Arevin loosened his outer robe. Beneath it he wore a loincloth and a leather belt that carried several leather flasks and pouches. The color of his skin was slightly lighter than the sun-darkened brown of his face. He brought out his water flask, closed his robe around his lean body, and reached for Snake’s hand.
“No, Arevin. If the poison gets in any small scratch you might have, it could infect.”
She sat down and sluiced lukewarm water over her hand. The water dripped pink to the ground and disappeared, leaving not even a damp spot visible. The wound bled a little more, but now it only ached. The poison was almost inactivated.
“I don’t understand,” Arevin said, “how it is that you’re unhurt. My younger sister was bitten by a bush viper.” He could not speak as uncaringly as he might have wished. “We could do nothing to save her—nothing we had would even lessen her pain—”
Snake gave him his flask and rubbed salve from a vial in her belt pouch across the closing punctures. “It’s a part of our preparation,” she said. “We work with many kinds of serpents, so we must be immune to as many as possible.” She shrugged. “The process is tedious and somewhat painful.” She clenched her fist; the film held, and she was steady. She leaned toward Arevin and touched his abraded cheek again. “Yes…” She spread a thin layer of the salve across it. “That will help it heal.”
“If you cannot sleep,” Arevin said, “can you at least rest?”
“Yes,” she said. “For a little while.”
Snake sat next to Arevin, leaning against him, and they watched the sun turn the clouds to gold and flame and amber. The simple physical contact with another human being gave Snake pleasure, though she found it unsatisfying. Another time, another place, she might do something more, but not here, not now.
When the lower edge of the sun’s bright smear rose above the horizon, Snake rose and teased Mist out of the case. She came slowly, weakly, and crawled across Snake’s shoulders. Snake picked up the satchel, and she and Arevin walked together back to the small group of tents.
Stavin’s parents waited, watching for her, just outside the entrance of their tent. They stood in a tight, defensive, silent group. For a moment Snake thought they had decided to send her away. Then, with regret and fear like hot iron in her mouth, she asked if Stavin had died. They shook their heads, and allowed her to enter.
Stavin lay as she had left him, still asleep. The adults followed her with their stares, and she could smell fear. Mist flicked out her tongue, growing nervous from the implied danger.
“I know you would stay,” Snake said. “I know you would help, if you could, but there is nothing to be done by any person but me. Please go back outside.”
They glanced at each other, and at Arevin, and she thought for a moment that they would refuse. Snake wanted to fall into the silence and sleep. “Come, cousins,” Arevin said. “We are in her hands.” He opened the tent flap and motioned them out. Snake thanked him with nothing more than a glance, and he might almost have smiled. She turned toward Stavin, and knelt beside him. “Stavin-” She touched his forehead; it was very hot. S_ he noticed that her hand was less steady than before. The slight touch awakened the child. “It’s time,” Snake said.
He blinked, coming out of some child’s dream, seeing her, slowly recognizing her. He did not look frightened. For that Snake was glad; for some other reason she could not identify she was uneasy.
“Will it hurt?”
“Does it hurt now?”
He hesitated, looked away, looked back. “Yes.”
“It might hurt a little more. I hope not. Are you ready?”
“Can Grass stay?”
“Of course,” she said.
And realized what was wrong.
“I’ll come back in a moment.” Her voice changed so much, she had pulled it so tight, that she could not help but frighten him. She left the tent, walking slowly, calmly, restraining herself. Outside, the parents told her by their faces what they feared.
“Where is Grass?” Arevin, his back to her, started at her tone. The younger husband made a small grieving sound, and could look at her no longer.
“We were afraid,” the older husband said. “We thought it would bite the child.”
“I thought it would. It was I. It crawled over his face, I could see its fangs—” The wife put her hands on the younger husband’s shoulders, and he said no more.
“Where is he?” She wanted to scream; she did not.
They brought her a small open box. Snake took it, and looked inside.
Grass lay cut almost in two, his entrails oozing from his body, half turned over, and as she watched, shaking, he writhed once, and flicked his tongue out once, and in. Snake made some sound, too low in her throat to be a cry. She hoped his motions were only reflex; but she picked him up as gently as she could. She leaned down and touched her lips to the smooth green scales behind his head. She bit him quickly, sharply, at the base of the skull. His blood flowed cool and salty in her mouth. If he were not dead, she had killed him instantly.
She looked at the parents, and at Arevin; they were all pale, but she had no sympathy for their fear, and cared nothing for shared grief. “Such a small creature,” she said. “Such a small creature, who could only give pleasure and dreams.” She watched them for a moment more, then turned toward the tent again.
“Wait—” She heard the older husband move up close behind her. He touched her shoulder; she shrugged away his hand. “We will give you anything you want,” he said, “but leave the child alone.”
She spun on him in fury. “Should I kill Stavin for your stupidity?” He seemed about to try to hold her back. She jammed her shoulder hard into his stomach, and flung herself past the tent flap. Inside, she kicked over the satchel. Abruptly awakened, and angry, Sand crawled out and coiled himself. When the younger husband and the wife tried to enter, Sand hissed and rattled with a violence Snake had never heard him use before. She did not even bother to look behind her. She ducked her head and wiped her tears on her sleeve before Stavin could see them. She knelt beside him.
“What’s the matter?” He could not help but hear the voices outside the tent, and the running.
“Nothing, Stavin,” Snake said. “Did you know we came across the desert?”
“No,” he said, with wonder.
“It was very hot, and none of us had anything to eat. Grass is hunting now. He was very hungry. Will you forgive him and let me begin? I will be here all the time.”
He seemed so tired; he was disappointed, but he had no strength for arguing. “All right.” His voice rustled like sand slipping through the fingers.
Snake lifted Mist from her shoulders, and pulled the blanket from Stavin’s small body. The tumor pressed up beneath his ribcage, distorting his form, squeezing his vital organs, sucking nourishment from him for its own growth. Holding Mist’s head, Snake let her flow across him, touching and tasting him. She had to restrain the cobra to keep her from striking; the excitement had agitated her. When Sand used his rattle, she flinched. Snake spoke to her softly, soothing her; trained and bred-in responses began to return, overcoming the natural instincts. Mist paused when her tongue flicked the skin above the tumor, and Snake released her.
The cobra reared, and struck, and bit as cobras bite, sinking her fangs their short length once, releasing, instantly biting again for a better purchase, holding on, chewing at her prey. Stavin cried out, but he did not move against Snake’s restraining hands.
Mist expended the contents of her venom sacs into the child, and released him. She reared up, peered around, folded her hood, and slid across the mats in a perfectly straight line toward her dark, close compartment.
“It is all finished, Stavin.”
“Will I die now?”
“No,” Snake said. “Not now. Not for many years, I hope.” She took a vial of powder from her belt pouch. “Open your mouth.” He complied, and she sprinkled the powder across his tongue. “That will help the ache.” She spread a pad of cloth ac
ross the series of shallow puncture wounds, without wiping off the blood.
She turned from him.
“Snake? Are you going away?”
“I will not leave without saying good-bye. I promise.”
The child lay back, closed his eyes, and let the drug take him.
Sand coiled quiescently on the dark matting. Snake; called him. He moved toward her, and suffered himself to be replaced in the satchel. Snake closed it, and lifted it, and it still felt empty. She heard noises outside the tent. Stavin’s parents and the people who had come to help them pulled open the tent flap and peered inside, thrusting sticks in even before they looked.
Snake set down her leather case. “It’s done.”
They entered. Arevin was with them, too; only he was empty handed. “Snake—” He spoke through grief, pity, confusion, and Snake could not tell what he believed. He looked back. Stavin’s mother was just behind him. He took her by the shoulder. “He would have died without her. Whatever has happened now, he would have died.”
The woman shook his hand away. “He might have lived. It might have gone away. We—” She could not speak for hiding tears.
Snake felt the people moving, surrounding her. Arevin took one step toward her and stopped, and she could see he wanted her to defend herself. “Can any of you cry?” she said. “Can any of you cry for me and my despair, or for them and their guilt, or for small things and their pain?” She felt tears slip down her cheeks.
They did not understand her; they were offended by her crying. They stood back, still afraid of her, but gathering themselves. She no longer needed the pose of calmness she had used to deceive the child. “Ah, you fools.” Her voice sounded brittle. “Stavin—”
Light from the entrance struck them. “Let me pass.” The people in front of Snake moved aside for their leader. She stopped in front of Snake, ignoring the satchel her foot almost touched “Will Stavin live?” Her voice was quiet, calm, gentle.
“I cannot be certain,” Snake said, “but I feel that he will.”
“Leave us.” The people understood Snake’s words before they did their leader’s; they looked around and lowered their weapons, and finally, one by one, they moved out of the tent. Arevin remained. Snake felt the strength that came from danger seeping from her. Her knees collapsed. She bent over the satchel with her face in her hands. The older woman knelt in front of her, before Snake could notice or prevent her. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you. I am so sorry…” She put her arms around Snake, and drew her toward her, and Arevin knelt beside them, and he embraced Snake, too. Snake began to tremble again, and they held her while she cried.
Later she slept, exhausted, alone in the tent with Stavin, holding his hand. They had given her food, and small animals for Sand and Mist, and supplies for her journey, and sufficient water for her to bathe, though that must have strained their resources. About that, Snake no longer cared.
When she awakened, she felt the tumor, and found that it had begun to dissolve and shrivel, dying, as Mist’s changed poison affected it. Snake felt little joy. She smoothed Stavin’s pale hair back from his face. “I would not lie to you again, little one,” she said, “but I must leave soon. I cannot stay here.” She wanted another three days’ sleep, to, finish fighting off the effects of the bush viper’s poison, but she would sleep somewhere else. “Stavin?”
He half woke, slowly. “It doesn’t hurt any more,” he said.
“I am glad.”
“Thank you…”
“Good-bye, Stavin. Will you remember later on that if you woke up, and that I did stay to say good-bye?”
“Good-bye,” he said, drifting off again. “Good-bye, Snake. Goodbye, Grass.” He closed his eyes, and Snake picked up the satchel and left the tent. Dusk cast long indistinct shadows; the camp was quiet. She found her tiger-striped pony, tethered with food and water. New, full waterskins lay on the ground next to the saddle. The tiger pony whickered at her when she approached. She scratched his striped ears, saddled him, and strapped the case on his back. Leading him, she started west, the way she had come.
“Snake—”
She took a breath, and turned back to Arevin. He faced the sun, and it turned his skin ruddy and his t robe scarlet. His streaked hair flowed loose to his shoulders, gentling his face. “You will not stay?”
“I cannot.”
“I had hoped…”
“If things were different, I might have stayed.”
“They were frightened. Can’t you forgive them?”
“I can’t face their guilt. What they did was my fault. I said he could not hurt them, but they saw his fangs and they didn’t know his bite only gave dreams and eased dying. They couldn’t know; I didn’t understand them until too late.”
“You said it yourself, you can’t know all the customs and all the fears.”
“I’m crippled,” she said. “Without Grass, if I cannot heal a person, I cannot help at all. I must go home. Perhaps my teachers will forgive me my stupidity, but I am afraid to face them. They seldom give the name I bear, but they gave it to me, and they’ll be disappointed.”
“Let me come with you.”
She wanted to; she hesitated, and cursed herself for that weakness. “They may cast me out, and you would be cast out, too. Stay here, Arevin.”
“It wouldn’t matter.”
“It would. After a while, we would hate each other. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. We need calmness, and quiet, and time to understand each other.”
He came toward her, and put his arms around her, and they stood together for a moment. When he raised his head, he was crying. “Please come back,” he said. “Whatever happens, please come back.”
“I will try,” Snake said. “Neat spring, when the winds stop, look for me. And the spring after that, if I do not come, forget me. Wherever I am, if I live, I will forget you.”
“I will look for you,” Arevin said, and he would promise no more.
Snake picked up the pony’s lead, and started across the desert.
Mist rose in a white streak against darkness. The cobra hissed, swaying, and Sand echoed her with his warning rattle. Then Snake heard the hoofbeats, muffled by the desert, and felt them through her palms. Slapping the ground, she winced and sucked in her breath. Around the double puncture where the sand viper had bitten her, her hand was black and blue from knuckles to wrist. Only the bruise’s edges had faded. She cradled her aching right hand in her lap and twice slapped the ground with her left. Sand’s rattling lost its frantic sound and the diamondback slid toward her from a warm shelf of black volcanic stone. Snake slapped the ground twice again. Mist, sensing the vibrations, soothed by the familiarity of the signal, lowered her body slowly and relaxed her hood.
The hoofbeats stopped. Snake heard voices from the camp farther along the edge of the oasis, a cluster of black-on-black tents obscured by an outcropping of rock. Sand wrapped himself around her forearm and Mist crawled up and across her shoulders. Grass should be coiled around her wrist or around her throat like an emerald necklace, but Grass was gone. Grass was dead.
The rider urged the horse toward her. Meager light from bioluminescent lanterns and the cloud-covered Moon glistened on droplets as the bay horse splashed through the shallows. It breathed in heavy snorts through distended nostrils. The reins had worked sweat to foam on its neck. Firelight flickered scarlet against the gold bridle and highlighted the rider’s face.
“Healer?”
She rose. “My name is Snake.” Perhaps she had no right to call herself that any longer, but she would not go back to her child-name.
“I am Merideth.” The rider swung down and approached, but stopped when Mist raised her head.
“She won’t strike,” Snake said.
Merideth came closer. “One of my partners is injured. Will you come?”
Snake had to put effort into answering without hesitation. “Yes, of course.” Her fear of being asked to aid someone who was dying and of bein
g unable to do anything to help at all was very strong. She knelt to put Mist and Sand into the leather case. They slid against her hands, their cool scales forming intricate flowing patterns on her fingertips.
“My pony’s lame, I’ll have to borrow a horse—” Squirrel, her tiger-pony, was corralled at the damp where Merideth had stopped a moment before. Snake did not need to worry about her pony, for Grum the caravannaire took good care of him; her grandchildren fed and brushed him royally. Grum would see to Squirrel’s reshoeing if a blacksmith came while Snake was gone, and Snake thought Grum would lend her a horse.
“There’s no time,” Merideth said. “Those desert nags are no good for speed. My mare will carry us both.”
Merideth’s mare was breathing normally, despite the sweat drying on her shoulders. She stood with her head up, ears pricked, neck arched. She was, indeed, an impressive animal, of higher breeding than the caravan ponies, much taller than Snake’s pony Squirrel. While the rider’s clothes were plain, the horse’s equipment was heavily ornamented.
Snake closed the leather case and put on the new robes and head-cloth Arevin’s people had given her. She was grateful to them for the clothes, at least, for the strong delicate material was excellent protection against the heat and sand and dust.
Merideth mounted, freed the stirrup, reached for Snake’s hand. But when Snake approached the horse flared her nostrils and shied at the musky smell of serpents. Beneath Merideth’s gentle hands she quieted but did not calm. Snake swung up behind the saddle. The horse’s muscles bunched and the mare sprang into a gallop, splashing through the water. Spray touched Snake’s face and she tightened her legs against the mare’s damp flanks. The horse leaped across the shore and passed between delicate summertrees, shadows and delicate fronds flicking past, until suddenly the desert opened out to the horizon.
Snake held the case in her left hand; the right could not yet grasp tightly enough. Away from the fires and the water’s reflections, Snake could barely see. The black sand sucked up light and released it as heat. The mare galloped on. The intricate decorations on her bridle jingled faintly above the crunch of hooves in sand. Her sweat soaked into Snake’s pants, hot and sticky against her knees and thighs. Beyond the oasis and its protection of trees, Snake felt the sting of windblown sand. She let go of Merideth’s waist long enough to pull the end of her head-cloth across her nose and mouth.
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