The Python of Caspia

by Michael Green

  “So, do you know those girls?” Dean asked.

  “They’ve teased me since I was the new guy.”

  Dean looked confused. “Well, they’ve got me to bully now. Wait, I don’t understand why you’re doing this, Andy. We don’t even know each other and—what, uh, what are we doing exactly?”

  “Just keep up,” Andy said, catching sight of Emma’s hair, bouncing around a few rooms ahead.

  Andy sped up, Dean on his heels.

  “How did I get myself into this situation?” Dean whispered. “First day—I’ve already been laughed at by everyone, and now I’m falling in with the wrong crowd. Mom was right!”

  Andy nearly burst out laughing at this assessment. He glanced at Dean, to see if he was being serious. Distracted, Andy turned the corner and failed to notice something large sat squarely in his path. He skidded to a halt, just shy of a bronze statue. His feet slid on the smooth floor and his hand rose, barely grazing the bronze. He felt a burst of fear, but no one had seen.

  Andy slowed to a stop and took a breath. He blinked and felt suddenly lightheaded.

  “Are you alright?” Dean asked.

  Andy rubbed his eyes, which were oddly sore. “I’m fine; I think I’ve got something in my eyes.”

  “Just be careful—you nearly ran into that statue. I don’t want to get in trouble, especially on my fist day,” Dean said, his voice rising.

  “We’re fine,” Andy replied, looking around for guards. “I barely touched it.”

  “You touched it?” Dean whispered, incensed. “There are cameras all over the place! We’ll get thrown out, or put in detention, or suspended—” he fell silent as Andy glared.

  Dismissing Dean, Andy regarded the statue. He walked around to the other side and had to back away to get a full view of the piece.

  A heroic warrior struggled against a massive python, resisting the snake with his bare hands. The python coiled around his legs, attempting to overpower him, but the man gripped his foe by the throat, keeping its fangs at bay. Andy stood transfixed, watching the primal struggle, frozen in bronze.

  “Andy?” Dean was tugging his sleeve and craning his neck. “It’s a nice statue, but we should go back and find that lady—Addy? Adel?” He suddenly panicked. “What was her name, Andy? I can’t remember!”

  A rickety old guard on a stool lowered his newspaper and hushed Dean.

  Captivated, Andy barely noticed.

  “Andy—” Dean whispered, his eyes on the guard, who had returned to his paper.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Dean glanced at the sculpture, unimpressed. He read the placard: “An athlete wrestling with a python. Bronze. By Lord Leighton.”

  “Why’d you read the description? That ruins it.”

  “Ruins it?” Dean sounded confused.

  Andy crossed his arms. “Yeah, well—a little. Before I knew it was an athlete, I thought it was—humankind.”

  Dean looked again and spoke skeptically, “Humankind—wrestling a snake?”

  Andy suddenly felt annoyed. “No. It’s more like all of us wrestling with a—” he fell silent, his face pinched in thought, “—It’s like we’re all struggling. Life is dangerous.”

  Dean was quiet for a moment. He had forgotten that they were skipping out on the tour. “I get it. So, it’s like we’re all him. We’re all dealing with problems in our lives.” Dean reached into his pocket to find his phone. He was about to take a picture, but paused. “Smile, or do something,” Dean said.

  “I’ve got it.” Andy positioned his legs and copied the statue’s pose. The phone flashed as Dean pressed a button.

  “Posing with a statue?”

  Emma appeared from around a corner, a humiliating grin stretched across her face. Lysette wasn’t far behind.

  When they were cruel to him, Andy had felt like he almost deserved it. Now he felt something entirely different. This time, as he looked at Dean’s cowering posture, the way his shoulders stooped and how his hands fidgeted, he felt himself becoming angry.

  The girls approached.

  Lysette scowled. “It’s almost like you’re actually enjoying this place.”

  “Posing with a statue?” Emma repeated. “That’s sad, even for you.”

  Dean shuffled backwards, trying to escape.

  “I’m sorry, Lysette; I didn’t realize it was a crime to be interested in things.” Andy said, surprising himself.

  She went rigid and turned, a bemused look on her usually haughty face.

  “You can’t talk to her,” Emma scoffed, “go away, Lice.”

  “No,” Andy retorted. “We were here first.”

  Dean grabbed Andy’s arm. “Let’s just go—they’ll get their friends to beat us up. They’re the popular girls, right?”

  Andy spoke quietly, “Yeah, but I don’t care anymore.” Then loudly, to Emma, “I’ll talk to whoever I like, and we were here first, and the statue is like—ten times more interesting than you.”

  A brief laugh escaped from Lysette, cut short by a wounded look from Emma.

  Andy wasn’t finished. “I don’t want to take a picture with either of you, and neither does Dean.” he glanced toward Dean. “Right?”

  Dean was silent, and very interested in his shoelaces.

  “Ew,” Emma said, “that means the baby has a crush on one of us. God, I hope it’s you, Letty.”

  Lysette cringed and grabbed Emma’s arm. “Don’t make me sick. Let’s go.”

  Then, to Andy’s astonishment, they walked away.

  Somewhere between amusement and disbelief, Andy stared at their retreating forms.

  Dean gazed somberly into the distance. “Enjoy it while you can. They’ll have the football team on us before the week is out, and you can take that to the bank. Just don’t drag me into it when it’s time for revenge.”

  Andy gave him a doubtful look.

  “What? I’ve got a bad back. My doctor says I can’t be doing any strenuous physical activity—”

  Andy ignored him and pointed at the statue. “It was the statue, Dean; the statue did it.”

  “The statue?” Dean repeated.

  “It made me brave. I can’t explain it. I wouldn’t have done any of that this morning.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. I think your age is getting to you. My doctor told me about hormones. They make you crazy, and they can strike at any time.”

  “Yeah, but this morning I was afraid, and now—It’s the only thing that changed—well, you showed up too—but I’m sure it was the statue.”

  “Okay, okay. But I think you should see someone if you think statues are affecting your behavior—” Dean continued babbling, “—my dad might know someone downtown who would be great for you.”

  “It changes today,” Andy said, looking down the hall after the girls, “If we’re going to take a beating, let’s earn it. We’ll take the fight to them.”

  “I need your number,” Dean said, fumbling with his phone. “Andy, how do you spell your name—wait, what? You want to—take the fight to who?”

  “Hurry,” Andy said, heading after the girls.

  Dean followed along, complaining all the way.

  Chapter 2

  A Mouse

  “Look, we had one good argument with the girls. Let’s just call it a day, retire as champs—” Dean gave his new friend a pleading look, “—come on!”

  “Quiet down,” Andy hissed, “they’ll hear you.” Andy peeked around a corner, glimpsing the girls in a room ahead. They were huddled together, whispering.

  “Let’s go,” Andy said.

  They turned the corner, Dean dragging his feet all the while, and found themselves at the mouth of a long room filled with rough drawings, studies, and sketches for larger paintings.

  “Get your phone ready,” Andy whispered. “We’ll snap a photo of them without their group. It’s proof they were breaking the rules.”

  “Are we really going to tell on them?”

 
“No—that wouldn’t be right. We’ll just—uhm, if they try to bully us, we’ll threaten to tell on them.” Andy sounded uncertain.

  “I see, classic blackmail.”

  “Not really; we’re not robbing them, just trying to—to keep the peace.”

  After a moment of uncomfortable shuffling, Dean worked up the courage to disagree. “Look, Andy, this is moving a little too fast. I don’t even know you that well, and it’s my first day—maybe I should settle in a little bit before we get all ‘mafia.’”

  “I’m not forcing you to do anything. Why don’t you go find Adelaide and take the tour? Leave your new buddy alone—I’m only trying to stop them from picking on you for the rest of the year.”

  “I’m already feeling the pressure—you don’t have to rub it in—Wait! You knew the old lady’s name this whole time?” Despite Andy trying to hush him, Dean’s voice reverberated through the halls.

  Hearing this, the girls turned and noticed their pursuers.

  “Stalkers!” Emma blurted out, disgusted at the sight of them.

  “Dean—the picture.” Andy said quietly.

  Dean fumbled for his cell phone, readied it, and snapped a picture of the girls.

  “Oh—they are stalking us.” Lysette said, her bored expression slipping away.

  “No,” Dean said, “this picture proves you’re not with your tour guide. We’ll show this to Mr. Holt if you trash-talk us anymore. It’s called insurance.” But he whispered to Andy, “Right, Andy? This was the plan?”

  Emma stammered, but Lysette quickly produced her own phone, and took a picture of the boys.

  “Aw—” Dean said.

  Andy felt irked for a moment, though he was more impressed than annoyed.

  I should have known she’d do that.

  Lysette showed them her phone’s screen. “Now what, Lice?” she looked from Andy to Dean, and paused thoughtfully, “Loogey? You can’t tell on us, or we’ll tell on you.”

  “No—don’t call me that,” Dean moaned under his breath.

  “Hey look,” Andy interrupted, “do you see that? Something’s there.” Andy’s eyes were fixed on the ground nearby; a blur of movement and color had distracted him from Lysette’s taunting. He pointed.

  Everyone fell silent and looked, though they saw nothing.

  “Beneath that sketch,” Andy insisted, “it looked like a little mouse in the corner.”

  He was met with three dubious stares.

  “Hugs, not drugs, Lice,” Lysette said dismissively and turned to leave, but then she gave a sudden start. “What did that mouse look like?” she asked, staring at another corner.

  “It was white, with a red face,” Andy said, scanning the room.

  “I knew my first day would be bad, but I wasn’t expecting this,” Dean said, backing away toward the entrance.

  “There it goes!” Andy exclaimed, rushing down the hall.

  Lysette charged after Andy. Dean and Emma shared an awkward moment before they followed.

  “I see it,” Lysette called out.

  Andy slid to a halt across the floor and then turned. He was now behind Lysette.

  They shrank under the glower of a guard and slowed their pace. Andy tried not to laugh as the man’s suspicious eyes followed them through the hall. The next room was tightly packed with a large tour group.

  “I lost it,” Andy said.

  “Me too,” Lysette replied, peeking under a bench.

  “Andy, what—exactly—did you see?” Dean asked, reaching into his pocket for his inhaler.

  “A little white mouse,” he answered.

  “With a red face,” Lysette finished.

  “Yeah, all right, red mouse, white face. I’m not deaf.”

  Lysette and Andy both scowled.

  “What? I didn’t see it! Blame my prescription,” Dean concluded sarcastically, pointing at his glasses.

  “I didn’t see it either,” Emma said, keeping away from the boys, and looking desperately like she wanted to be anywhere else.

  “See?” Dean gestured at Emma, “I’m not crazy. I may be with the mean girl on this, but I’m not crazy.”

  Andy laughed. Emma’s eyes flicked back and forth between them, impotent outrage blooming across her face.

  “There it goes! It’s leaping from painting to painting,” Lysette said, now leading the chase. “How did it get up there?”

  They pursued the mouse into the main hall and found themselves pushing through a few tour groups, all circled about a painting featuring waterlilies.

  “—industrial revolution was a major contributor to several modes of escapism,” the tour guide explained.

  Andy spotted Mr. Holt in the crowd, trying to supervise his students, though he seemed more interested in the lecture. Mr. Holt spotted Andy and recognition filled his face.

  Andy gulped, and looked over his shoulder to see Dean and Emma, just behind.

  Mr. Holt nodded approvingly.

  “Renaissance and Medieval revivals filled canvases and a new wave of novels, culminating in many you now know—though a far simpler response to belching smokestacks and poverty was later found by the Impressionists. They went to the park and painted what they saw—though columns of soot and the outlines of mills sneak into several of these pieces, lending them a tragic aspect.”

  After a moment, Andy realized they weren’t in trouble and relaxed. Lysette tugged on his sleeve. Her eyes were wide, and a smile threatened to break across her face.

  “He saw us,” she whispered to Andy, referring to Mr. Holt.

  “Yeah, but I think he was checking to see if Dean was still with me.”

  “Well, at least he’s good for something,” she whispered looking back at Dean, who visibly wilted beneath her glance.

  “But why is it bad?” a student asked the tour guide, indicating the painting.

  Andy felt a collective gulp resound through his peers, and barely a chuckle followed the question, though the tour guide, surprisingly, laughed at this.

  “What makes the painting bad?” she asked the offending student.

  Andy smirked at the question but, as he studied the painting, he realized that he too questioned its merit. At first glance, it resembled a thousand seemingly random splotches. Of course, all paintings are just streaks of color or splotches, but this one seemed too obvious about it.

  “It’s bad because the water looks wrong, and so do the flowers, and the bridge too. Other painters make them look right,” the student reasoned. Several classmates nodded in agreement, though many turned to Mr. Holt, who seemed untroubled by the likely disrespectful comment.

  “Well,” the tour guide started, “students often have this response. Impressionism is also a response to modernity. Imagine being an artist around 1870, times are tough, yet paintings still sell. But then, along comes the camera, and with it, the photograph.” She paused for emphasis. “Suddenly, pictures represented a perfect recreation of the world.”

  Lysette raised her hand and the tour guide nodded her way.

  “So, artists could be replaced. Something that takes them days or weeks to create can be done in moments.”

  “And for considerably cheaper,” Dean added.

  “Absolutely correct, both of you. Leaving behind strict realism, artists searched for something more ethereal. Their aim was to grasp at the feeling of a moment, at its impression.”

  Murmurs of comprehension filled the air, though most of the students still seemed unsatisfied by this answer.

  The painting hung on a wall near a flight of wide stone stairs which led to the second floor.

  Lysette nudged Andy. She gestured with her eyes to the stairwell. Andy looked, but saw nothing.

  She leaned in, her hair brushing against his cheek. “The mouse, he’s on the stairs.”

  Andy felt his stomach flutter at the nearness, the fresh smell of something that might have been perfume, lotion, or something for her hair. But, most alarming, was her uncharacteristic lack of disdain. He star
ed a moment longer and spotted the mouse, tucked away at the base of the railing. The mouse, apparently aware that it had been sighted, turned and resumed its skittery climb up the stairs.

  The tour guide continued, “Let’s go back in time, and turn towards Romanticism—down this hall behind us, we’ll find works that might better suit your tastes.”

  Mr. Holt chuckled as he directed the students.

  “Should we stay with the group?” Andy asked.

  “Yes,” Emma and Dean said, their voices overlapping.

  “No,” Lysette scoffed, turning toward the stairs. Andy made to follow her.

  “Some new friend you are,” Dean complained.

  Andy smirked. “Feel free to stay with Emma. You two could learn a lot from each other.”

  Andy hurried to catch up to Lysette, while Dean and Emma shared another painful moment together. They immediately followed.

  The mismatched pairs bounded up the stairs to the second floor. Emma and Lysette looked one way down the hall, while Andy and Dean turned the other.

  “If I had known you were infatuated with—” Dean started, and was instantly silenced by a glare from Andy. “All I’m saying is that she’s supposed to be queen of the bullies—and you were stuck on moral principles a minute ago.”

  Andy knew Dean was right, that he was acting strangely but, why not make friends with these girls? It seemed better than blackmailing them into decency, and, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself, he had been curious about Lysette since his first day, several months before.

  Dean stared, waiting for a reply but, gratefully, Andy spotted a blur of red down the hall. “Down that way,” Andy said, ignoring Dean.

  The girls followed, and Dean choked back his complaints. They found themselves at the mouth of a dim wing of the gallery. The paintings here, largely somber landscapes or dark ocean scenes, were moodily lit from above.

  “I lost it,” Andy and Lysette whispered in unison.

  They walked slowly down the hall, their eyes moving carefully from painting to painting.

  “So, this isn’t just an excuse to run around and feel rebellious? You guys are definitely seeing something in the paintings, or is it jumping from painting to painting?” Dean asked in a whisper. “Because I’m thinking optometry might be a good idea.”