![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Tommy Serpent (not really a fanfic)
A short story, about 1,600 words, rated G. Just a vignette about a father and son; a follow-up to "Legos". The story follows the cut:
Chris wondered whether you could actually die of boredom. It was summer - supposedly - and he wanted to be outside, but the weather made him feel trapped. For the last three days, it hadn't stopped raining. The clouds were so low they felt like a roof moving down on you and crushing you, and it was colder than it sometimes was in January. "I wish I could go out," he muttered, kicking at the refrigerator door.
"Go, then," his father grunted. "You won't melt."
Chris glared at him, but said nothing. It was never worthwhile to argue with his dad; if you started to talk back, one way or another dad would always win. He grabbed his anorak from the hook by the back door and went out into the icy rain.
Where to go? Sean, his best friend, had gone to Wales on holiday with his family; Christopher wondered if it was raining there, too. If it was, was Sean's tent leaking? That wouldn't be much fun. If Sean were here, he would think of something to do. Chris hunched his shoulders and began walking aimlessly. The rain was hard and steady, and was running down his forehead and getting into his eyes, in spite of his hood. His hair in front was soaking. He ducked his head and began to run downhill, toward the towpath by the river. Without thinking about it, he'd decided he was going to explore the path, going upstream towards the moors. Now that he was outside, he decided, he didn't really mind the rain. The secret was just to enjoy getting wet. You could pretend you were a killer whale, or a shark or seal or something like that; something that was meant to be wet all the time. You could pretend you were swimming through the rain. Swimming was just like flying. Reaching the path, Chris jumped onto it with both feet, spread his arms, and began to run along the riverbank.
About a half-mile further on, he stopped. He was warm from running, but wetter than ever, and felt a bit as though he were trespassing. Anyone could walk on the towpath - the city council had made it a bike path now, and he and his sister and their friends rode on it all the time. But he'd never walked so far on it alone. He blinked water out of his eyes and considered: should he turn around and go home? That seemed feeble. But the river had lost its attraction for him, and he didn't want to explore any more; it was altogether too wet. He wished, for a moment, that he was a wizard who could wave a wand and make the sun come out. It would be cool to be a wizard like Gandalf. He'd said that to his dad just this afternoon -"I'd like to be a wizard."
His father looked up, startled. "Why?"
"So I could do something about the weather."
"No one can do anything about the weather."
"Why not? I mean, I know we can't, but if you were a wizard like Gandalf-"
"Wizards," his father said, "can't do anything really useful."
"I bet you could," Chris answered, "if you were a wizard like Gandalf."
"Well, I'm not. If I'm a wizard, I'm a wizard like me. I did notice," his father added drily, "that in the book, Gandalf couldn't do anything about the weather."
That was the end of that conversation. You could just never argue with dad. Still, he might as well go home.
That was when he saw it. At first, he thought it was a bit of rope by the path, but then he saw it wasn't. It was olive colored, with a perfect 'v' in black and yellow on its neck, and it was hardly as long as his forearm. Chris wondered whether it was dead. Snakes didn't like the cold and wet, did they? Why wasn't it in its den? Maybe the den was flooded, so the poor thing had been washed out. Chris liked animals and read about them all the time, so he knew it wasn't an adder. Adders were fat and had big triangular heads. This one was slender; it must be a grass snake. If he could catch it, maybe he could keep it. But how could he bring it home?
People on nature shows put snakes they caught into bags. Christopher didn't have a bag, but he did have his anorak. Keeping his eye on the little snake the whole time, Chris pulled his jacket over his head. It was dry enough on the inside. His heart thumping fast, he made a sort of bag of the jacket with one hand and reached out with the other, preparing to grab the snake around the neck. It was lucky for him that it was nearly torpid with cold; otherwise he'd never have been able to catch it. But it was easy. The snake didn't move when his hand closed around its neck. Its body felt firm and muscular, but it was so cold! He wondered again if it were really alive, but then he saw its tail twitch. It would be awful if it started fighting and he hurt it. Christopher quickly lifted the snake and slipped it inside his jacket, and then began to walk home as fast as he could, shivering a little with cold and excitement. He had a pet snake!
It wasn't raining so hard anymore, but he was still soaking to the skin by the time he reached his front door. He was holding his jacket-bag shut with both hands so the snake couldn't get out, so he had a hard time with the knocker. But his father opened the door almost at once. He stepped to one side and said mildly, "Well, come in, drowned rat." As Christopher obeyed, his father added, "You're meant to be wearing that jacket."
"Snake," Christopher stammered. "I've got a snake. In the jacket. I found 'im by the towpath. Can I keep him?"
"A snake, eh? Bring him through to the kitchen, and we'll find something to put him in. I take it he's not poisonous?"
Christopher shook his head vigorously. "Grass snake," he explained.
"Well, then," his father said, setting a large jar on the table, "put him in here."
Chris set the jacket on the table next to the jar and opened it carefully. The little snake was curled up against the lining, so still it seemed to be dead, and Christopher felt a pang of something like guilt. Had he hurt it, after all? Had it died of shock when he was trying to get it home? He picked it up gently and slid it into the jar, and his father tied a piece of gauze around the mouth. "That'll do for now," he said. "You'll need something better if you mean to keep him. I think he might be hard to keep," he added, looking directly at Christopher.
"Is he - I haven't killed him, have I, Dad?"
"No. He's just shamming. Thinks he can get away if you think he's dead. Clever little beast. But you," he said, batting Chris over the head with his rolled-up magazine, "are not. You're dripping all over the linoleum. Get upstairs and get dry clothes on, for God's sake!"
Chris obeyed. When he came downstairs again, he saw his father tying a second piece of cheesecloth over the mouth of the jar. In the relative warmth of the kitchen, the snake had awakened and was now rearing up on his tail looking for a way out of this strange trap. His dad eyed the jar and the determined little creature inside it. He shook his head. "Won't hold him for long," he said. "We need something better. So, tell me," he added, "what do grass snakes eat?"
"Dunno," Chris answered. "Bugs and things, I think."
"We need to find out exactly. One thing I do know, Christopher," and his father looked straight at him, his expression serious. "Snakes are hunters. They need live prey. Could you do that? Give him live animals to hunt?"
And Christopher suddenly imagined a live mouse in a tank with his snake. A cute little mouse, soft and grey and with trembling whiskers. He didn't like that thought. But maybe his snake wouldn't eat mice. If it did, though? He wanted to keep the snake, and he couldn't keep it if he didn't feed it properly. You had to give animals what they needed in order to live. He raised his chin and looked into his dad's eyes. "Yes," he said. "if he needed it. I could, if he needed it."
"He might not eat mice," his father said, and Chris nearly jumped in surprise. Sometimes it seemed his dad could read his mind. But it was true; the snake might not even eat mice. Feeding him bugs wouldn't be so bad. "We could look it up," he said. "On mam's computer. We could go on the internet."
"No. Not on your mam's computer. That thing freezes whenever I touch it. You are not using her computer when she isn't here."
"The library, then. Can we go to the library?"
"Yes," his father said "Remarkable powers that animal has. Just an hour before, you were dying of boredom. That snake comes into the house, and suddenly you're lusting for the fruit of the tree of knowledge. Quite biblical, isn't it?" While he was speaking, he'd shrugged his coat on, and now he held out his hand to Christopher. "Get your jacket on," he said. Christopher obeyed. As they left the kitchen, his dad looked back towards the jar on the table and muttered, "Tommy serpent." He was smiling slightly. Chris looked up at him, puzzled, but his dad didn't explain. They walked out into the rain together to discover how to care for grass snakes.
Notes: The book is "The Hobbit"; at nine, Christopher isn't quite ready yet for "The Lord of The Rings".
I am leaving this one deliberately ambiguous; no magic at all! This is because it's really a story about Christopher. Unfortunately (*I* looked it up on the internet) it is illegal to keep grass snakes as pets in England, because they are protected and difficult to keep. They do require live prey, but eat fish and amphibians, not mice.
For those who recognize the characters, Lily and Jane are in London on a shopping expedition and visiting the Donnelly grandparents.
Chris wondered whether you could actually die of boredom. It was summer - supposedly - and he wanted to be outside, but the weather made him feel trapped. For the last three days, it hadn't stopped raining. The clouds were so low they felt like a roof moving down on you and crushing you, and it was colder than it sometimes was in January. "I wish I could go out," he muttered, kicking at the refrigerator door.
"Go, then," his father grunted. "You won't melt."
Chris glared at him, but said nothing. It was never worthwhile to argue with his dad; if you started to talk back, one way or another dad would always win. He grabbed his anorak from the hook by the back door and went out into the icy rain.
Where to go? Sean, his best friend, had gone to Wales on holiday with his family; Christopher wondered if it was raining there, too. If it was, was Sean's tent leaking? That wouldn't be much fun. If Sean were here, he would think of something to do. Chris hunched his shoulders and began walking aimlessly. The rain was hard and steady, and was running down his forehead and getting into his eyes, in spite of his hood. His hair in front was soaking. He ducked his head and began to run downhill, toward the towpath by the river. Without thinking about it, he'd decided he was going to explore the path, going upstream towards the moors. Now that he was outside, he decided, he didn't really mind the rain. The secret was just to enjoy getting wet. You could pretend you were a killer whale, or a shark or seal or something like that; something that was meant to be wet all the time. You could pretend you were swimming through the rain. Swimming was just like flying. Reaching the path, Chris jumped onto it with both feet, spread his arms, and began to run along the riverbank.
About a half-mile further on, he stopped. He was warm from running, but wetter than ever, and felt a bit as though he were trespassing. Anyone could walk on the towpath - the city council had made it a bike path now, and he and his sister and their friends rode on it all the time. But he'd never walked so far on it alone. He blinked water out of his eyes and considered: should he turn around and go home? That seemed feeble. But the river had lost its attraction for him, and he didn't want to explore any more; it was altogether too wet. He wished, for a moment, that he was a wizard who could wave a wand and make the sun come out. It would be cool to be a wizard like Gandalf. He'd said that to his dad just this afternoon -"I'd like to be a wizard."
His father looked up, startled. "Why?"
"So I could do something about the weather."
"No one can do anything about the weather."
"Why not? I mean, I know we can't, but if you were a wizard like Gandalf-"
"Wizards," his father said, "can't do anything really useful."
"I bet you could," Chris answered, "if you were a wizard like Gandalf."
"Well, I'm not. If I'm a wizard, I'm a wizard like me. I did notice," his father added drily, "that in the book, Gandalf couldn't do anything about the weather."
That was the end of that conversation. You could just never argue with dad. Still, he might as well go home.
That was when he saw it. At first, he thought it was a bit of rope by the path, but then he saw it wasn't. It was olive colored, with a perfect 'v' in black and yellow on its neck, and it was hardly as long as his forearm. Chris wondered whether it was dead. Snakes didn't like the cold and wet, did they? Why wasn't it in its den? Maybe the den was flooded, so the poor thing had been washed out. Chris liked animals and read about them all the time, so he knew it wasn't an adder. Adders were fat and had big triangular heads. This one was slender; it must be a grass snake. If he could catch it, maybe he could keep it. But how could he bring it home?
People on nature shows put snakes they caught into bags. Christopher didn't have a bag, but he did have his anorak. Keeping his eye on the little snake the whole time, Chris pulled his jacket over his head. It was dry enough on the inside. His heart thumping fast, he made a sort of bag of the jacket with one hand and reached out with the other, preparing to grab the snake around the neck. It was lucky for him that it was nearly torpid with cold; otherwise he'd never have been able to catch it. But it was easy. The snake didn't move when his hand closed around its neck. Its body felt firm and muscular, but it was so cold! He wondered again if it were really alive, but then he saw its tail twitch. It would be awful if it started fighting and he hurt it. Christopher quickly lifted the snake and slipped it inside his jacket, and then began to walk home as fast as he could, shivering a little with cold and excitement. He had a pet snake!
It wasn't raining so hard anymore, but he was still soaking to the skin by the time he reached his front door. He was holding his jacket-bag shut with both hands so the snake couldn't get out, so he had a hard time with the knocker. But his father opened the door almost at once. He stepped to one side and said mildly, "Well, come in, drowned rat." As Christopher obeyed, his father added, "You're meant to be wearing that jacket."
"Snake," Christopher stammered. "I've got a snake. In the jacket. I found 'im by the towpath. Can I keep him?"
"A snake, eh? Bring him through to the kitchen, and we'll find something to put him in. I take it he's not poisonous?"
Christopher shook his head vigorously. "Grass snake," he explained.
"Well, then," his father said, setting a large jar on the table, "put him in here."
Chris set the jacket on the table next to the jar and opened it carefully. The little snake was curled up against the lining, so still it seemed to be dead, and Christopher felt a pang of something like guilt. Had he hurt it, after all? Had it died of shock when he was trying to get it home? He picked it up gently and slid it into the jar, and his father tied a piece of gauze around the mouth. "That'll do for now," he said. "You'll need something better if you mean to keep him. I think he might be hard to keep," he added, looking directly at Christopher.
"Is he - I haven't killed him, have I, Dad?"
"No. He's just shamming. Thinks he can get away if you think he's dead. Clever little beast. But you," he said, batting Chris over the head with his rolled-up magazine, "are not. You're dripping all over the linoleum. Get upstairs and get dry clothes on, for God's sake!"
Chris obeyed. When he came downstairs again, he saw his father tying a second piece of cheesecloth over the mouth of the jar. In the relative warmth of the kitchen, the snake had awakened and was now rearing up on his tail looking for a way out of this strange trap. His dad eyed the jar and the determined little creature inside it. He shook his head. "Won't hold him for long," he said. "We need something better. So, tell me," he added, "what do grass snakes eat?"
"Dunno," Chris answered. "Bugs and things, I think."
"We need to find out exactly. One thing I do know, Christopher," and his father looked straight at him, his expression serious. "Snakes are hunters. They need live prey. Could you do that? Give him live animals to hunt?"
And Christopher suddenly imagined a live mouse in a tank with his snake. A cute little mouse, soft and grey and with trembling whiskers. He didn't like that thought. But maybe his snake wouldn't eat mice. If it did, though? He wanted to keep the snake, and he couldn't keep it if he didn't feed it properly. You had to give animals what they needed in order to live. He raised his chin and looked into his dad's eyes. "Yes," he said. "if he needed it. I could, if he needed it."
"He might not eat mice," his father said, and Chris nearly jumped in surprise. Sometimes it seemed his dad could read his mind. But it was true; the snake might not even eat mice. Feeding him bugs wouldn't be so bad. "We could look it up," he said. "On mam's computer. We could go on the internet."
"No. Not on your mam's computer. That thing freezes whenever I touch it. You are not using her computer when she isn't here."
"The library, then. Can we go to the library?"
"Yes," his father said "Remarkable powers that animal has. Just an hour before, you were dying of boredom. That snake comes into the house, and suddenly you're lusting for the fruit of the tree of knowledge. Quite biblical, isn't it?" While he was speaking, he'd shrugged his coat on, and now he held out his hand to Christopher. "Get your jacket on," he said. Christopher obeyed. As they left the kitchen, his dad looked back towards the jar on the table and muttered, "Tommy serpent." He was smiling slightly. Chris looked up at him, puzzled, but his dad didn't explain. They walked out into the rain together to discover how to care for grass snakes.
Notes: The book is "The Hobbit"; at nine, Christopher isn't quite ready yet for "The Lord of The Rings".
I am leaving this one deliberately ambiguous; no magic at all! This is because it's really a story about Christopher. Unfortunately (*I* looked it up on the internet) it is illegal to keep grass snakes as pets in England, because they are protected and difficult to keep. They do require live prey, but eat fish and amphibians, not mice.
For those who recognize the characters, Lily and Jane are in London on a shopping expedition and visiting the Donnelly grandparents.