The Little Snake Read online

  There were days when the path was dusty and our courageous three were thirsty by the end of the day, but the snake would make sure that by sunset they would find a stream, or a pool, or a well to drink from and a tree to climb, or a large bush to shelter under. And they would fill their water bottles once more and wash their faces and be glad. The travellers climbed into mountains so high that there was snow underfoot, but this didn’t trouble them because Mary had packed them warm clothes and the snake would guide them to quiet corners in cliffs where they could huddle and stay warm and where they could find dry leaves and sticks that Paul could use to light a fire. Above all, the snake led them away from other humans, because this was a time when very many of the world’s humans were too sad, or angry, or desperate to be safe. And when our three friends could not avoid humans, their rings kept them safe and they moved onwards.

  This lack of other humans might have meant that Mary and Paul felt lonely, but in fact they were entirely content. They played with Shade and took turns carrying him when he was tired. They whistled while they trudged on and, as it happened, when one of them was weary and sad, the other was able to cheer them. They were never weary and sad at the same time.

  And, one evening, they rested in bracken on a gentle slope that faced a beautiful sunset, as Lanmo had known it would. They had climbed over the highest of the mountains and that had been hard, but now they were descending and this was easy and they looked down at a wide and peaceful city where kites flew merrily in the breeze, perhaps a thousand bright red kites, bobbing and swinging and shining with red sunset light. (Lanmo knew about the kites and had – you will remember – told Mary she should stay in this, the first city after the mountains.) They had eaten some sweet berries they had never seen before and cooked some large roots which the snake had told them in a dream they should look for, dig up and then roast on their fire. They felt full for the first time in many months and this made them drowsy. (Lanmo had known this would happen.) Away to the east there was a high waterfall and the light through its water made rainbows that no one would have been able to look at without smiling. (Lanmo paused in his work while he knew this would be happening and he smiled his snaky smile and chuckled.)

  So Mary was resting against Paul and smiling, and Paul was also smiling, and Shade was curled in Mary’s lap and purring – which is a cat’s way of smiling – and the birds sang and there was no sound of gunfire, even far away, and no sign of burning houses and no marching columns of men, or straggling columns of downhearted people. There was only peace. And suddenly Mary and Paul both had enough space in their heads to recall that they really were married and that they really did love each other and they held hands and they sang.

  You are the night with sunshine

  You are the ocean with no shore

  You are the bird that sings wine

  You are the lion with no claw

  And be my honour and be mine

  And be my glory and be mine

  And be my living and be mine

  My friend, my love, be mine.

  And then they slept.

  In the morning, they both walked down the slope, followed by Shade, who by now had turned into a rather larger, stronger and more impressive glossy black cat. Mary’s twenty-one white hairs glimmered in the dawn light and, although her clothes (and Paul’s) were faded and torn, today they both seemed somehow proud and calm and a little magnificent. Although they did not know it, a few days ago they had all crossed the border into the Land called Perditi, a country that Lanmo was sure would be safe for many, many human lifetimes.

  As they neared the foot of the slope, they joined a smooth, well-kept road that curved towards a great walled city, held in a gentle valley. As they marched on, for the first time on the snake’s path, our friends passed lots of other humans and even little stalls that sold cooked rice and meat wrapped in leaves. At first the sight of humans made them nervous and also ashamed because Mary and Paul knew they looked grubby and dishevelled. (Shade looked as neat as cats always do.) But the other humans nodded to them as they passed, or smiled, or greeted them in a language they could not understand, but which sounded friendly. A woman at a stall selling a kind of large red fruit saw how tired Mary and Paul looked and so she reached out her hands and offered them fruit. It had been a long time since either of our human friends had any money and so they shook their heads, even though the fruit looked delicious. But the woman just laughed and nodded and put one fruit into Mary’s hand and one into Paul’s and then waved them away. By signs and smiles – and suddenly feeling quite close to crying – Mary and her husband showed the woman that they were grateful. Then, as they marched on, they bit into the fruits and enjoyed the soft, moist, perfumed flesh which tasted a little like sunshine and a little like grapes. And, in the years ahead, they would always remember the taste of those fruits – which they learned were called bamandaloo – whenever they walked near the Wide and South Gate, which was the one they first used to enter the city.

  The city was called Paracalon, as they later learned. It was perhaps not the most wonderful city in the world, but it was very, very good. When they entered Paracalon, they passed into the cosy shadows between three- and four-storey buildings with bright shutters and doors. There were small gardens and squares containing fountains, too, and Mary could hear singing from some of the windows. And above them flew the red kites.

  Lanmo’s dream had told them to take the left road when they came into the city and then the left road again and then the small road past the bakery on the right and then the lane on the left. At the end of the lane, which was lined with low houses and little gardens, was a house with friendly blue shutters and a friendly blue door. In the open doorway was a woman who had just picked some flowers from her garden to set on her kitchen table. When she saw Mary and Paul her face changed and her flowers fell to the path at her feet. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘For many months, I dream of seeing you both on my doorstep and I know that you should come, you should live. Here with me.’ She had also understood from her dream that she should speak the language of the land Mary and Paul had come from. She did so with difficulty and slowly, but they understood her.

  Mary and Paul stood, dumbfounded.

  ‘Really. Inside. Come. Breakfast.’

  This seemed so strange and yet so wonderful that neither of our human friends could move, but Shade simply capered over the threshold of the house and lay in a patch of sun on the living-room floor, as if he had always lived in this house. He was a sensible cat.

  As you will have guessed, the woman with the blue shutters was the good daughter of Granny Higginbottom. She was called Dora and she now earned her living by making jewellery in a workshop behind her house. She had been able to begin her business using the precious jewels and metals Lanmo had brought her and now she was looking to take on extra help. Her husband, Peter, was busy woodcutting some of the time and busy looking after their grandchildren the rest of the time. He was not very good at making jewellery, although he was otherwise very nice. Lanmo had sent Mary and Paul to exactly the place where they could be useful and happy. Dora had wondered what new rings she could make, but when she saw Mary and Paul’s rings, she knew that they should all work at making snake rings. And so they did, learning as they went along.

  In the end Mary and Paul became very fine jewellers and also learned to speak the language of their new home very well. And, although the rings the humans made were not as delightful and graceful and magnificent as the ones the snake had created from his scales, they were still quite lovely and sought after. And Mary also invented a way to make necklaces like the one her mother had given her, so long ago.

  After this, as with all grown-ups, Mary became very busy with her good, full life. She and Paul had no children, which made them slightly sad because they had wanted to raise a little boy and call him Lanmo and teach him to climb trees. But sometimes what we want does not happen, even if we want it very much. Still, Mary and Paul were like an aunt and
an uncle to Dora and Peter’s grandchildren and, in a way, they became one very large and joyful family together, with outings and festivals and dancing and songs. And above the house they flew a red kite, which Mary discovered was a sign that whoever lived there had survived a great journey and was alive and well.

  Each evening the kites waved and bowed to each other and said in their own languages, ‘Hurrah! We are alive! We are happy!’

  And in this being busy, Mary did not exactly forget the snake, but sometimes she did not think of him very much. Also, she had not seen him since her wedding and she had begun to think that he would not visit her again. Each night, he sent her beautiful dreams and sometimes she would hear his voice in them, chuckling or boasting, but when she woke he would not be resting on her pillow, or licking her ear with his tongue.

  And, of course, time passed.

  And then, of course, one particular day Mary was walking in what was now her garden in Paracalon – a place with rose bushes and a seat beneath a tree. By this time her twenty-one white hairs were impossible to see, because all her hairs were white. She was standing looking at the kites, free in the blue, blue sky and thinking that to love something did not mean that she could own it. She had loved Shade very much and yet, in time, he had left the world. She could not keep him. She had loved Paul very much and yet, in time, he had left the world. She could not keep him. Since Dora’s children had moved away, Mary was the only human in the house with the friendly blue door and blue shutters. And the snake that she loved so much must have come to call there many times but she had not seen him, or heard him, because loving him did not make him appear when she wanted. This made her sad, even though she understood that she and Shade, Paul, Dora and Peter had lived very long and wonderful, lucky and marvellous lives.

  Still, these thoughts were making her a little sad when she felt a tickle at her ankle and looked down to see a glimmer of gold and the blink of two red eyes. ‘Mary, you have changed.’

  ‘I have grown old, Lanmo.’ She smiled and watched as the snake sleeked upwards until he was sitting neatly in her palm, just as handsome and proud as he ever was, for the snake never did change. ‘Time has passed.’

  ‘Well . . .’ The snake flickered his tongue. ‘I did not quite mean to be away so long.’ Then he climbed quickly to sit on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, ‘I am so glad to see you.’ And he looked at the two little diamonds that shone in Mary’s ring – the diamonds that were once tears – and they told Lanmo so very much about love that for a moment he held his breath.

  Seeing Lanmo made Mary feel almost as if she were a young girl again and that soon it would be time for school and that somehow she would walk into a room somewhere and her parents would be sitting there with a table set for dinner. ‘And I am so glad to see you.’ She turned and kissed his elegant golden head – something that no other human being would ever be permitted to do. ‘Hello. And thank you.’

  ‘Oh, I did nothing really.’ The snake might almost have been blushing, if it were not impossible for snakes to blush. He rustled his scales so that they sounded like the waves on a wonderful shore far away. ‘Hardly anything.’

  ‘You saved my life. And Paul’s. And Shade’s.’

  Then there was a pause and a silence that glistened like molten gold and sunsets and furnaces. It felt like diamonds.

  The snake spoke again to Mary, in his softest and gentlest voice. ‘I never save lives.’ And these were the saddest words he had ever tasted.

  ‘You are wrong.’ Mary shook her head and smiled. ‘You saved us.’

  Then she went and sat under the tree that gave a good view of the mountain range she had climbed over so many years ago with Paul and Shade to find peace. The snake kissed her cheek and sighed. ‘Ah, Mary. You are my best friend. You are my only friend in all the world.’

  At this, the friends nodded and were silent.

  Then the snake kissed her again, once on her forehead and once on her hand, just where his tooth had brushed her. Then he slipped down into the grass and lay like a resting bolt of lightning.

  Mary told him, ‘I always wanted to make a bangle that looked half as beautiful as you, one that shimmered and glimmered.’

  The snake blinked and raised his head and Mary could see that he was crying and could say nothing more.

  She said, ‘But I think that I have no more time to try.’

  And the snake she called Lanmo waited in the grass for her to come and meet him. But when she stood and took a step, he cried out, ‘No. No, Mary. You must remember that when you take very tiny steps the garden will grow and grow. Take only the very tiniest steps.’

  But then she took another step and he called out, ‘No. No, Mary. You must take much smaller steps than that.’

  But then she took another step and he called out, ‘No. No, Mary. You must remember that if you take no more steps then the garden will go on for ever and ever and will not end and nothing will end, not any more, not ever. Please.’ And that was the first time the snake had said please. ‘Please.’ And that was the second time. ‘Please.’

  And that was the last time the snake ever said please.

  And what happened next I cannot tell you. No one can make me.

  So this is almost, but not quite, the whole of the story of how a snake’s heart learned to beat. And this is almost, but not quite, the whole of the story about a remarkable, wise little girl called Mary and the friend that she called Lanmo. And this is almost, but not quite, the whole of the story of something wonderful and terrible and strange.

  And it may be that Mary and Lanmo are waiting with each other in the garden to this day. I know they both would have liked that.

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to Hans Koch and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.