Dreamsnake

As Stavin had, the young man hesitated. He seemed afraid of her, or of something. “My people,” he said, “think it unwise to speak our names to strangers.”

“If you consider me a witch you should not have asked my aid. I know no magic, and I claim none.”

“It’s not a superstition,” he said. “Not as you might think. We’re not afraid of being bewitched.”

“I can’t learn all the customs of all the people on this earth, so I keep my own. My custom is to address those I work with by name.” Watching him, Snake tried to decipher his expression in the dim light.

“Our families know our names, and we exchange names with our partners.”

Snake considered that custom, and thought it would fit badly on her. “No one else? Ever?”

“Well… a friend might know one’s name.”

“Ah,” Snake said. “I see. I am still a stranger, and perhaps an enemy.”

“A friend would know my name,” the young man said again. “I would not offend you, but now you misunderstand. An acquaintance is not a friend. We value friendship highly.”

“In this land one should be able to tell quickly if a person is worth calling friend.”

“We take friends seldom. Friendship is a great commitment.”

“It sounds like something to be feared.”

He considered that possibility. “Perhaps it’s the betrayal of friendship we fear. That is a very painful thing.”

“Has anyone ever betrayed you?”

He glanced at her sharply, as if she had exceeded the limits of propriety. “No,” he said, and his voice was as hard as his face. “No friend. I have no one I call friend.”

His reaction startled Snake. “That’s very sad,” she said, and grew silent, trying to comprehend the deep stresses that could close people off so far, comparing her loneliness of necessity and theirs of choice. “Call me Snake,” she said finally, “if you can bring yourself to pronounce it. Saying my name binds you to nothing.”

The young man seemed about to speak; perhaps he thought again that he had offended her, perhaps he felt he should further defend his customs. But Mist began to twist in their hands, and they had to hold her to keep her from injuring herself. The cobra was slender for her length, but powerful, and the convulsions she went through were more severe than any she had ever had before. She thrashed in Snake’s grasp, and almost pulled away. She tried to spread her hood, but Snake held her too tightly. She opened her mouth and hissed, but no poison dripped from her fangs.

She wrapped her tail around the young man’s waist. He began to pull her and turn, to extricate himself from her coils.

“She’s not a constrictor,” Snake said. “She won’t hurt you. Leave her—”

But it was too late; Mist relaxed suddenly and the young man lost his balance. Mist whipped herself away and lashed figures in the sand. Snake wrestled with her alone while the young man tried to hold her, but she curled herself around Snake and used the grip for leverage. She started to pull herself from Snake’s hands. Snake threw herself and the serpent backward into the sand; Mist rose above her, open-mouthed, furious, hissing. The young man lunged and grabbed her just beneath her hood. Mist struck at him, but Snake, somehow, held her back. Together they deprived Mist of her hold and regained control of her. Snake struggled up, but Mist suddenly went quite still and lay almost rigid between them. They were both sweating; the young man was pale under his tan, and even Snake was trembling.

“We have a little while to rest,” Snake said. She glanced at him and noticed the dark line on his cheek where, earlier, Mist’s tail had slashed him. She reached up and touched it. “You’ll have a bruise,” she said. “But it will not scar.”

“If it were true, that serpents sting with their tails, you would be restraining both the fangs and the stinger, and I’d be of little use.”

“Tonight I’d need someone to keep me awake, whether or not they helped me with Mist. But just now, I would have had trouble holding her alone.” Fighting the cobra produced adrenalin, but now it ebbed, and her exhaustion and hunger were returning, stronger.

“Snake…”

“Yes?”

He smiled, quickly, embarrassed. “I was trying the pronunciation.”

“Good enough.”

“How long did it take you to cross the desert?”

“Not very long. Too long. Six days. I don’t think I went the best way.”

“How did you live?”

“There’s water. We traveled at night and rested during the day, wherever we could find shade.”

“You carried all your food?”

She shrugged. “A little.” And wished he would not speak of food.

“What’s on the other side?”

“Mountains. Streams. Other people. The station I grew up and took my training in. Then another desert, and a mountain with a city inside.”

“I’d like to see a city. Someday.”

“I’m told the city doesn’t let in people from outside, people like you and me. But there are many towns in the mountains, and the desert can be crossed.”

He said nothing, but Snake’s memories of leaving home were recent enough that she could imagine his thoughts.