The Snake
Many, many years ago not too far away there was a rider who
loved horses. About this time of year,
in the spring, he often went courting, as they called it in those days. He remained a bachelor much longer than most,
but he did go see young ladies, from time to time and he had a favorite horse
just for that purpose. This young
stallion was favored because he was spirited, because he had heart and because
he had four white shanks. All the young
men liked that “look” much like the young men of later time liked the sports
car look of white walls. At any rate our
rider did spend the evening with his young lady and planned to return by a
short cut he knew; a seldom-used trail running all along the Big River’s edge
for seven miles or more, up by the Mammoth.
It was late and the moonless sky inked-in the spring night. Creature sounds were all around and the ever
present river moved along side, smooth and silky and confident on his
right. As he headed southeast, keeping
the bluffs on his left, he could smell the coming-out season, an earthy newness
that seemed to come off the hills at the same level as a rider on horseback.
It came slithering up from the trail too, more slowly with
the musky, mossy aliveness of new growth.
A fog rose up from the water taking the trail from nebulous to zero visibility. The young rider knew the way and his horse
knew it even better, as they returned home, sure-footed and eager.
All at once the horse’s quivering flanks roused the rider
from his pleasant dreamy revelry.
Something was different.
Something was there. The
rider could taste the rawness of the late night air and he could feel the
presence. Totally alert now he began
talking to the horse with a calm, reassuring voice; a
man to man tone of confidentiality, all the while patting and stroking his
neck. The river was a constant. Not a sometime thing. The river answered for the horse with comforting
responses to the young rider’s voice but the horse was becoming increasingly
nervous. His ears moved erratically, his
big head shook slowly, negatively from side to side and there was more
quivering now and strange sounds coming from the horse; different sounds, much
softer than before, not a whiny and not a whimper either-but much like the last
sound a horse ever makes-almost a final resolute sigh. Then all at once the horse rigidly locked his
front feet and legs and seemed to be bracing himself for a collision impact.
This rider knew horses better than he knew or wanted to
know people. He had never seen anything
like this. “If the horse could talk,
what would he tell me,” he reasoned to himself, trying to establish an empathy. “The
horse is prepared to die. By why? What is
there?” Not a sound now. Not from the horse. Not from the man. Not even from the river, who
seemed to have reassessed her position.
No longer was she moving along, dark and silky-smooth like a friendly,
easy-going companion. Now, she became a
waiting observer-cool, detached, watchful from midstream and totally silent.
Everything seemed to be happening at once, now-only in slow
motion. The river fog lifted in
close. An owl hooted somewhere up on the
bluff and was answered from the other side.
No doubt a rendezvous was set up.
Then, within a ten foot blue black cube visibility
cleared. To horse and rider’s immediate left there was a cave. From a seemingly fathomless blackness came its
chilling ageless breath. And at its
feel-THERE IT WAS! It was a snake. But it was a snake unlike horse or rider had
ever seen before. It was thick as the
young man’s upper arm at the shoulder.
It was long, somewhere between ten and thirteen feet long. The tail was about 12” and appeared to be
braided. It was a non-descript color-no
color at all, really. But its entire
body had luminescence. Slowly,
effortless it glided across the trail then back, between trail and river along
the narrow, slanted embankment. It
moved, neither quickly nor slowly but with a sense of primeval
purpose. It moved on a familiar path and
seemed to be returning to the cave.
Perhaps it made itself visible, not to harm, not even in defiance, but
as a pronouncement of ever presence.
Until this time, the horse had remained surface quivering,
but otherwise still and it continued in this frozen
position for another moment. Suddenly it
reared-bursting with new life and a release of pent up fears.
The rider quickly dismounted talking soothingly once again,
but this time he caressed the animal’s neck with his right arm, brought the
reins down by the bit and nurtured him ahead with sugar cubes pulled from his
pocket while dismounting. He glanced
ahead and off to his right. The river’s
mood seemed to have changed again. No
longer was she reserved, still disengaged or observant. Now she was playful almost effervescent-as if
she had known a riddle all along and kept it to herself. After an extended stillness, he remounted, leaning
over several times to pat the horse’s neck at the crest of his mane. And he sang softly to himself as a young man
is wont to do on a spring night. But he
never took that river trail again and he never spoke of the incident
again. Not until his last year when he
told the story to me.
From:
Tales of the Heartland Hills
By: Bill Vivrett
