Vonda N. McIntyre - Dreamsnake

v2.0 Dreamsnake

Vonda N. McIntyre

contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Published by DELL PUBLISHING CO., INC

.

Dell ® TM 681510, Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

ISBN: 0-440-11729-1

Reprinted by arrangement with

Houghton Mifflin Company Printed in the United States of America

First Dell printing—June 1979

A portion of this book originally appeared in ANALOG Science Fiction/Science Fact.

To my parents

Chapter 1

^ »

The little boy was frightened. Gently, Snake touched his hot forehead. Behind her,

three adults stood close together, watching, suspicious, afraid to show their concern

with more than narrow lines around their eyes. They feared Snake as much as they

feared their only child’s death. In the dimness of the tent, the strange blue glow of the

lantern gave no reassurance.

The child watched with eyes so dark the pupils were not visible, so dull that Snake

herself feared for his life. She stroked his hair. It was long, and very pale, dry and

irregular for several inches near the scalp, a striking color against his dark skin. Had

Snake been with these people months ago, she would have known the child was

growing ill.

“Bring my case, please,” Snake said.

The child’s parents started at her soft voice. Perhaps they had expected the

screech of a bright jay, or the hissing of a shining serpent. This was the first time

Snake had spoken in their presence. She had only watched, when the three of them

had come to observe her from a distance and whisper about her occupation and her

youth; she had only listened, and then nodded, when finally they came to ask her help.

Perhaps they had thought she was mute.

The fair-haired younger man lifted her leather case. He held the satchel away from

his body, leaning to hand it to her, breathing shallowly with nostrils flared against the

faint smell of musk in the dry desert air. Snake had almost accustomed herself to the

kind of uneasiness he showed; she had already seen it often.

When Snake reached out, the young man jerked back and dropped the case.

Snake lunged and barely caught it, gently set it on the felt floor, and glanced at him

with reproach. His partners came forward and touched him to ease his fear. “He was

bitten once,” the dark and handsome woman said. “He almost died.” Her tone was not

of apology, but of justification.

“I’m sorry,” the younger man said. “It’s—” He gestured toward her; he was

trembling, but trying visibly to control himself. Snake glanced to her shoulder, where

she had been unconsciously aware of the slight weight and movement. A tiny serpent,

thin as the finger of a baby, slid himself around her neck to show his narrow head

below her short black curls. He probed the air with his trident tongue, in a leisurely

manner, out, up and down, in, to savor the taste of the smells. “It’s only Grass,” Snake

said. “He can’t hurt you.” If he were bigger, he might be frightening: his color was pale

green, but the scales around his mouth were red, as if he had just feasted as a

mammal eats, by tearing. He was, in fact, much neater.

The child whimpered. He cut off the sound of pain; perhaps he had been told that

Snake, too, would be offended by crying. She only felt sorry that his people refused

themselves such a simple way of easing fear. She turned from the adults, regretting

their terror of her but unwilling to spend the time it would take to persuade them to trust

her. “It’s all right,” she said to the little boy. “Grass is smooth, and dry, and soft, and if

I left him to guard you, even death could not reach your bedside.” Grass poured

himself into her narrow, dirty hand, and she extended him toward the child. “Gently.”

He reached out and touched the sleek scales with one fingertip. Snake could sense the

effort of even such a simple motion, yet the boy almost smiled.

“What are you called?”

He looked quickly toward his parents, and finally they nodded.

“Stavin,” he whispered. He had no breath or strength for speaking.

“I am Snake, Stavin, and in a little while, in the morning, I must hurt you. You may

feel a quick pain, and your body will ache for several days, but you’ll be better

afterward.”

He stared at her solemnly. Snake saw that though he understood and feared what

she might do, He was less afraid than if she had lied to him. The pain must have

increased greatly as his illness became more apparent, but it seemed that others had

only reassured him, and hoped the disease would disappear or kill him quickly.

Snake put Grass on the boy’s pillow and pulled her case nearer. The adults still

could only fear her; they had had neither time nor reason to discover any trust. The

woman of the partnership was old enough that they might never have another child

unless they partnered again, and Snake could tell by their eyes, their covert touching,

their concern, that they loved this one very much. They must, to come to Snake in this

country.

Sluggish, Sand slid out of the case, moving his head, moving his tongue, smelling,

tasting, detecting the warmths of bodies.

“Is that—?” The eldest partner’s voice was low and wise, but terrified, and Sand

sensed the fear. He drew back into striking position and sounded his rattle softly.

Snake stroked her hand along the floor, letting the vibrations distract him, then moved

her hand up and extended her arm. The diamondback relaxed and wrapped his body

around and around her wrist to form black and tan bracelets.

“No,” she said. “Your child is too ill for Sand to help. I know it’s hard, but please try

to be calm. This is a fearful thing for you, but it is all I can do.”

She had to annoy Mist to make her come out. Snake rapped on the bag, and finally

poked her twice. Snake felt the vibration of sliding scales, and suddenly the albino

cobra flung herself into the tent. She moved quickly, yet there seemed to be no end to

her. She reared back and up. Her breath rushed out in a hiss. Her head rose well over

a meter above the floor. She flared her wide hood. Behind her, the adults gasped, as if

physically assaulted by the gaze of the tan spectacle design on the back of Mist’s

hood. Snake ignored the people and spoke to the great cobra, focusing her attention

by her words.

“Furious creature, lie down. It’s time to earn thy dinner. Speak to this child and

touch him. He is called Stavin.”

Slowly, Mist relaxed her hood and allowed Snake to touch her. Snake grasped her

firmly behind the head and held her so she looked at Stavin. The cobra’s silver eyes

picked up the blue of the lamplight.

“Stavin,” Snake said, “Mist will only meet you now. I promise that this time she will

touch you gently.”

Still, Stavin shivered when Mist touched his thin chest. Snake did not release the

serpent’s head, but allowed her body to slide against the boy’s. The cobra was four

times longer than Stavin was tall. She curved herself in stark white loops across his

swollen abdomen, extending herself, forcing her head toward the boy’s face, straining

against Snake’s hands. Mist met Stavin’s frightened stare with the gaze of lidless eyes.

Snake allowed her a little closer.

Mist nicked out her tongue to taste the child.

The younger man made a small, cut-off, frightened sound. Stavin flinched at it, and

Mist drew back, opening her mouth, exposing her fangs, audibly thrusting her breath

through her throat. Snake sat back on her heels, letting out her own breath.

Sometimes, in other places, the kinfolk could stay while she worked.

“You must leave,” she said gently. “It’s dangerous to frighten Mist.”

“I won’t—”

“I’m sorry. You must wait outside.”

Perhaps the fair-haired youngest partner, perhaps even Stavin’s mother, would

have made the indefensible objections and asked the answerable questions, but the

white-haired man turned them and took their hands and led them away.

“I need a small animal,” Snake said as he lifted the tent flap. “It must have fur, and it

must be alive.”

“One will be found,” he said, and the three parents went into the glowing night.

Snake could hear their footsteps in the sand outside.

Snake supported Mist in her lap and soothed her. The cobra wrapped herself

around Snake’s waist, taking in her warmth. Hunger made the cobra even more

nervous than usual, and she was hungry, as was Snake. Coming across the

black-sand desert, they had found sufficient water, but Snake’s traps had been

unsuccessful. The season was summer, the weather was hot, and many of the furry

tidbits Sand and Mist preferred were estivating. Since she had brought them into the

desert, away from home, Snake had begun a fast as well.

She saw with regret that Stavin was more frightened now. “I’m sorry to send your

parents away,” she said. “They can come back soon.”

His eyes glistened, but he held back the tears. “They said to do what you told me.”

“I would have you cry, if you are able,” Snake said. “It isn’t such a terrible thing.”

But Stavin seemed not to understand, and Snake did not press him; she thought his

people must teach themselves to resist a difficult land by refusing to cry, refusing to

mourn, refusing to laugh. They denied themselves grief, and allowed themselves little

joy, but they survived.

Mist had calmed to sullenness. Snake unwrapped her from her waist and placed the

serpent on the pallet next to Stavin. As the cobra moved, Snake guided her head,

feeling the tension of the striking-muscles. “She will touch you with her tongue,” she

told Stavin. “It might tickle, but it will not hurt. She smells with it, as you do with your

nose.”

“With her tongue?”

Snake nodded, smiling, and Mist flicked out her tongue to caress Stavin’s cheek.

Stavin did not flinch; he watched, his child’s delight in knowledge briefly overcoming

pain. He lay perfectly still as Mist’s long tongue brushed his cheeks, his eyes, his

mouth. “She tastes the sickness,” Snake said. Mist stopped fighting the restraint of her

grasp, and drew back her head. Snake sat on her heels and released the cobra, who

spiraled up her arm and laid herself across her shoulders.

“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.

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?”

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.

The next set of convulsions came, much sooner than Snake had expected. By their

severity she gauged something of the stage of Stavin’s illness, and wished it were

morning. If she was going to lose the child, she would have it done, and grieve, and try

to forget. The cobra would have battered herself to death against the sand if Snake and

the young man had not been holding her. She suddenly went completely rigid, with her

mouth clamped shut and her forked tongue dangling.

She stopped breathing.

“Hold her,” Snake said. “Hold her head. Quickly, take her, and if she gets away,

run. Take her! She won’t strike at you now, she could only slash you by accident.”

He hesitated only a moment, then grasped Mist behind the head. Snake ran,

slipping in the deep sand, from the edge of the circle of tents to a place where bushes

still grew. She broke off dry thorny branches that tore her scarred hands. Peripherally

she noticed a mass of horned vipers, so ugly they seemed deformed, nesting beneath

the clump of dessicated vegetation. They hissed at her; she ignored them. She found a

thin hollow stem and carried it back. Her hands bled from deep scratches.

Kneeling by Mist’s head, she forced open the cobra’s mouth and pushed the tube

deep into her throat, through the air passage at the base of the tongue. She bent

close, took the tube in her mouth, and breathed gently into Mist’s lungs.

She noticed: the young man’s hands, holding the cobra as she had asked; his

breathing, first a sharp gasp of surprise, then ragged; the sand scraping her elbows

where she leaned; the cloying smell of the fluid seeping from Mist’s fangs; her own

dizziness, she thought from exhaustion, which she forced away by necessity and will.

Snake breathed, and breathed again, paused, and repeated, until Mist caught the

rhythm and continued it unaided.

Snake sat back on her heels. “I think she’ll be all right,” she said. “I hope she will.”

She brushed the back of her hand across her forehead. The touch sparked pain: she

jerked her hand down and agony slid along her bones, up her arm, across her

shoulder, through her chest, enveloping her heart. Her balance turned on its edge. She

Vonda N. McIntyre - Dreamsnake

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