Old Bull successfully fended off challenger after challenger as Ray watched. While he was idle, he was not idle without intent. He was also searching through the ins and outs of the most prevalent question in his mind—the choosing. Which would he choose? The bull or the slither? It was this question that required most of his attention—the display was merely a diversion—but he still wasn’t entirely sure of his choice. Both were excellent companions. Selecting one or the other as a companion would mean he would no longer be alone on his journey to manhood. The selection in itself would take him one step closer to being a man—if only he could choose.
He thought about the captive slithers and bulls in his village. No captive grew to the size they did as when they were free. That in itself seemed puzzling to him in this moment and while he was sure he had realized this before he found it odd. He also thought about Kotte and Emette who lost their companions. He thought about the sadness the loss brought to them and to the village. Kotte and Emette had both chosen bulls. They had both been a bit careless, granting their companions a bit more freedom than they should have, and allowing them to get a bit more of an appetite than was wise. If he chose a bull would he be as careless as Kotte and Emette? Would he be able to be a strict master as was needed? Or would he be a bit too lax and bring sorrow to his people?
Old Bull settled in with the first of his queens late in the day. The season was getting on though, and not many of the queens had waited as long as they should have, for which Ray was thankful, as it was already hatching time for the early broods.
Early was a good sign to him. He had been early, and in many things he had been the first and although this was mostly by virtue of the period of his birth, he exalted it all the same. Anything that peaked early was a good thing to him, and early broods were no exception. He saw a mother slither and a mindful litter pass his secreted place, tongues flapping, slit eyes staring. He held still until they were gone, not wanting to scare them into a frenzied evacuation.
“Don’t worry, mother slither,” Ray whispered to himself after the slither family had passed by, “I need one fresher.”
He searched clumsily through his pack, removing all of its contents to get to the rounded hollow at the very bottom. The stretch of arbor was obtuse in shape, being about a foot long and gapped in the middle with one end sealed with heedful cross-stitching. The container had a small band on top that he could adjust for carrying and the backside was flattened so it would not roll when placed down. He admired his handiwork for a moment more, counting the days on both hands the container’s making had required. Again asking himself, which would it be: slither or bull, and again, he did not know.
He considered his trek now, thinking that perhaps the choice lay obvious somewhere within it. He questioned the way the slither moved, gliding upon its belly. The bull had feet with which Ray knew it could race at tremendous speeds, even on the dry. The slither was graceful, the bull sometimes awkward. Yet the bull had clear advantages over the smaller slither.
Ray’s eyes turned back to the loch. Old Bull was lethargically withdrawing as the day was nearing an end. As he watched Old Bull slip away, he searched the length of his staff with his hands. Every inch of the six foot, straight length was as familiar to him as his own hands. He had smoothed and refined its edges and strengthened it himself. The staff, like the container, was an integral part of his journey.
Thinking of the container brought back memories of Tall. Tall was his closest friend in the village. Tall was the one who helped him learn how to make the webbing on the end of the container when old three toes had declared that Ray was “unteachable.”
“I made it, Tall,” Ray said to the empty air, a sparkle in his eye. He imagined then that his lanky friend was smiling back at him. As he reclined back, his stomach rumbled and the thought of food and eating came to him suddenly. He decided it was time for a grand feast. He had found the place lost and deep—and he had done it on his own.
He took out a generous share of his gatherings, spilling over it a portion of the long sap he had secreted away. He did not portion out more than was needed, a drop here, two drops there, and not much more.
Ray shelved his anxieties for a while, until dusk arrived and the air turned cool and the humidity began to recede. Then reality began to settle in. Reaching the place lost and deep wasn’t the goal—completing the rite of passage was. He must prepare himself. He must circle the three arbors, set his mark upon them. He must choose—and with thoughts of the choosing came doubt. Is it true what the elders have said? Am I unteachable? Am I unworthy? Am I unready?
Doubt led to hesitation. He waited perhaps longer than he should have, but he did manage to coax himself into preparing. He groomed himself, cleansing staff and body, flexing muscles. He made a large pile of cake-mud, intermixing wet and dry, applying it from toe to head.
In the last minutes of light, he took up the pieces of the stinging he had laid out, rubbing their oils over the hardened cake of the mud on his body. Staff and pack secured now, again he waited, eyes adjusting to the ever-increasing darkness.
Noting the homes, and those that lingered upon them, Ray purposefully set out, making cautious progress through the tall, skirting the edge of the deep. He still had not made his choice, rather he performed instinctively as he had been told.
He circled to the first arbor with confidence, setting his mark alongside the others: Ray son of Waddymarre, Third Village the mark said. Between the first and the second arbor was a thick with nests; Ray knew this, and he proceeded at a choked pace.
Weed-grass was all around him and though in other circumstances it could have served as camouflage, now it was a dangerous hindrance. He must rely only on his night senses, and the thrashing of his heart in his ears. He was afraid, but he turned his fear into his strength. He used it to shield him, to make him more aware of his surroundings.
Mentally, he tallied the number of nests he passed, noting the location of each. The silent guardians of the clutch were vicious and unremorseful in their attacks, and Ray knew that even a bull that wandered into their ward would not pass retaliation, yet he did not fear the guardian queens as much as he feared stumbling into another’s stray lair. The slither did not always lie close to the wet and her nest could be settled anywhere, even atop the scatter brush he passed.
Halfway into a step forward, Ray froze, foot still hanging in the air. He waited, listening, was it the breeze, a fervent imagination, or was there something directly in front of him. “Is that you, Old Bull?” he whispered, the sound of his voice barely escaping his lips as the question flashed through his mind.
He backed up, paused again. He gleaned a hiss from the air, though not down low where he had expected it, perhaps level with his chest. He hesitated, breathed.
No, he corrected, in front of his face. The hiss came from in front of his face.
The gloom withstanding, he could have swore he saw a slither drawn up full, tongue lashing in and out, red eyes scrutinizing, and needless to say, he stopped, dead still. If the slither was real, if he wasn’t imagining it, it would have to be the biggest slither he had encountered in all his life. Perhaps, it was Mother Slither herself, she who birthed all the slithers. If so, she was the greatest and most dangerous slither that ever lived—enormous. Dangerous and enormous.
His thoughts started moving in circles. He hesitated when maybe he should have pressed on.
Tiny flashes of hot circled around his face, lashed out at his shoulders, moved down his right arm. Had he been bitten? He was unsure. His thoughts were spinning. Everything seemed surreal.
Time clicked by. Reluctant to move, he continued to hesitate. Something touched his foot, he could feel it wiggling across now, dry and scaly. Was his hesitation about to cost him his life or was it saving him? Was venom coursing through his veins? Was he about to die?