The Python of Caspia

by Michael Green

  The Python of Caspia

  Tales from the Netherscape - Book One

  Michael Green

  Cover art by Alexey Rudikov

  Copyright 2019 Michael Green

  All rights reserved

  Ist Edition

  All characters and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-950593-00-2

  To William, Tina, and William

  A second family who brought me into another world: a world of boundless imagination and frightening possibility.

  Chapter 1: Field Trip

  Chapter 2: A Mouse

  Chapter 3: Consequences

  Chapter 4: The Night Watch

  Chapter 5: Doctor Ropt

  Chapter 6: Sentinel’s Watch

  Chapter 7: Runaway Cygnus

  Chapter 8: The Netherscape

  Chapter 9: To Python’s Howe

  Chapter 10: The Sun and the Moon

  Chapter 11: Drinks on the Wall

  Chapter 12: Deals in the Darkness

  Chapter 13: The Broken Teeth

  Chapter 14: The Ossuary

  Chapter 15: The Juncture

  Chapter 16: The Escape

  Chapter 1

  Field Trip

  Andy was the last off the bus. At least he would have been, but something kept him from taking that final step down to the curb. He looked out to the plaza which lay before the museum. Cars and taxis rumbled nearby, their humming motors punctuated by the sharp laughs and jeers of his classmates. The diesel exhaust blended with a riot of perfume and pungent body sprays popular among his peers.

  Perched on that step, none among the huddled groups noticed him. They churned, a sea of human mist, smiling and jeering, moaning and complaining, comparing and contrasting, as he stood alone.

  Morning frost had slipped between the tall buildings while he slept. His city was cloaked in a blanket of glittering crystal; encrusting windows, coating stairs, glazing asphalt, and thickening blades of grass. At the top step, between bus and world, the chill threatened to envelop him, it struggled to draw him out. It bit at his body and face as he stood, reminding him that he would have to step down and join his peers.

  While his teacher, Mr. Holt, was occupied with the roster, Andy idled, adjusting his backpack and running his fingers through his brownish-blond hair. Inspecting himself in the bus’s sideview mirror, Andy noticed his hair was blonder this morning. His eyes, an equally indecisive blue-green, stung as a frosty gust poured through the street.

  Andy smirked at his awkward face, halfway between boy and man. He squirmed in his navy overcoat until the hood rolled up his neck. He considered hiding under his hood, but reconsidered; that would only attract attention.

  Staring at his peers, Andy spotted Lysette and Emma, cloistered with their fashionable friends. Their noses and cheeks were tinged pink and, occasionally, he spotted a hand brushing away tears, shed before the chilly gusts. The girls wore bright and heavy winter coats. Several carried folded umbrellas and expensive handbags.

  Lysette and her sycophants had bullied him during his first few months at school; these days, they largely ignored him, though it hadn’t been without some effort on his part.

  Andy gulped as Mr. Holt corralled the students into groups, pressing the girls closer to the bus, and closer to him. Andy had no one to huddle with, to retreat to. He was about to step down and blend with the mob, but Emma caught sight of him.

  “Look, Letty, the new boy is posing on the steps.”

  Andy’s arms had been planted confidently on his hips; only now did he realize how silly he looked. Cringing, he lowered his arms.

  Lysette and Emma rounded on him, their friends filling in on the sides. Their hungry eyes flashed his way, and behind them he sensed something—was it jeering bloodlust, or only curiosity?

  Despite their numbers, Andy focused on Lysette. Her clear, light eyes fixed on him with a look he didn’t understand. Her gaze, cold and aloof, may have been cruel. Or maybe she was just tired. Her face, half hidden beneath a fall of black hair, bore a subtle beauty that hadn’t yet become self-aware.

  “What are you staring at?” Emma demanded. Emma, in contrast, wore a sharper face, not unpleasant in its lines, but so often stretched beneath drastic expressions that Andy couldn’t say what she really looked like.

  Andy stepped down onto the sidewalk, searching for an escape route through the girls, who refused to part for him. Not sure where to turn, Andy stood still; he felt his cheeks flushing.

  Lysette glanced his way and almost yawned. “He likes the attention,” she said.

  “If he likes attention so much, why not give him a new name?” Emma implored.

  Andy tensed at the mention of names.

  Lysette rolled her eyes. “If you insist,” she muttered. The other girls smirked, clearly amused by this morsel. “What’s he called?”

  “Andy,” Emma said, “but his real name is Ly-san-der.” She struggled through the three syllables.

  Lysette looked him over, “Lysander—rice-ander, lies-ander, belt-sander,” she said tiredly and paused, narrowing her eyes, “but call him, ‘lice,’ for short.”

  They smirked cruelly, their silence inviting reply, though Andy had none.

  “Lice! Because he won’t leave,” Emma insisted.

  He wanted to say something, to produce a witty retort, but he was mute.

  Mr. Holt pushed past the girls.

  “Lysander, check,” he said, minding his roster.

  Andy’s blush deepened as the girls tittered, presumably at his name.

  “Mr. Holt, not my real name, please—”

  “Oh, it’s a fine name, Lysander. Historical and—Greek, I think.” He looked up from his roster. “Who are you paired with?” Mr. Holt asked.

  Andy sighed and caught sight of Emma, who mouthed the words, “You have no friends.”

  Mr. Holt realized that Andy had no partner and turned his gaze on the large group of girls, who, sensing his intention, shrank away.

  But as Mr. Holt was poised to shatter their forthcoming bliss on this field trip—several hours of ignoring the tour, gossiping, and bathing in the collective glow of their popularity—a commotion rose up among the students, and Mr. Holt’s focus shifted.

  A grown woman, clutching the arm of an unfamiliar child, was pushing her way through the mass of students. The woman was wrapped in a purple shawl and the boy was oddly over-dressed, wearing a collared shirt, with a tie sticking out of his pocket—likely removed when the boy saw the casual state of this mob. The boy’s eyes darted here and there, fearful of the curious faces. His cheeks were bright red, though that might have been the wind. He was rail-thin, a sharp contrast to his mother’s expansive carriage, which was highly effective at ploughing through the students.

  “Are you Mr. Holt?” the woman asked, not waiting for a response. “Yes, Mr. Holt, so nice to meet you, sorry for being late—it’s so hard to get across town—you know—oh! This is Dean. Yes, Dean Loggia—check him on your roster there, so it’s official. Of course I couldn’t have him miss his first day of class, even if it is an inconvenience for me. We just moved to the city, you see—”

  The curious students stood apart from the newcomers, unsure what to make of the woman and her son.

  Mr. Holt smiled politely as she rambled and finally found a moment to speak, “We’re very happy to have Dean with us—”

  “We missed you at the school this morning, but the museum is on my commute. The tunnel was terrible—and forget the bridge—oh you must know all about it! What with working in this part of town—” Then turning to her son, “Don’t exci
te yourself—you have your inhaler, Dean—use it if you need to, baby—but call me if you do—and send me a text message when you get back to school! Make some friends now, and behave!”

  Dean’s mother straightened his glasses, collar, and hair before turning and, like an ice-breaker through an arctic sheet, cut an exit through the crowd. She turned to wave, and cried out an agonizing goodbye at least twice.

  Andy cringed at the display and then noticed Emma, her face slack and gawking, as if the new fare on offer was too good to be true.

  Mr. Holt, recovering from the daze produced by Dean’s mother, pivoted and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Well, his arrival was unique—”

  Andy realized Mr. Holt was about to introduce Dean to the class. Don’t do it now! he thought. Not after his mother said all that—give it a few hours, so they’ll forget.

  “Class, say hello to Dean.”

  Silence.

  Dean raised a hand and gave a stilted wave. Andy watched as the gawking faces split even wider at the sad, spindly arm and the limp wave.

  Mr. Holt cleared his throat forcefully.

  “It’s cold,” a student insisted.

  “The sooner we all act politely, the sooner we get to the art museum.”

  “Art museum?” a few voices groaned.

  Mr. Holt crossed his arms and muttered. Andy, being nearby, caught what he said.

  “Be grateful it isn’t the Modern Art museum.”

  Andy knew that many of his classmates had been expecting the zoo, but this was very clearly not the zoo. Logic aside, several clearly held out hope that a few African Elephants might be hiding away, somewhere inside this dignified building, whose columns and triangular pediment reminded Andy of a super-sized bank.

  Dean’s introduction forgotten, Mr. Holt shepherded the class across the plaza and towards the wide stone stairs beneath the museum. As they approached, the girls slipped through the crowd, closer and closer to Dean.

  “You didn’t forget your inhaler, did you?” Emma asked, her voice as flat as she could make it.

  Dean was baffled by the question. “I have it right here,” he said, producing the device from a pocket.

  A few chuckles rose from the group. Their eyes glittered, and their cheeks burned under the strain of smiles stretched so wide. What a gift they had been given on this, already bountiful field trip day.

  “Are you going to behave?” another girl asked Dean, causing Emma to guffaw.

  Finally understanding that he was being mocked, Dean reddened and quickened his pace, hoping to find safety nearer the teacher.

  “Dean, baby, you’re so red—you need your inhaler!” Despite her intermittent cackle, Emma did a fair rendition of Dean’s mother.

  Several students broke out into laughter.

  Mr. Holt turned to investigate. He saw Dean, beet-red and on the verge of tears. Mr. Holt’s eyes flashed across a collection of quickly slackening faces, before settling on Emma.

  Something about her reaction caused his brow to tighten.

  “What?” She replied guiltily.

  Mr. Holt tilted his head.

  “What?” Emma repeated.

  “How many days?”

  Emma scoffed and rolled her eyes.

  “I can do all week,” Mr. Holt said.

  Emma was silent.

  “One day’s lunch detention,” Mr. Holt said, his eagle’s glower scanning the mob of students for only a moment longer.

  Andy considered Dean and the girls. He knew that they would only dig deeper into Dean, especially now that Emma had been punished. Part of Andy, a small, petty part, felt grateful for Dean’s arrival. Today, he was no longer the new kid. Andy balked at his smallness, recalling that his arrival had been nowhere near as embarrassing, and he had received his first nickname just minutes earlier. They’ll probably forget all about my name, now that Dean’s here. If I’m careful, I can go unnoticed for the rest of the year. Maybe I’ll pick up some friends, and I’ll be in good shape for high school. Andy rolled his eyes and quickly dismissed this as too hopeful.

  The class poured in through the heavy, glass doors. A rush of warm air hit their faces, and the recently-donned winter clothes were soon shrugged off and tied about waists or placed over forearms.

  “Alright, class, we’re very lucky today; we’ll be touring in smaller groups, allowing you all time to ask plenty of questions and pick which parts of the gallery you would like to see. But each group will be responsible for its members,” Mr. Holt said. His brow raised, as he noticed several students had drifted off from their assigned groups, only to glom onto their usual friends.

  Mr. Holt’s glower deepened to a state that Andy and his peers recognized as quite serious, and he cut a swathe through the students, rearranging them. Andy stifled a laugh as Lysette and Emma were separated from the rest of their friends. When Mr. Holt turned his attention to a museum attendant, Andy realized that he was still standing alone. He felt nervous and wondered if Mr. Holt had forgotten him on purpose.

  Andy raised his hand, and when Mr. Holt noticed he said, “Don’t worry, Lysander. Just wait a minute.”

  Alarmed at the second mention of his name, Andy’s gaze drift towards Lysette. She wasn’t paying any attention to him, and was busily rearranging her purse and coat. Andy’s eyes cautiously rested on her. She was wearing a black sweater under her coat. She craned her neck back to take in the floral mosaics and sparkling chandeliers far above. Her lipgloss glittered, and her mouth bent in a mischievous pout as Emma whispered to her. Their eyes flashed backed to him, and he looked away.

  Mr. Holt addressed the students. “They are getting the tour guides ready for us.” As he finished, Mr. Holt noticed Andy and Dean. He approached and motioned the two to come closer.

  “Andy?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “This is Dean Loggia. It’s his first day with us.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you’ll remember how hard it was for you on your first day. I’d like you to look out for him. Show him the ropes.”

  Andy glanced at Dean. His eyes were glued to the floor.

  Mr. Holt continued. “Any questions?”

  Andy silently searched for an escape, an excuse not to be with Dean, but nothing came to mind. Mr. Holt attached Andy and Dean to another group of huddled students, none of whom bothered to look up at the newcomers.

  A docent arrived and called them into the main hall. “This way, please.”

  They circumvented the long lines of people waiting for tickets. Andy’s hand brushed across the red velvet rope and burnished bronze of the barriers. The hum of visitors echoed through the old hall. Andy started to feel hot. He peeled off his blue coat, revealing a plaid shirt. He tied the coat about his waist.

  Dean finally spoke as they jostled past the other groups, “I didn’t catch your name. Is it Andrew?”

  Talking about his name was always irritating. “Andy. Call me Andy. I saw all that trouble with your mom. What are you, twelve?”

  Dean cringed. “I’m thirteen, and yeah, Mom can be a hurricane. At least that’s how my dad puts it.”

  “Do what I do: I let my mom know she has to stay at least thirty feet from the bus. That way, no one can hear anything.”

  Dean laughed nervously. “I’ll have to try that.”

  Mr. Holt stood by, recording on his roster as the students were assigned their guides.

  Andy and Dean’s group were paired with an older woman named Adelaide, who smiled widely at the sight of so many young, wind-bitten faces.

  “This way,” she said, gesturing down a grand, central hall. “The museum is divided into sections by era and location. Down the first hall is our collection of classical Greek pottery and statuary—on the right, we have a visiting exhibit from Egypt—”

  Watching Lysette and Emma, a few groups ahead of him, Andy realized that they were scheming. A few whispers passed between the girls and some agreement was reached. The two broke off from their group, while Mr
. Holt was looking away.

  “Did you see that?” Dean asked.

  Andy nodded.

  “Do you want to—let the teacher know?” Dean asked, turning to Mr. Holt, not far behind.

  Andy had thought the same thing and, as much as he would like to see the girls suffer a week’s lunch detention, part of him knew it would be wrong to tell on them.

  Andy shook his head and Dean understood.

  “I’ve never had that happen before,” Dean whispered. “I knew it was coming—the bullying, I mean—”

  Dean’s hands were clenched and his face downcast. Andy took a breath, not sure how to explain that Dean’s future was practically set in stone.

  “Do you have any advice?” Dean whispered.

  Andy felt suddenly guilty and, when no answer came, Dean seemed to deflate, realizing exactly how isolated he was. Too ashamed to meet Dean’s gaze, Andy stared down a hall and spotted Lysette and Emma, laughing and enjoying themselves.

  He turned to Dean, his brow furrowed. Andy felt anger stirring within. He imagined Dean, every inch of him a victim, being teased and belittled daily, for months that stretched on into years.

  Adelaide spoke, “Down this hall are a few featured pieces from the early Renaissance, most are religious—”Andy barely heard her.

  His face hardening, Andy grabbed Dean by the arm and gestured down the side hall. Dean’s face widened.

  “Do you want every day, from here on out, to be the same as this morning?” Andy whispered.

  Dean shook his head.

  “Then come on.”

  Dean gulped. Andy released his arm and slipped away as Adelaide gestured to a fine Deco mosaic that adorned the ceiling.

  Andy found himself in a hall filled with paintings of sailing ships. Advancing, he expected silence, but, moments later, he heard footsteps.

  Expecting a docent, or even Mr. Holt, he turned, and saw Dean, abashed, but apparently brave enough to follow.

  “Come on,” Andy whispered, “I’ve got a plan.”

  They walked silently down side halls, avoiding guards and keeping an eye out for Lysette.