, too lightly, for she pulled away and the next moment would have faded off into the trees had I not taken hold of her with both hands.

  It had been a game she was playing with me. Now the game was over and she was in the grasp of a stranger she had seen only from a distance. She hid her face against her shoulder. I could feel her trembling.

  “Señorita,” I said, though out of breath and knowing that she wouldn’t understand one word of what I was about to say, “I only wish to thank you for all you have given me.”

  No words ever fell upon less comprehending ears.

  The Spanish tongue possesses many
beautiful sounds—I wouldn’t set myself up as a judge, since I have a knowledge of only three other languages, French and Latin and Italian—the most beautiful sounds I think in all the world. But—I might have been speaking with my mouth full of pebbles. The girl tried to cover her ears. She squirmed to get free.

  I dared not let go lest she disappear. Yet what had I gained by running her down, standing there with a firm grip on her shoulders, speaking words that she not only didn’t understand but whose sound actually pained her?

  I let go my hold and stepped back.

  She looked up at me in surprise, settling her dress around her shoulders. She had black eyes and high cheekbones. In each ear she wore a small gold plug. On the point of her chin was a single blue dot. She was what I would call a comely girl and seemed to know it.

  To express my thanks, I waved toward the fire, in pantomime carefully threaded a needle, and went through the act of sewing. I pretended to eat a piece of fruit that dripped juice. I then took a step backward and made a low bow, placing my hands on my chest, as is the custom when addressing a queen.

  As I straightened up after this elaborate mimicry, the girl was no longer there. She had fled without a sound through the tall grass into the fastness of the jungle. I listened and heard nothing. I waited, thinking that now she was free, she might venture back. I waited a long time, until the sun rose on the new day.

  Disappointed at the turn events had taken, I walked to the shore to catch my breakfast. The tide was out and the fish were not biting, so I gathered clams on the beach. Being in no mood to trudge back to my hut, I sat on the sand and ate them raw.

  I felt foolish when I thought of how I had lamely struggled through the dumb show of thanking the girl for her gifts. Languages were easy for me. I could learn in time to speak her tongue well.

  It was possible that she had circled back by her secret path and was now in the clearing. She apparently went there every morning to burn copal and prostrate herself before the stone image. With the prospect of meeting the girl for the second time that morning, I started off for the jungle clearing.

  I approached it with care, so silently that the macaws never paused in their chattering, and a bright-banded coral snake, whose bite could bring death within the hour, never moved as I passed by.

  I smelled the sweet odor of copal and saw its blue smoke drifting high among the trees. The clearing was deserted, but someone had been there that morning, for the bowl that held the incense was nearly full.

  The goddess had not changed. The eyes were still half closed; they still looked down upon me with a stony gaze that was at once piercing and slumberous. Upon the protruding lips was the beginning or the end ing of a smile that, as before, both repelled and at tracted me.

  The serpents entwined about her I hadn’t taken full note of until now. There were seven of them, all with many delicate scales that seemed to move as they caught the light, all with eyes that repeated the piercing, slumberous look of the goddess.

  The smell of copal made my head reel. I took a step away and glanced up at the pure blue of the sky.

  How could this Indian girl, a child, visit such a place, apparently every day, to worship the monstrous image, to lie prone before it and its writhing serpents, to bring offerings of fruit, to burn sweet-smelling copal? How? I asked myself. And what, what could she ever receive in return for such devotion?

  CHAPTER 29

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON THE GIRL WALKED OUT OF THE JUNGLE, carrying a sheaf of green shoots, and went to where the stallion was grazing. She passed me without a glance as I sat in front of the hut, repairing my shirt with the newly acquired needle and thread.

  Since he was not on a tether, I expected Bravo to bolt as she held out her hand. Instead, he allowed her to touch his muzzle, and when she offered him a handful of shoots he took them, switching his tail to show his thanks.

  I had a sudden suspicion. It was Bravo she was curi ous and concerned about rather than me. The presents she had brought—the fruit, the weapon, the sewing things, the fire—all were bribes, means by which she had worked herself into my good graces and thus in a roundabout way into those of Bravo.

  Proceeding with my task, I paid no attention to her. When I had finished with my shirt, she wandered over to where I sat. She still was barefooted but had braided her hair and set it on top of her head like a crown, which made her look older than she was.

  Saying a few strange-sounding words but not to me especially, she glanced around at the meadow and sky, at last in my direction, and smiled stiffly. Then she walked away, taking her time, paused to touch the stallion’s flank, waded the stream, and was gone, leaving behind her the sweet smell of burning copal.

  The smell brought back the morning, the moments when I had stood in front of the stone goddess and won dered how the girl could possibly worship such a mon strous image.

  I laid the needle and thread away and started to put on my mended shirt. The smell of copal still clung to it, so I went to the stream and spread it out on a flat rock. As I washed it with the clear-running water, I made a resolve. When the girl came again, as she surely would, I’d take her to the headland. There, by the wide sea, un der the open sky, before the cross, I would set her feet upon the Christian path.

  It would be hard to do, since our languages were so different. But with patience, in time, I would overcome the difficulties. Hers would be the first savage soul I had helped to save. God willing, there would be more!

  She returned the next morning, bringing the stallion a basket of fruit, which he disdained, and from afar cast upon me one brief glance and left. It was the horse that fascinated her.

  She came back in the afternoon, while I was at work on Bravo’s halter, this time with a bundle of palm shoots balanced on her head. When he had eaten them, she wandered over to me, walking gracefully with her head high, as if she were still carrying the bundle of palm shoots. I noticed, however, that, as she walked, she was a little pigeon-toed.

  She pointed to the stallion and by graceful signs made me see that she wished to climb on his back.

  It was then that I had what seemed to be an ingenious idea. She could mount the stallion, I let her know, but first she must do something for me. Without a word be ing spoken, we struck a bargain.

  I put my work away and walked with her to the shore, and together we climbed to the top of the headland, to the great flat stone where the cross stood. I knelt and asked her to kneel beside me. The sun cast a golden light across the waters. The girl smiled, but it was a puz zled smile, as well it might have been.

  Around my neck was a chain with a medal showing the figure of Christ on the cross, the only possession of mine that had survived the wreck. I took it off and put it in her hand; then I pointed to the cross I had built.

  She still looked puzzled. She wrinkled her brows and glanced from the figure in her hand to the wooden cross, but made no connection between them.

  “This is Christ,” I said, pointing to the figure on the medal. “This is Christ also,” I said and again pointed to the wooden cross.

  She helplessly shook her head and turned away from me and said something in her outlandish-sounding tongue. I couldn’t even guess at the meaning of her words, but their tone was clear.

  Suddenly I realized that what I was trying to do was doomed to failure. I was asking a little savage, an igno rant girl, at least one who was untutored, to understand, by the use of a few simple gestures and by words she had never heard before, an idea, a concept that was of ten difficult even for those who were schooled.

  I was being a fool.

  Embarrassed, I took the chain, put it around my neck, and got to my feet. I would have apologized had I had the words, even one word.

  But I recovered myself enough to sing a tuneful song about the Virgin and was pleased to observe that the girl listened to me. More than that, she uttered words which I took to be praiseful and by a movement of her hands showed that she wished to hear me sing again.

  But
these simple acts made me realize more than ever what could be understood between us and what not un derstood and not done. I wanted to bring Christ’s message to the Indian girl and to those of her tribe who might come within the reach of my voice. The only way I could hope to accomplish this was by learning the lan guage she used, whatever it might be.

  I did learn her name. It was Ceela.

  CHAPTER 30

  CEELA HELD ME TO MY BARGAIN. NO SOONER HAD WE COME DOWN from the headland than she ran to where Bravo was grazing. She grasped his long mane and made a leap for his back, but he tossed his head and shied away. After I had brought him around again, I made a step with my hands and boosted her up. She took the reins, and off we went through the meadow, with me holding tight to the tether rope.

  Arabian stallions are gentle and affectionate, much gentler than ordinary stallions. True to the breed, Bravo acted as if he and the girl were old friends. I don’t know what Ceela felt, except that she sat smiling, with her skirts pulled up to her skinny knees, and held the reins like a proper horsewoman.

  As for me, I nearly walked my legs off, but improved the time by taking a first lesson in what Ceela called Maya. I pointed to a rock and asked her for the word that meant rock in her language. We walked along the beach and I pointed out the sea, the waves, the shells, the gulls flying overhead. By nightfall I had accumu lated thirty words, taking the second step toward learn ing the language of those who lived on the island.

  Ceela came back the next afternoon and rode until dusk, with me walking beside her as before, again pointing at objects and learning their names.

  The Mayan language, I had found in two long les sons, was difficult. Unlike the other languages I knew, it was not based upon Latin but upon rules and sounds of its own. Thus, cenote, as I was to learn when I saw it written down by Spanish priests, the word for water hole, was pronounced with a soft c. The X in Xul, the word for the sixth month of the Mayan year, was given the sound of sh; and Xux, the morning star, Venus, was pronounced shush.