by M. D. Elster
I listen, and am entranced by a sense of nostalgia. It is one of those romantic songs that sound quite easy and happy, but if you listen more closely to the lyrics, it seems much darker.
“Come, Anaïs, I don’t think we should linger…” Sir Lewin urges. “The castle is just up there.”
We continue on, hiking over this ship and that, crossing the island, making our way towards the “castle” — a large, lit-up white mansion in the middle. By the time we get to the porch, I’m thoroughly disoriented. Unlike my previous royal visits, there are no gates, no bridges over moats, no guards. We walk directly up a handful of stairs and onto the porch, where a dozen or so empty rocking chairs sway and groan in the night air, as though occupied by a series of invisible ghosts.
While it looked impressive from afar, up close I can see that the mansion is old, and rather dilapidated. The columns are cracked, the roof over the porch is sagging, the white paint is gray, and badly peeling. The whole thing creaks and sways. The spiders and their corresponding webs have taken advantage of every right angle in sight. There are bats hanging upside down, just under the lip of the eaves. There is something so pedestrian and familiar, and yet grandly decayed about the house.
“There are no guards, no gates… no anything. How do we announce ourselves, and our intentions to see the king?” I ask. Sir Lewin turns to look at me, clearly amused.
“Why, as a human, I would’ve thought you could guess: We knock.”
He points to a front door and we cross the porch to stand directly in front of it. I find myself staring at a large, rusty doorknocker. I take a closer look and see: Spades! The doorknocker is in the shape of a large spade, as though the entire door were really the ace of spades playing card. I suppose, by now, this revelation should not be at all surprising.
Sir Lewin lifts the knocker and drops it back down. It is shaped like the stem of the spade; a heavy piece of metal clacks at the flared edge at bottom. The sound echoes within.
We wait. For several minutes, nothing happens. We continue to wait, and I begin to wonder if we have found our way to the correct place after all. It doesn’t make sense, a king living like this — on a floating trash heap, in the middle of a swamp. This giant white antebellum house with its crumbling white columns is indeed huge, but it is no palace, no moated castle. And it is in such a state of disrepair! What king would ever live here?
But then, I hear a sudden series of loud clicks, and I realize someone is unbolting the door from within. I exchange an anxious look with Sir Lewin. The door handle turns, and the door swings open on creaky hinges worthy of a haunted house.
“…Yes?” a weary voice asks.
The door swings open further, and I find myself looking at… a human! I blink, rub my eyes, and look again. But, yes — it is indeed a human. The man I see standing before me is an elderly gent, with gray hair parted down the middle and neatly oiled into place. He wears the variety of tuxedo that was intensely popular before the market crashed in the late ‘20s, complete with silk cummerbund and long black tails on his jacket. He has a droopy but distinguished face. He nods in Sir Lewin’s direction, but appears detached, disinterested. Then his gaze skips over Sir Lewin and falls upon me. He holds his arms neatly at his sides and bows as he looks me up and down.
“How may I help you, mademoiselle?” he asks in a polite voice.
Oh, I think, he must be the butler. There is a distinctly butler-like air about him.
“We’re looking for the Snake King,” I say. Then I clear my throat, and attempt it again, “I mean… we seek an audience with His Highness, the Snake King,” I say, striving for a formal tone. That is what Mr. Fletcher would say, I think… isn’t it?
“Yeeesss… I see,” the elderly gent replies. “Right this way, if you please…”
His voice is not exactly warm and welcoming, but it is polite, and accommodating enough. And I find a strange comfort in the fact that he is human. Mr. Fletcher said nothing about the fact that the Snake King kept the company of humans in his court. It doesn’t make sense.
“Follow me,” the butler drones, and Sir Lewin and I obey.
We walk through a large, dusty foyer. The wallpaper is absolutely breathtaking — it is hand-painted with beautiful pastoral scenes that put me in mind of the American South. It breaks my heart to see the state of this wallpaper: There are rips and water stains in the paper itself, and a heavy accumulation of dust everywhere I look.
We walk on, and I hear music similar to the record I’d heard playing on someone’s Victrola during my short hike up to the mansion. A second, unseen, somebody-or-another has put a record on here, too. I am intrigued to understand the creature-beings of this land utilize certain technologies I thought only existed in the human world. And I am even more staggered to think they listen to popular human music. The crossover is disorienting.
It sounds as though he is leading us towards the music; it grows louder with every step we take. Sir Lewin and I follow the butler as he winds his way through the massive mansion to what appears to be a smoking lounge filled with creature-beings, all of them sitting around sipping at cocktails and smoking cigarettes and cigars. In a far corner I spot the source of the music: It is indeed a Victrola, a very large one, its amplifying horn rising from the polished wooden box like a metallic question mark, the polished brass blossoming into the air like an oversize morning glory.
Like the foyer, this room is also covered in beautiful, decaying wallpaper, this time in crushed emerald velvet. I can only assume the Snake King’s favorite color is green, for the room is a study of greens: apple green, peacock green, an electric yellow-green color that reminds me of the pond scum outside, and a pale, mystical, washed-out lichen green. Just as it was hot and humid outside, the room is likewise very hot — all the windows have been thrown open as though to catch the night breeze, and an electric fan churns the stagnant air.
I attempt to make an innocuous sweep of the room with my eyes, to see what sorts of creature-beings belong to the Snake King’s court. I see a tortoise-headed man smoking a cigar by the empty fireplace. He is talking to a thin man with the head of what I believe is a gecko. They are both wearing tuxedos similar to the butler’s. Two ladies, one with the head of an opossum and one with the sleek head of some kind of black viper are reclined together on a dark purple velvet chaise — the only non-green object in the room. I notice, with a bit of a shock, they are both wearing wigs in the style of Jean Harlow, and both have deep red lipstick painted over their animal lips. Their clothing, too, is strangely contemporary to my world. They wear slinky evening gowns one might expect to see a starlet wear to walk a red carpet. To me, they look both beautiful and absurd, a little like very sexy clowns.
As I look around, I notice all the creature-beings are styled more or less in a similar manner — the women with wigs and makeup, the men with slicked hair and tuxedos. There is an air of glamour and decay about them all. I also can’t help but notice: Most have the heads of animals that might be considered undesirable in the human world. I see a vulture, a Gila monster, a rat, a seagull, a scorpion, a skunk… When my eyes fall upon the two men — one of them with the head of a scorpion, the other a crocodile, I flinch in fear, then quickly look around to see whether anybody glimpsed the unintentional insult. But unlike the previous two royal courts I visited, very few eyes are on me. They take note as I follow the butler into the room, but nobody seems to be particularly scandalized by our presence.
The butler leads us to the opposite side of the room, to an unoccupied sofa and pair of chairs, and bids both of us to sit. Sir Lewin and I comply. I perch on the sofa; Sir Lewin settles into a nearby armchair. I am surprised when the butler himself follows suit and sits next to me, at the opposite end of the sofa.
“Oh,” I say. “Will the Snake King be here shortly?”
“Beg pardon?” says the butler.
“We came to see the Snake King. Will he be along soon?”
The bu
tler laughs. “Why, my dear, my apologiesss… I thought you knew…”
“Knew what?” Suddenly I feel deeply uneasy.
“I am the Sssnake King.”
Shocked, I blink stupidly at the butler, studying his human features, his vaguely jowled face and neatly combed silver hair, his absolutely human pale pink lips and milky-blue, old-man eyes.
“But you answered the door…”
“Of courssse I did. And why wouldn’t I answer my own door?”
“But…” I stammer, “But… you’re a human.”
I can’t help but notice: All of the “S” sounds in all of his words are belabored, drawn-out as though he has a lisp.
“Oh, hardly,” he says. “I will show you my true face if you like, but are you quite prepared for that, my dear?”
I have no idea what he is talking about. I find myself nodding, without actually knowing whether I mean it.
He reaches to his bowtie, which I notice bears a tiny silver insignia of a spade. As soon as his finger touches the insignia, the skin of his face splits down the middle and neatly peels away, the flesh rolling backwards to create a sort of hood, revealing the head of a king cobra.
“Oh!” I exclaim.
“I saw it wasss you through the peep-hole, Anaïs,” he says. “I thought it best to greet you with my human face. You see… humans are renowned to have a funny relationship with serpents. Some of your most damning stories are about us.”
“Well… I suppose that’s true,” I murmur, thinking in particular of the Bible stories that have been drilled into me since my stepfather enrolled me in Catholic school.
“I hardly expect you to know better — how could you? But our reputation in your world isn’t deserved.”
I nod, and the Snake King holds me in his strange hypnotic stare, judging my reaction. I suspect he can tell my nod is half-hearted. I must admit: I’ve never been fond of snakes, and find his true visage more than a little frightening. As he looks at me, his black, forked tongue darts involuntarily from between his lips and nearly touches his chest. Before I can stop myself, I wince, and he sees it.
“Ah, yesss. There it is: Your human dread of my true form. Not to worry. I shall put my human mask back on for your comfort,” he says in a dull, disappointed voice.
“No,” I hurry to say, “that’s quite all right.”
But my protests are hollow and he knows it. He touches his finger again to the spade emblem on his bowtie. The cobra hood closes around his face, the seams melt together, and the contours of his flesh take on the form of a human head once more.
“Wait — you know my name,” I blurt out, realizing he called me by my name, not more than two minutes ago.
“Yes. I have heard of you, my dear. Word travels fassst. I heard you were visiting some of the other kings’ courts. I wasn’t sure whether you’d visit mine — we are not so fine and mighty as to host many humans here — but I thought it might be a gesture of consideration to be prepared.”
“Hmm, prepared to welcome a human. That’s very kind of you,” Sir Lewin says in a thoroughly unconvincing voice.
“Ah, yesssss,” the Snake King replies. “And you are the young minion from Lion’s Court, I presume…”
“Sir Lewin.” Lewin tilts slightly at the waist, as though to bow from the armchair.
“‘Sir.’ Yes. The ink still drying on your newly-minted family crest, no doubt,” says the Snake King.
Sir Lewin stiffens and I can see his leopard-spotted jaw tightening. I notice his hand involuntarily gripping the hilt of the dagger on his hip.
“It is not very kingly of you to say so.”
“Hah, yes indeed. You’re right. I am not a very kingly king, you sssee,” the Snake King replies.
Insulted, Sir Lewin stands.
“Pleassse, sit. I do not mean to offend. It was only an observation. Knighted or not, I would be proud to host you here either way — please believe me. We have no pretensions here…” He reaches for Sir Lewin’s hand, and pats it.
Recoiling slightly from the Snake King’s touch, Lewin sits back down.
“But I might asssk,” the Snake King turns back to me. “Why have you come? Few creatures visit my kingdom for pleasure, human or otherwise.”
I look around the room at the Snake King’s court, trying to think of how to broach the subject of black magic. His supporters are all lazily lounged about, fanning themselves in the warm tropical air, idly playing at dice and flipping through glossy magazines. In one far corner, a pigeon-headed woman and wolf-headed man are engaged in playing with an Ouija board. Music continues to croon out of the Victrola. This is indeed a strange pack of creatures I’ve stumbled into. There is a charge of something in the air that unsettles me, and yet at the same time, reminds me of my stepfather’s nightclub.
“Tell me, Your Highness, have you heard of the kingdom from which I hail?” I ask, tentatively trying out an impulsive tactic. “New Orleans? Louisiana? The other kings haven’t heard of it, but I have a funny feeling you might have.”
“Why, as a matter of fact, I have,” the Snake King says, nodding his human-looking head. “It is a place after my own heart.”
“I suspected as much,” I say. I force a pleasant smile. “One thing both of our kingdoms have in common is a love of magic,” I say, “…or so I hear.” I peer at him cautiously, testing my limits. He raises an eyebrow. “In New Orleans, we have fortune tellers and gypsies — and humans who can work Voodoo — that’s something we have quite a lot of. But I should like to hear about the magic favored here, in this kingdom… I heard the king himself is an expert on the subject, and I have come to see for myself.”
I glance at Sir Lewin, who looks a little unsure about my bold approach.
“The king is an expert on the subject of what?” comes a voice.
I turn to see the tortoise-headed man smoking a cigar has risen from his armchair and is approaching us with two martini glasses in his human hands. As he comes closer, he smiles with his curious tortoise face, looking both wise and wizened at the same time.
“Would the lady care for a drink?” he asks, and bows deeply at the waist.
“Yesss, Anaïs,” the Snake King says. “Please have a cocktail. I understand you humans are quite fond of complicated beverages served in impractical ssstemware.”
I accept the martini glass to be polite but hesitate to take a sip, thinking of all the adults I’d glimpsed drunk on champagne, acting silly in my stepfather’s nightclub.
“Oh, it’s not made of that barbarian stuff you humans call ‘alcohol’!” the tortoise-headed man says, as though reading my mind.
“What’s in it, then?” I ask.
“Ambrosial sweetwater,” he answers. “His Majesty’s kingdom is famous for producing it.”
“This is Monsieur Thibault,” the Snake King says. “He acts as my official vizier.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” I say to the tortoise-headed man. He bobs his leathery head at me. “Go on, try it,” he urges, tipping his funny chin at the drink in my hand to urge me on. I take a sip. It is sweet and clean, and delicious.
“Lovely,” I say. He nods.
“And for you, uh…” Monsieur Thibault looks Sir Lewin up and down with a much less welcoming expression, “… monsieur? Would you care for a cocktail of ambrosial sweetwater as well?”
“What are the effects of ambrosial sweetwater?” Sir Lewin asks, cautious. It is a good question — one I neglected to ask.
“Oh, it’s not like Raven’s sharpberry wine or anything like that!” Monsieur Thibault laughs. “No, all ambrosial sweetwater does is make you more attuned to the spirit world.”
“No, thank you,” says Sir Lewin firmly.
“Nonsense… I inssisst…” the Snake King says.
Sir Lewin obediently accepts a crystal coupe as well, but after nodding his head politely, holds it off to one side without taking a sip.
“Now then,” Thibault
says, his leather tortoise-neck stretching and wrinkling as he clears his throat. “What did I happen to interrupt? You the King is an expert on the subject of… what was it?”
“Black magic,” I answer.
“Hmm. A most interesting subject. But I hope you haven’t come to hear a good story and gawk at us, have you? I would hate to think you have come here with the same narrow-minded prejudices as the rest of the fools in the other three kingdoms.” He shakes his head, his tortoise-chin jutting out in stern disapproval.
“It is all right, my dear vizier,” the Snake King says, attempting to calm Monsieur Thibault. He turns to us. “Forgive him,” the king says. “He is protective of hisss king.”
“As well I ought to be, Sire. You have been greatly misunderstood by so many in the other kingdoms — an error in judgment none of the other kings bothered to correct for ages now, so long as it has served their purposes.”
The Snake King waves a dismissive hand. “I should like the human to understand me better. Perhaps she is not like the others. I would very much like it if she were to join us for tonight’s ritual.”
At the mention of the word “ritual,” I find myself a bit nervous. And evidently I am not the only one.
“Sire! I’m all for…” he hesitates, and steals a look in my direction, then continues, “…hospitality, but you cannot possibly invite this human to join in our ritual tonight!” a third creature-being intones in a deep, croaky voice. I look up, and see a man in a heavy black smoking jacket with the unsettling baldhead of a vulture looking down at us.
