Mythical Anna

Azahl’s steps slowed as he approached the low cave mouth. The gold coin clutched in his sweaty hand was far too little; he knew that already.
Can snakes smell gold?
He bobbed his head respectfully to the guards, impassive under the relentless orange sun, but his eyes were fixed on the abandoned basket just to the right of the entrance. The charmer was missing, and without the flute or humming or plucked lira or whatever music the man used, the snake inside would be restless. Unless it wasn’t in the basket.
Zahl couldn’t stop the fearful jolt in his legs that broke his stride for a moment, and his treacherous eyes slid up towards the carvings above the entrance before he could duck his head low enough that all he could see was the dust already thick on his new shoes.
There was the faintest of noises above him as he passed under the arch, and Zahl had to empty his mind to avoid interpreting anything except the lush, red carpet where he regretfully left his dusty shoes, worn only once before. Continuing barefoot through the cave, Zahl carefully did not notice the uneven ceiling grazing his bent head, nor the hundreds of gilded grates along the low walls.
Then he was in the first chamber, and a middle-aged man held out to him a large wicker basket. Zahl reached with his right hand and the man lifted off the lid. Put the coin in now and lose before he started? Everything in him was warning of a quick death, but the boy closed his eyes to slits and whispered:
“Jewel of the desert, king of paradises, holder of life power, thy command directs me…”
And he trailed off, hope and fear viscous in his throat.
Can snakes smell compliments?
What compliment could rival the gold coin, thick and shiny, here in his palm? No one in his right mind would enter here without the needed gifts. But Zahl had come partway between lordliness and begging, and each of the single coin’s possibilities were desperate. A hiss would decide his fate.
Passs.
Zahl couldn’t tell whether the sound came from the basket or from the man holding it, but he bowed his head briefly and shuffled on.
He was too young to be looking for work as a charmer, too poor to be buying a snake of his own. A servant, his brother-in-law had said. Wear your good shoes.
Snobbish, for a rich master. Humble, to the seller’s men.
The coin was too little. Six months of charmer’s pay, tossed back into the lap of…the Snake Seller.
Azahl’s head scraped the cave roof, and he stooped, then crawled. You were meant to crawl, so that the first you saw of the snake seller was his snake-skin shoes. Zahl’s stomach turned. Those shoes could be made from his brother-in-law’s snake. No one lived, they said, who parted paths from the seller. Not the snakes, not even the men themselves, they whispered. And hushed the whispers into silence when they saw Zahl’s brother-in-law.
Zahl’s knees refused to move. The hiss around him – air, just air – asked him why he tried. Mistakesss.
Mistake for Jade’s husband to fake his death. Mistake for him to flee the city alone, kind though their neighbors were. Mistake for Jade to return to collect a few belongings.
They had taken his sister and the snake, Zila, in the same breath.
Mistake for Zahl to name a snake that would never again rise, swaying gracefully, in one of Jade’s baskets, nor twine her cold body around Zahl’s forearm, tongue flicking.
Mistakes.
The man who did not make mistakes was ahead of him.  
Can snakes smell evil?
“Approach, boy.” The faintly amused voice was not raspy or sibilant like he’d expected. How did a man so ordinary hold so much power?
Zahl crawled forward, slowly, forcing his thoughts away from the coiled bodies resting around him.
“Snake Seller.” He kept his eyes trained on the floor, stretched out his s’s to emphasize the respect he meant to show. “My master seeks a snake.”
The pause was almost too long; Zahl leaned onto the curled hand holding the coin so that the pain would focus him. He tried to babble.
“He said it must be a beautiful snake, with a vibrant color. And not too young, and well-trained, he said.” He risked a glance toward the snake seller’s face to see if the story had caught.
He must try everything now. If he failed…there would be no second chance.
Can snakes smell death?
The boy crawled forward on his elbows. The coin made a heavy chink when he set it down by the snake seller’s slippered foot.
“A gesture of good-will, Snake Seller.” He hesitated. “My master said I must make certain it’s beautiful, and well-trained.” He lowered his voice, not sure how far the tale could stretch. “Or he’ll take the difference from my own pocket.”
Zahl did not dare lift his eyes, but the snake seller must have made a gesture because a door to the left opened and girls began to walk through. Or no, mostly women, because Zahl’s ‘master’ wanted a snake not too young, and well-trained.
Zahl rose to his knees, his curiosity unfeigned.
“Perhaps he would like a yellow one,” he whispered to himself carefully.
The snake seller laughed sneeringly.
“Foolish child. The best snakes are green, emerald green, like a flower’s cushion or a polished jewel.”
Best and most expensive. Zahl’s palm felt empty without the coin he’d clasped so tightly.
Where would they go? Where could they hide that he would not find them and exact an unimaginable revenge?
Can snakes smell fear?
Zahl shuffled closer to the nearest girl. She held her charge calmly for his inspection, but her jaw was clenched.
Caretakers were sold with their snakes. What did laws matter in the realm of snakes? This was the Seller’s kingdom.
None of the snakes were of the best strains; their colors lacked vibrancy and their patterned bodies looked limp and thin.
Zahl turned back to the seller, this time raising his eyes to the man’s chest. He was wearing six chains, mostly gold…Zahl dragged his mind away from the curved pendants.
“Snake Seller…” He’d thought to snivel, even cry, but immediately he knew that wouldn’t work. “My master won’t be happy if I come back without the perfect…one.” He allowed the catch in his voice, showing part of his fear and uncertainty.
Trade was an odd thing, part living creature and part mapped land. The seller waved his hand.
Zahl dropped his eyes to the floor and watched the bare feet padding evenly out. More entered.
There was no gasp, no stifled cry. Zahl lifted his head, but there was Jade. Her face was so normal that Zahl’s eyes easily moved to the next woman, and the next, but his heart was pounding. He’d pictured her…trapped. And she was. But she was still herself, and without being able to describe her face it was so familiar to him that he knew it in all its possibilities, from scolding when he’d fed Zila an extra meal, to joyous when birds called overhead, to mournful when she’d let the fire go out again.
Almost as familiar was Zila, her fern-colored scales winking in the light as she curled around Jade’s neck…alive.
The Snake Seller knew. He somehow knew. Zahl had failed before he’d started…
His heart was thumping hard enough to hear.
One snake was a firm yellow, beautiful in a cold way. Its pale brown eyes fixed on Zahl when he worked his way over, still on his knees. A pink tongue flicked.
Zahl pretended to examine the snake, but he saw only a blur. There were two emerald-green snakes somewhere to his left. How to convince the Seller…? He couldn’t give up, but the hopelessness of knowing the snake he ought to pick was not the one he would, and that it wouldn’t work, any of it, and they would all be killed or worse, and the wagon waiting outside the city would wait until the man inside was killed, too — a movement behind him knocked his thoughts out of the spiral making him tremble.
“This one is very good,” Zahl whispered doubtfully. “But perhaps he would like green best.”
He turned then, and his heart sank.
The Snake Seller gave him a flat smile, not bothering to hide his impatience.
“Green is best, boy,” he said. He gestured to the snake he’d just placed over Jade’s arm.
There was an awful feeling rising in the pit of Zahl’s stomach, the more acidic for lacking doubt. He made his way over to Jade, examined the snake. It was beautiful, a silver pattern decorating its back.
Mistake. All mistakes up to now, the Seller knowing everything beforehand, and sealed soon with a mistake that he would make, would make a hundred times over until the bite in his gut ate right through his heart.
The boy lurched on. Paused by a pale green snake. Then by Zila. Her black eyes called to him.
Azahl put out one finger and touched it to the top of her head. So many mistakes. Where were the smooth paths, the happy ending? He could not see the way, and it was too late. So many mistakes. So much love.
The moment dragged out forever as he lifted his finger from her head, the feel of her scales clinging to his skin.
The other emerald-green snake. It was smaller, younger, so that much was easy. Easy?
Zahl felt like he moved through thick liquid; he almost fell forward when the air provided little resistance.
He moved back and forth between the two emerald-green snakes, trying to keep his pace measured and worried, but the hot tears were rising to his eyes now. He blinked hard and squinted to cover it.
The Snake Seller’s snakeskin slippers tapped impatiently.
“He wanted older,” Zahl murmured. He paused in front of Jade. Her long hair partly covered her face, hiding her expression. Good, Zahl noted distantly.
“Is this one well trained?” The boy lifted his face to the snake seller, the real need for the answer adding exigency to his voice.
“Yes, yes, well-trained,” the Seller scowled. His impatience was obvious now, and Zahl quickly looked at the floor.
“Then…I’ll take this one. How much?”
“Sixteen gold, to be delivered within the hour, or I’ll have more from you than your pocket-lining, boy.” His voice grated on Zahl’s ears, but new urgency overrode his limbs. One hour.
He ducked his head, letting the threat take hold.
“Yes, Snake Seller. I understand. Within the hour.”
Without looking behind him, he dropped to the ground and crawled his way back through the tunnel. Don’t think. Don’t look. Move.
Rustling behind him reassured him that Jade followed, with the beautiful, wrong, emerald-green snake on her shoulders.
They were out in the antechamber, the man holding out the wicker basket to Zahl. He raised his hand over it, opened his mouth, but suddenly the heavy ache burned in the top of his chest and his throat, and nothing came out.
A moment of silence, and then a sound came from the basket: Passs.
He lowered his hand and hurried on, but not through the main entrance, where his new shoes lay. He had no regret left for them. The fissure in the rock was a narrow fit at the end, Jade wincing as the rough walls scraped her skin, but then they were out in the city. Zahl grabbed Jade’s arm, pulling her through the crowds, but the people around them melted out of their way, letting them run.
The city gates were in front of them, then behind, and then they were at the already-moving wagon, a pair of strong hands swinging up first Zahl and then Jade.
A jolt sent them tumbling to the wagon bed, Jade both laughing and crying and her husband straining her close, his lips pressed to her head.
Zahl lifted the emerald-green snake and lowered it into the waiting basket, and then he began to weep. Jade put out an arm for him, his brother-in-law too, and he hugged them tightly, tears running down his face. All their faces.
He had made the right choice, he knew it as fiercely as he felt the pain of it, but now the Snake Seller had Zila and Zahl would never see her again.
The Snake Seller, who knew so little of value that he weighed a sister and wife against a livelihood. His mistake.
Precious Zila. Azahl’s mistake.
Zila.  
His shaking hand over the basket, the heartache smothering the compliment he’d meant to pay…
Can snakes smell love?

            Mitra stood beside her aunt, waiting with the women and children for the men to get into position. The entire tribe of warrior nomads was alert and moving, like an army preparing for an inspection. Mitra watched as Lavin unsuccessfully wheedled his father for a place with the warriors. She had tried the same thing with her own father, just hours before. The answer had been a firm NO, of course. Ever since her mother had been killed in battle, four years ago when Mitra was barely ten, Rudur had been overly protective. Fortunately, Mitra’s aunt had convinced her brother to get Mitra armor and let her train for battle with the boys. Most girls didn’t fight, not even Lavin’s older sister, also the daughter of a chief, but Mitra found it exciting. It was so boring to stay in camp all the time. Besides, she wanted to feel needed, to be able to help the Warsong tribe in some way. What else could she do?
Lavin came stomping grumpily over to her.
“Aw, why won’t they let us march with the men? It’s not like we’re going to fight.”
Mitra shrugged.
“They think we don’t look impressive enough. And maybe we’ll fight, if the city sends out their army.”
Lavin scoffed.
“There’s no city army that can beat us!”
Mitra shrugged again.
“They might not want to risk it.”
Rudur and the other two chiefs began shouting orders, and the bristling ranks of warrior nomads moved forward at a trot. The women and children were supposed to stay under the cover of the trees while the rest of the tribe marched up to the city walls.
Lavin stared bitterly after the disappearing warriors.
“Can’t we at least go and watch?” he asked Mitra’s aunt.
Mitra added her pleading gaze to his, and after a moment her aunt softened.
“All right. But stay out of danger.”
“Yes!”
The two started running, circling to the right to get close enough to the city wall to hear. They ended up on a hill, close enough to hear the shouting and high enough to see over the city wall. It was a large city, and seemed to be well armed.
Lavin paled.
“Uh, Mitra, maybe we should head back. Th-that army’s a lot bigger than I thought.”
“They’re not coming out. They’re just assembled in case we try something, and we won’t.” Mitra replied impatiently. Sometimes Lavin got scared about the silliest things.
“Still…”
“Oh, don’t be a coward. Don’t you trust your father?”
Lavin still looked unconvinced. Actually, although he was one of the three chieftains, Mitra didn’t particularly trust Lavin’s father. The tribe relied mainly on the shortest and smartest chief, Vangor, to make the decisions, while Rudur, being the biggest, enforced them. Lavin’s father was mostly there to carry on the tradition of having three chiefs, Mitra thought, but she didn’t say this to Lavin.
“Look, if the army starts to come out, we’ll run back to the trees, okay?”
“Agreed.” Lavin regained some of his color and leaned forward, pointing.
“Look! There are our fathers and Vangor. They’re going toward the city gates.”
Mitra had already noticed them. She was watching a blue-robed official waiting on the city wall.
“Hail, strangers.” The official shouted as soon as the three nomad chiefs were close enough. “Welcome to the city of Eller. Please state your business.”
Vangor spread his hands amiably.
“Thank you, good sir. Our business is very simple. We are the Warsong tribe, warrior nomads who travel about the country from spot to spot. Recently, smaller, weaker tribes which have never posed a threat to us before have been routing us in battle. We believe someone has been providing them with magicians.”
He dropped his hands and hung his head, cleverly portraying both sadness and vulnerability.
“We have been forced out of our usual camping grounds, and we cannot regain them unless we have a magician of our own. Surely such a huge and great city as Eller has more than one magician to protect it?”
The official in blue hesitated. Finally, he gestured to a servant behind him and said,
“We have two magicians. You may ask them if one of them is willing to go with you.”
The young man who stepped up beside the official had dark hair and an arrogant bearing. He looked coldly down his nose at Mitra’s father and the other two chiefs.
Vangor bowed.
“Good magician, if you will agree to come with us and set up your illusions for us, we will pay you well.”
“With what?”
Mitra wondered if he was really considering the offer. He was richly dressed, and even the official in blue treated him with respect.
“With gold.”
“How much?”
Vangor didn’t blink an eye at the magician’s uncivil questions.
He named the amount, and the young magician laughed.
“That wouldn’t be enough for a year.”
“We had hoped for a five-year contract,” Vangor said. “If you agree, any gold we acquire will be given directly to you.”
The magician only sneered and turned away.
“Ah,” said the blue-robed official. “What a pity. Well, there is still old Argval.”
An old man shuffled up to stand next to the official.
“Aw right, den, what’s happenin’?”
“Good magician, we would like to hire you to travel with us.”
“Mire me in an abacus? Well, well, dat’s not very polite. In fact, I don’t see ‘ow it’s possible.”
“No, sir, we wish to invite you-”
“You want ter be polite too? A good thought, a good thought. But-”
Vangor visibly controlled himself.
“Good sir-”
“I’d say you’re not getting a very good start on bein’ polite, young man. Callin’ me a loser won’t get you anywhere.”
Exasperated, Vangor motioned to Rudur, who took a step closer to the wall.
“Venerable magician!” He shouted. The old man cupped a hand to his ear.
“What’s dat? You want a physician?”
“We will give you much gold. . .”
“A cold, you say? No-no, no, I don’t want one, though you meant it kindly, I’m sure. Hm, it is getting a bit chilly out here.”
Rudur’s chest swelled, and he roared at the top of his lungs,
“Will you come with us?”
“Eh, eh, whassat? I can’t stand out here in the cold talking to you much longer, young man. It’s been a pleasure, a pleasure. . .”
“We will pay you well!” Rudur bellowed despairingly.
The old man had already started down from the wall. He waved a hand vaguely.
“Aye, farewell to you too.”
Rudur’s fists clenched. Striding forward, he bawled up to the official,
“If you will not give us a magician, perhaps we will take one!”
“Perhaps, my friend.” The official said calmly. He motioned to the gatekeepers, and the gate swung open, pouring out the city army like water from the mouth of a spring.
“And then, perhaps not.”
Vangor signaled the warrior nomads’ retreat, and they moved defiantly off while the city army glared after them.
Mitra realized with a start that Lavin was pulling at her arm.
“M-Mitra! Let’s go, let’s go. C-come on, they’ve come out!”
She scrambled to her feet and followed him down the hill and back to the trees.
The mission had failed. What could the Warsong tribe do now?

This is ‘a moment of triumph’, part of a group of seven stories.

            Jake thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. It wasn’t yet winter, but the overcast sky threatened early snow. It had rained during the night, and shimmering puddles on the sidewalks reflected the gray world. Jake lifted a shoulder to rub his ear, keeping his hands curled in his pockets. He still had another block to go before he reached school. As he trudged along, the words of a sports commentator drifted faintly from a nearby restaurant.
‘After a rocky start, our team has gained the lead. Sometimes that moment of triumph only comes after the worst times.’
Jake smiled wryly as the commentary faded behind him. If only that were true! He figured he was due for some triumph any day now. The trouble wasn’t that he would have to stay after school to make up the cooking class he’d missed the previous evening for his sister’s birthday party. Nor was it that yesterday should have been his day to wash up, which meant that today he’d face piles of sticky dishes. It wasn’t even that his math teacher had an unfortunate habit of springing pop quizzes when Jake was least prepared. The real trouble. . .
            Jake froze. The real trouble was waiting for him at the street corner where he’d have to turn to get to school. He looked over his shoulder, hoping for a way out, but one of the boys straightened and pointed. There could be no escape this time. His stomach tightening, Jake started walking again, trying to look unconcerned. He didn’t know why Mason and his friends had chosen to pick on him, but nothing Jake did or didn’t do stopped their bullying.
“Heya, Jake the Loser!”
It wasn’t the most brilliant insult, but as good a start as any. Jake considered his strategies, deciding glumly that his best bet was to ignore the boys – although it would certainly be futile. He rounded the corner, uncomfortably aware of his proximity to the grinning bullies.
“Where ya goin’?” Mason asked, somehow making the question into a threat. Jake fixed his eyes on the school building and bit his lip. This wasn’t going to end well. One of the other two boys shoved him hard, and Jake went sprawling. At that moment, the bell rang, and the three boys ran off, jeering. Jake watched them go, both angry and relieved. It could have been worse, he knew. He glanced at his watch to see how late he was going to be and discovered that it was broken. It must have gotten cracked when he fell.

           Jake managed to avoid Mason until lunch, but when he reached the cafeteria, he spotted the three boys loitering by the entrance. Jake rapidly revised his plans and headed for the kitchens, wondering if he’d have time to do his cooking assignment as well as wash up. Then he saw the mountain of dishes waiting for him. Dismally, he tied on one of the big aprons and began to scrub. The class had made chocolate chip cookies, and several bowls were covered with hardened chocolate. Focused on the task, Jake started when a voice from behind him asked,
“Lot of work, huh?”
It was Mason and his friends. Jake tensed.
“Um. . . yeah.”
He didn’t know what Mason wanted, but obviously, ignoring him wouldn’t work.
“Yeah,” Mason repeated. “So, do you want help?” His voice was almost friendly. Was it possible that the months of bullying had come to an end at last? Jake cautiously allowed himself to hope.
“Sure,” he said gratefully. “That’d be great.”
Mason looked at his friends, and all three of them burst out laughing.
“I can’t believe you fell for that!” Mason wheezed. He put his face close to Jake’s and whispered,
“Nope!” The three boys walked out, snickering. Jake closed his eyes and sighed dispiritedly. The day was just getting worse. By the time Jake had finished washing all the dishes, his hands were wrinkled and sore. He glanced at his watch, surprised that it was still so early. Then, with an awful sinking feeling, he remembered that the watch was broken. Math class. Jake dashed out of the kitchen and tore desperately through the hallways, skidding to a stop in the doorway of his classroom. The teacher looked up, frowning.
“The pop quiz is almost over. Please take your seat immediately.”
Swallowing hard, Jake hurriedly sat down and searched for a pencil. As he struggled to control his breathing, whispers grew around him.
“Look at Jake!”
“Why’s he wearing an apron?”
Glancing down, Jake realized that he had forgotten to take off the big apron. The three bullies smirked and pointed, and several students turned to look at him. Jake felt his face go bright red, and he hastily pulled off the apron and balled it up under his desk.
“Five minutes remaining,” the teacher announced, and the class fell silent. Jake shuffled through the test, his heart sinking. There was no way he’d finish it in time. Trepidly, he hunted for quick or easy problems, but he was too flustered to solve more than two. As the last few seconds ticked away, Jake despaired of ever being finished with this horrible day.

            When his classes were over, Jake headed back to the kitchens, flipping despondently through the extra math homework he’d been given.
“Want some company?” The sneer brought Jake up short. He’d walked straight into the middle of the three boys, who had been lounging in the hallway outside the kitchens, waiting for him.
“What do you want?” Jake asked, keeping his voice as level as he could. “I don’t have anything.”
Mason grinned leisurely.
“Let’s start with that watch.”
Jake blinked slowly and pulled the watch off. Suddenly, he tossed it to Mason and dove for the kitchens. He wedged the doors with a table and stood panting, closing his ears to the threats they yelled at him. If he could stay there long enough, they might leave. He made the cookie dough, mixed in the chocolate chips, and slid a tray into the oven, keeping a careful eye on the baking cookies. The banging and shouting had stopped by the time they were ready. He transferred the cookies to a plate, dreading the moment when he’d have to face the bullies. When he had moved away the table, he hesitated for a long moment before gathering up the courage to crack open the doors. Mason and his friends were gone. Slumping with relief, Jake grabbed the plate of cookies and hurried out of the school. Outside, it was dark, with a watery scent to the sharp night air. The varied buildings loomed silently, flickering with shadows thrown by glowing lampposts. All at once, Jake was exhausted. He could barely convince his feet to move as he plodded miserably home. The bullying was getting worse; he’d never felt this low before.
Then, from a house with light beaming from a single window, he heard music – wonderful music. It had rhythms tumbling over one another, laughing joyously, separate but melded. Gradually, Jake realized that he was walking in time with the music, his feet light. A smile spread across his face, and he began to walk with more spring in his step, then to almost dance down the street, shedding his fear and exhaustion like soggy boots. He was happy for the first time that day, and he ran crazily down the street, the music still alive in his head. Ahead, skulking under a lamppost, he saw the three bullies, but he bounded up to them without a pause and wordlessly offered them the cookies. Pushing away the plate, the three boys looked at him menacingly.
“Aren’t ya scared to be out here. . . all alone?” Mason asked, nudging one of his friends.
“Yeah. Aren’t ya worried something might happen to you?” the friend added meaningly. At any other time, Jake would have been on the verge of flight, but even Mason couldn’t bother him now. He didn’t bother to respond, but began to laugh, and kept laughing while the three boys looked at each other nervously, their bravado changing to uneasiness, and finally scurried off into the night. Still laughing, Jake walked home in the cool night, the wonderful music playing in his head and a plate of cookies in his hand.