Across the Spectrum (52 page)

“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 got up 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. Mist flicked out her tongue, growing nervous
from the smell of fear.

“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. She 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 had 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 fair-haired man made a small grieving sound, and could look at her no
longer.

“We were afraid,” the eldest partner 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 her younger partner’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, 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 his skull. His
blood flowed cool and salty in her mouth. If he was not already 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 eldest partner 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 a 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 someone 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’ll
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 rib cage, distorting
his form, squeezing his vital organs, sucking nourishment from him for its own
growth, poisoning him with its wastes. 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, the
vibrations made her flinch. Snake stroked her, 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, biting 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 floor in a perfectly straight line toward her dark, close compartment.

“It’s done, 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 across the series of shallow puncture wounds without
wiping off the blood.

She turned from him.

“Snake? Are you going away?”

“I won’t leave without saying good-bye. I promise.”

The child lay back, closed his eyes, and let the drug take
him.

Sand coiled quietly on the dark felt. Snake patted the floor
to call 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 happens
now, he would have died.”

She shook his hand away. “He might have lived. It might have
gone away. We—” She could speak no more 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 with Snake. The
strength that came from danger seeped from her, and 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,” the leader
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. The people had caught small animals for Sand and Mist. They
had given her food and supplies; they had even given her sufficient water to
bathe, though that must have strained their resources.

When she awakened, Arevin lay sleeping nearby, his robe open
in the heat, a sheen of sweat across his chest and stomach. The sternness in
his expression vanished when he slept; he looked exhausted and vulnerable.
Snake almost woke him, but stopped, shook her head, and turned to Stavin.

She felt the tumor, and found that it had begun to dissolve
and shrivel, dying, as Mist’s changed poison affected it. Through her grief
Snake felt a little joy. She smoothed Stavin’s pale hair back from his face. “I
would not lie to you again, little one,” she whispered, “but I must leave soon.
I cannot stay here.” She wanted another three days’ sleep, to finish fighting
off the effects of the sand viper’s poison, but she would sleep somewhere else.
“Stavin?”

He half woke, slowly. “It doesn’t hurt any more,” he said.

“I’m glad.”

“Thank you . . . ”

“Good-bye, Stavin. Will you remember later on that you woke
up, and that I did stay to say good-bye?”

“Good-bye,” he said, drifting off again. “Good-bye, Snake.
Good-bye, Grass.” He closed his eyes.

Snake picked up the satchel and stood gazing down at Arevin.
He did not stir. Both grateful and sorry, she left the tent.

Dusk approached with long, indistinct shadows; the camp was
hot and quiet. She found her tiger-striped pony, tethered with food and water.
New, full waterskins bulged on the ground next to the saddle, and desert robes
lay across the pommel, though Snake had refused any payment. The tiger-pony
whickered at her. She scratched his striped ears, saddled him, and strapped her
gear on his back. Leading him, she started east, the way she had come.

“Snake—”

She took a breath, and turned back to Arevin. His back was
to the sun, and it outlined him in scarlet. His streaked hair flowed loose to
his shoulders, gentling his face. “You must leave?”

“Yes.”

“I hoped you would not leave before . . . I
hoped you would stay, for a time . . . There are other clans,
and other people you could help—”

“If things were different, I might have stayed. There’s work
for a healer. But . . . ”

“They were frightened—”

“I told them Grass couldn’t hurt them, but they saw his
fangs and they didn’t know he could only give dreams and ease dying.”

“But can’t you forgive them?”

“I can’t face their guilt. What they did was my fault,
Arevin. 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 can’t heal a
person, I can’t help at all. We don’t have many dreamsnakes. I have to go home
and tell my teachers I’ve lost one, and hope they can forgive my stupidity.
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 take Mist and Sand and 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 well.”

He came toward her, and put his arms around her, and they
stood embracing for a moment. When he raised his head, there were tears on his
cheeks. “Please come back,” he said. “Whatever happens, please come back.”

“I will try,” Snake said. “Next spring, when the winds stop,
look for me. The spring after that, if I haven’t returned, 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 her pony’s lead, and started across the
desert.

What I like about this story is that it was my first venture
into the pleasures of historical fiction, and arguably helped create the Onyx
Court series (even if the two aren’t directly linked). I wrote it while running
the role-playing game that led to the Onyx Court books, and had a great deal of
fun drilling down into the details of what happened with Marlowe’s death, then
turning those details around to look at them from different angles. It’s more
literary in tone than most of my stories, but I feel like the voice clicked
into place very satisfyingly.