Dreamsnake

His body tensed to hunt, Sand slid in circles from Snake’s wrist. She caught him before he could drop to the ground. Sand lifted the upper half of his body from her hands. He flicked out his tongue, peering toward the little animal, sensing its body heat, tasting its fear. “I know thou art hungry,” Snake said. “But that creature is not for thee.” She put Sand in the case, took Mist from her shoulders, and let the cobra coil herself in her dark compartment.

The small animal shrieked and struggled again when Snake’s diffuse shadow passed over it. She bent and picked the creature up. Its rapid series of terrified cries slowed and diminished and finally stopped as she stroked it. It lay still, breathing hard, exhausted, staring up at her with yellow eyes. It had long hind legs and wide pointed ears, and its nose twitched at the serpent smell. Its soft black fur was marked off in skewed squares by the cords of the net.

“I am sorry to take your life,” Snake told it. “But there will be no more fear, and I will not hurt you.” She closed her hand gently around the animal and, stroking it, grasped its spine at the base of its skull. She pulled, once, quickly. It seemed to struggle for an instant, but it was already dead. It convulsed; its legs drew up against its body and its toes curled and quivered. It seemed to stare up at her, even now. She freed its body from the net.

Snake chose a small vial from her belt pouch, pried open the animal’s clenched jaws, and let a single drop of the vial’s cloudy preparation fall into its mouth.“ Quickly she opened the satchel again and called Mist out. The cobra came slowly, slipping over the edge, hood closed, sliding in the sharp-grained sand. Her milky scales caught the thin light. She smelled the animal, flowed to it, touched it with her tongue. For a moment Snake was afraid she would refuse dead meat, but the body was still warm, still twitching, and she was very hungry. ”A tidbit for thee.“ Snake spoke to the cobra: a habit of solitude. ”To whet thy appetite.“ Mist nosed the beast, reared back, and struck, sinking her short fixed fangs into the tiny body, biting again, pumping out her store of poison. She released it, took a better grip, and began to work her jaws around it. It would hardly distend her throat. When Mist lay quiet, digesting the small meal, Snake sat beside her and held her, waiting.

She heard footsteps in the sand.

“I’m sent to help you.”

He was a young man, despite a scatter of white in his black hair. He was taller than Snake, and not unattractive. His eyes were dark, and the sharp planes of his face were further hardened because his hair was pulled straight back and tied. His expression was neutral.

“Are you afraid?” Snake asked.

“I will do as you tell me.”

Though his form was obscured by his robe, his long, fine hands showed strength.

“Then hold her body, and don’t let her surprise you.” Mist was beginning to twitch, the effect of the drugs Snake had put in the small animal. The cobra’s eyes stared, unseeing.

“If it bites—”

“Hold, quickly!”

The young man reached, but he had hesitated too long. Mist writhed, lashing out, striking him in the face with her tail. He staggered back, at least as surprised as hurt. Snake kept a close grip behind Mist’s jaws, and struggled to catch the rest of her as well. Mist was no constrictor, but she was smooth and strong and fast. Thrashing, she forced out her breath in a long hiss. She would have bitten anything she could reach. As Snake fought with her, she managed to squeeze the poison glands and force out the last drops of venom. They hung from Mist’s fangs for a moment, catching light as jewels would; the force of the serpent’s convulsions flung them away into the darkness. Snake struggled with the cobra, aided for once by the sand, on which Mist could get little purchase. Snake felt the young man behind her, grabbing for Mist’s body and tail. The seizure stopped abruptly, and Mist lay limp in their hands.

“I am sorry—”

“Hold her,” Snake said. “We have the night to go.”

During Mist’s second convulsion, the young man held her firmly and was of some real help. Afterward, Snake answered his interrupted question. “If she were making poison and she bit you, you would probably die. Even now her bite would make you ill. But unless you do something foolish, if she manages to bite, she’ll bite me.”

“You would benefit my cousin little if you were dead or dying.”

“You misunderstand. Mist can’t kill me.” Snake held out her hand so he could see the white scars of slashes and punctures. He stared at them, and looked into her eyes for a long moment, then looked away.

The bright spot in the clouds from which the light radiated moved westward in the sky; they held the cobra like a child. Snake nearly dozed, but Mist moved her head, dully attempting to evade restraint, and Snake woke herself abruptly. “I mustn’t sleep,” she said to the young man. “Talk to me. What are you called?”