Dreamsnake

“Go to sleep, Stavin,” Snake said. “Try to trust me, and try not to fear the morning.”

Stavin gazed at her for a few seconds, searching for truth in Snake’s pale eyes. “Will Grass watch?”

She was startled by the question, or, rather, by the acceptance behind the question. She brushed his hair from his forehead and smiled a smile that was tears just beneath the surface. “Of course.” She picked Grass up. “Watch this child, and guard him.” The dreamsnake lay quiet in her hand, and his eyes glittered black. She laid him gently on Stavin’s pillow.

“Now sleep.”

Stavin closed his eyes, and the life seemed to flow out of him. The alteration was so great that Snake reached out to touch him, then saw that he was breathing, slowly, shallowly. She tucked a blanket around him and stood up. The abrupt change in position dizzied her; she staggered and caught herself. Across her shoulder, Mist tensed.

Snake’s eyes stung and her vision was oversharp, fever-clear. The sound she imagined she heard swooped in closer. She steadied herself against hunger and exhaustion, bent slowly, and picked up the leather case. Mist touched her cheek with the tip of her tongue.

She pushed aside the tent flap and felt relief that it was still night. She could stand the daytime heat, but the brightness of the sun curled through her, burning. The moon must be full; though the clouds obscured everything, they diffused the light so the sky appeared gray from horizon to horizon. Beyond the tents, groups of formless shadows projected from the ground. Here, near the edge of the desert, enough water existed so clumps and patches of bush grew, providing shelter and sustenance for all manner of creatures. The black sand, which sparkled and blinded in the sunlight, at night was like a layer of soft soot. Snake stepped out of the tent, and the illusion of softness disappeared; her boots slid crunching into the sharp hard grains.

Stavin’s family waited, sitting close together between the dark tents that clustered in a patch of sand from which the bushes had been ripped and burned. They looked at her silently, hoping with their eyes, showing no expression in their faces. A woman somewhat younger than Stavin’s mother sat with them. She was dressed, as they were, in long loose desert robes, but she wore the only adornment Snake had seen among these people: a leader’s circle, hanging around her neck on a leather thong. She and Stavin’s eldest parent were marked close kin by their similarities: sharp-cut planes of face, high cheekbones, his hair white and hers graying early from deep black, their eyes the dark brown best suited for survival in the sun. On the ground by their feet a small black animal jerked sporadically against a net, and infrequently gave a shrill weak cry.

“Stavin is asleep,” Snake said. “Do not disturb him, but go to him if he wakes.”

Stavin’s mother and the youngest partner rose and went inside, but the older man stopped before her. “Can you help him?”

“I hope so. The tumor is advanced, but it seems solid.” Her own voice sounded removed, ringing slightly false, as if she were lying. “Mist will be ready in the morning.” She still felt the need to give him reassurance, but she could think of none.

“My sister wished to speak with you,” he said, and left them alone, without introduction, without elevating himself by saying that the tall woman was the leader of this group. Snake glanced back, but the tent flap fell shut. She was feeling her exhaustion more deeply, and across her shoulders Mist was, for the first time, a weight she thought heavy.

“Are you all right?”

Snake turned. The woman moved toward her with a natural elegance made slightly awkward by advanced pregnancy. Snake had to look up to meet her gaze. She had small, fine lines at the corners of her eyes and beside her mouth, as if she laughed, sometimes, in secret. She smiled, but with concern. “You seem very tired. Shall I have someone make you a bed?”

“Not now,” Snake said, “not yet. I won’t sleep until afterward.”

The leader searched her face, and Snake felt a kinship with her in their shared responsibility.

“I understand, I think. Is there anything we can give you? Do you need aid with your preparations?”

Snake found herself having to deal with the questions as if they were complex problems. She turned them in her tired mind, examined them, dissected them, and finally grasped their meanings. “My pony needs food and water—”

“It is taken care of.”

“And I need someone to help with Mist. Someone strong. But it’s more important that they aren’t afraid.”

The leader nodded. “I would help you,” she said, and smiled again, a little. “But I am a bit clumsy of late. I will find someone.”

“Thank you.”

Somber again, the older woman inclined her head and moved slowly toward a small group of tents. Snake watched her go, admiring her grace. She felt small and young and grubby in comparison.