The Python of Caspia

by Michael Green

  “No, it’s on top of them, climbing along the frames,” Andy said.

  Emma’s face twitched with disgust every time Dean spoke. She pulled on Lysette’s wrist with a sense of desperate futility. “Letty, let’s go. I can’t stand them.”

  “In a minute; I’m having fun.”

  Emma reached into her considerable arsenal of exasperated expressions. Rolling her eyes dangerously, waving her hands widely, and hissing in anguish, Emma couldn’t have been clearer. All this went unnoticed by Lysette, who gasped at the sight of red and darted down the hall. Exhausted, Emma followed along as they approached the end of the hall.

  Several quiet museum goers occupied the nearby benches. Many were sketching a painting that featured a windmill perched on a crag above a dark lake.

  “That’s a popular one,” Andy said, noticing all the sketch pads.

  They stood still, taking it in. The ruddy hues of the foliage bending in the wind made Andy feel uneasy.

  Lysette was the first to speak, her eyes shifting from the sketch pads to the painting. “But look at their sketches,” she said, a note of mystery in her voice.

  Andy winced, his eyes straining as he inspected the canvas. “They’re not right—” He glanced at one notepad, then up at the painting again. “It’s not the same.”

  Dean followed their glances. “Guys, it was funny before, but—”

  “This isn’t funny at all, Letty,” Emma muttered, as she turned and stomped her way back down the hall.

  Lysette’s eyes lingered on the painting as she spoke, “Bye Em—see you at lunch,” she murmured, and then said to Andy, “Do you see the letters on the cliff?”

  “Kind of,” Andy whispered, squinting. “I think they’re words.”

  “Yeah,” Lysette said, “They’re definitely words, but they aren’t in any of the sketches.”

  Emma groaned and returned to the group, more afraid of being alone than being near the boys. Lysette inched toward the painting, reading the placard. Andy was about to join her when he felt a slight tickle at his ankle.

  The mouse with the red face was tugging at his pant leg. Andy sensed that the mouse was trying to keep him away from something.

  Andy heard Lysette gasp. Looking up, he thought she was recoiling from the painting. He tried to get past Dean, who was busily shooing the mouse away.

  “Hey, don’t shove—Andy, you’ve got that mouse on your—”

  Not believing his eyes, Andy saw smoky tendrils, purple and inky, reaching down from the frame of the painting and swirling towards Lysette.

  One of the tendrils struck her, and Lysette stumbled. Andy reached out, but was too far, and she fell on her backside.

  Rushing forward, the boys helped Lysette to her feet.

  “My head,” she complained, standing.

  “Why did you fall over?” Dean asked, just shy of chuckling at her.

  “Didn’t you see those things?” she asked, looking back at the painting. “…they’re gone now.”

  Dean, opened his mouth with clear intent to complain, but Andy rolled right over him. “I saw them. It looked like one hit you—there, on the arm.”

  Lysette lifted her arm for them to see. There was no trace of the tendril.

  Emma pushed the boys aside and inspected the arm. “Nothing’s there,” she whispered, clearly concerned for her friend’s sanity.

  Again prepared to complain, Dean was cut short as almost every person with a sketch pad stood at once. Without a word, the artists shuffled from the room.

  “We’re just that annoying,” Andy said, sounding more nervous than he intended.

  Andy remembered the mouse but, looking down, found him missing again. “You frightened him, Dean. That was the mouse we were after. You saw him too, don’t deny it.”

  Dean gawked. “Oh, that mouse! I didn’t realize that was the mouse—”

  “Look,” Lysette said, cutting a potential diatribe short.

  An artist was still sitting on a nearby bench. When she noticed them staring, she put down her pencil sharply. “Will you kids quiet down, please? We’re in a gallery.”

  “Sorry,” Andy said, approaching. “Why did everyone get up and leave?”

  The artist rolled her eyes and raised her pencil. “Art appreciation zombies—they spend five minutes sketching and move on. I haven’t seen anyone taking a selfie with a painting, but I’m sure it’s imminent.” The woman cringed at her own observation and twirled her pencil before continuing, “And then, middle-school field trip—” she surveyed them disdainfully, “—starts falling over and arguing about a mouse.”

  Lysette and Andy smiled as the artist aired her grievances, which only encouraged her.

  “Right—” Andy finally said, wanting to continue the conversation, but not sure how.

  “Or maybe they just went back to their bus,” Emma snapped.

  “Speaking of buses, we should get back. Someone’s going to notice that we’re gone,” Dean implored. Andy ignored him and glanced at the woman’s sketch.

  “Or worse, no one will notice, and they’ll leave us here! Andy—” Andy raised a hand, motioning for silence.

  He saw the strange words on the cliff-face almost present in her sketch; they resembled vague wisps of the letters he saw in the painting. “You can see it too?” He pointed to the cliff.

  “Yeah,” she said tiredly, “Maybe it’s a reused canvas, or it might be a mistake, but the painter is an Old Master; I don’t see how this got by. It’s almost like something’s written there.”

  Almost?

  “Maybe a vandal came along. It’s very faint, like it’s been mostly cleaned away.” Her pencil skated across the paper, sketching in more of the anomalous spots. “Step off, kid. You’re in my light.”

  “Sorry,” Andy said, backing away.

  “You two are having vision problems. There’s no writing on that painting,” Dean said, and Emma nodded in agreement.

  “There you are!” Mr. Holt barged into the hall. “Over here, at once!” It was the angriest whisper Andy had ever heard.

  “Oh, thank goodness!” Dean raised his hands to the sky. “Wait—what am I saying? This means detention for sure.”

  Andy approached Mr. Holt with the others, but felt a sudden urge, and looked back at the painting.

  This is important.

  He focused his eyes on the cliff. The letters were suddenly clear, but the words were in another language. His eyes hurt as he stared, but he refused to look away.

  He forced himself to memorize the message as quickly as he could. He repeated the words over and over in his head, when suddenly, someone had him by the shoulder.

  “Don’t ignore me, Mister.” Mr. Holt’s heavy hand rattled Andy’s concentration. “What’s gotten into you? I ask you to take care of Dean, and this is what I get? Mr. Vanavarre, are you listening to me?”

  Andy was still focused on the words in his mind.

  As they were marched from the gallery, Andy fumbled for his cell phone to record the message.

  “You’ll get this—” Mr. Holt yanked the phone away, “—back from your parents.”

  Sighing, Andy looked back into the hall as they turned the corner and saw a heavyset, bald man in a suit, flanked by two guards, entering from the far end. The man watched as Mr. Holt dragged them away.

  They suffered the fearful stares and whispers of their classmates as they left the gallery. Mr. Holt walked them out to the bus, and then ordered them to stand and wait.

  Andy sighed, shielding his eyes from the sun. He tried to avoid looking at Lysette and Dean.

  Eventually, the other groups of students returned. Looking bored and hungry, they clustered on the wide stairs of the gallery to eat lunch, served by the museum cafeteria and delivered to them in boxes. Mr. Holt handed them their boxed lunches, but then separated Emma from the rest; she stood alone beside a flagpole, serving her detention for bullying Dean earlier. Andy preferred the lunch his mother packed and found himself with extra food
squirreled away in his pack.

  When Mr. Holt was out of sight, Andy glanced at Lysette and Dean. Dean was still exasperated, likely imagining some inevitable punishment, but Lysette looked pleased with herself as she leaned against the bus.

  “Hey, uh—I’m sorry for getting us in trouble back there,” Andy said.

  “On my first day, too—” Dean muttered.

  “Shut up about getting us in trouble! I’m just as responsible.” Lysette pushed her hair from her eyes. “It was interesting, anyway.”

  Mr. Holt appeared from the other side of the bus. He eyed them harshly.

  Andy spent the rest of his lunchtime thinking about Lysette. She seemed to enjoy herself, running around after the mouse. She had always been cruel and joyless. Andy was too flustered to make sense of her. An uncomfortable memory surfaced: when the lights changed, and she stumbled, but did something else happen? Andy found a piece of paper in his pack and jotted down the words he had seen in the painting.

  Mr. Holt called the class to their feet and directed them to the bus, leaving Andy, Lysette, Emma, and Dean to stand still and suffer stares as their classmates filed aboard.

  Finally, Mr. Holt rounded on them and simply shook his head. They climbed the stairs onto the bus and took their seats in silence.

  Andy had the distinct impression that he had never been in more trouble. He wasn’t concerned for himself, but felt guilty that Dean and Lysette might be punished for his urge to chase a mouse. Then it struck him: He felt bad for Lysette.

  In that moment, his stomach turned. To think that he felt bad for Lysette, who had always ignored, or treated him with contempt, made him uncomfortable in a way he had never experienced. All at once, he was certain that his life had changed.

  Chapter 3

  Consequences

  After coming home, Andy’s father had ushered him into his bedroom and slammed the door. He stood rooted to the spot where his father had left him, his heart pounding, unable to imagine the forthcoming punishment.

  He was in trouble so rarely, and it hardly seemed like a major infraction. They hadn’t left the museum; at worst, it was a case of ignoring instructions. He remembered the mouse, the flashing lights, and the artists all leaving at once. He wanted to mention all this, if only to dampen his wrongdoing, but he knew his parents wouldn’t believe any of it.

  Andy strained to hear the conversation between his parents and Mr. Holt, but could only make out a few words. Someone mentioned Dean. Of course Dean was fine. Nothing bad happened. Andy took a breath and sank into his chair. He felt almost safe, because they were too busy talking to punish him. But the feeling was short-lived. A moment later, the front door closed with a snap.

  Here it comes.

  He felt his father’s footsteps through the floor.

  There’s nothing I can do.

  Startled by a darting shape, Andy fell backwards, his chair crashing with him.

  “What’s going on in here?” his father asked as the door swung open. His eyes scanned the room, before landing on his son. “Why are you on the floor?”

  Andy opened his mouth to respond, but noticed a white and red shape hiding behind his bed post.

  That little jerk!

  It was the mouse, the same mouse with the red face.

  But how?

  Andy’s father grabbed him from under the shoulders and pulled him to his feet.

  “That scared, huh?” His father’s vivid, lively eyes locked onto his. There was no anger there. Instead, Andy saw concern and suddenly felt ashamed.

  “I—we—nothing happened. We just walked around the museum.”

  His father righted the toppled seat and motioned for Andy to sit. “Yeah, I got that impression.”

  “I—” Andy tried to speak, but no explanations came to him. He sat down and stared at his hands.

  “I don’t like to disagree with your teacher. Mr. Holt was right to be concerned. But I think he got a little too upset. Just keep him happy for the rest of the year.” He paused for a moment. “What’s the old rule? I think it was: Follow the teacher’s directions, even when they don’t make sense.” He nodded to underscore the point. “When you’re old enough, you can tell them all where to get off. Not yet, though.” His father’s expression, always a step from wry sarcasm, implied that all of this should be obvious.

  “Yeah, I know. I couldn’t help it. I had Dean there, and he’s new.”

  “Dean? Did he put you up to it?”

  Andy laughed, which surprised his father. “No—no, not Dean. The girls were giving us a hard time, and we saw them walk away from their group—”

  His father interrupted, “Ah, now it makes sense.”

  Andy tried to interrupt, to explain how it really happened, but he couldn’t get a word in as his father related a similar story from his youth. “—but back in those days it was a quick whipping for stepping out of line. Just think about that next time. How much easier you kids have it makes me sick. If Mr. Holt is the worst you ever see, call Heaven, thank God, and ask for seconds.”

  Andy shook his head, grinning at his father and yet another odd saying he had never heard before.

  “Now, don’t give me that look. I went through it all, young man—” he paused for a moment, “—but if Mr. Holt asks, you’re grounded for the next week.”

  “Aw! But you said—”

  “I know what I said. All right, it’s only fair. You’re semi-grounded. Nothing fun outside the apartment, but you can do what you want here.”

  Andy considered this. “Can I have Dean over?”

  “If—and only if—I see proof that you’ve finished any and all studying and homework for every one of your classes.”

  “No legal talk, please, and okay, fair enough. Thanks for not throwing the book at me.”

  His father turned to leave, but something on the desk caught his eye. “What’s that?”

  He was looking at the scrap of notebook paper that held the painting’s message. Andy had agonized over the message during the bus trip and felt confident that he recalled it correctly. “It’s just some notes from today.”

  “What do you have written here?” Andy’s father lifted the paper and examined it. “Do they have you taking German?”

  “No. I saw it today at the museum,” he said, feeling nervous.

  Andy’s father scratched his chin and sounded out the words, “Om personen dat deze kan lezen: Vermijd artsen van het oog,” he paused at the end, “vermijd? Oog? I think you’re looking at Dutch here, not German.”

  “Oh. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll run it through the translator,” Andy said gratefully.

  “Sure—say,” his father paused, about to leave, “you were all over the museum. There were hundreds of paintings and artworks from all over the world—why did you write that bit down?”

  Andy paused for a moment before answering; his father noticed his hesitation.

  He won’t believe me...and if he did, that’d be worse.

  “It stood out to me,” he finally said, reassured that he hadn’t lied.

  “Getting an artistic eye?” His father nodded with a surprised, yet knowing look on his face, “That, or you were trying to impress a girl. Mr. Holt mentioned you had also run off with Lysette.”

  “Dad! Come on!”

  His father laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender as he retreated from Andy’s room.

  The instant his father left, Andy leaped to his feet and hunted around his room for the mouse.

  I know I saw you. You’re in here somewhere. He dropped to the floor and looked under his bed. Nothing! He picked up piles of clothes and threw them on his bed. Not here either! After a few minutes he was staring at a bare floor. The jerk made me clean my room. And my dad thinks I’m involved with Lysette, and who knows what else—where is that mouse?

  But all was silent. Nothing moved. Surrendering, Andy sighed and sat heavily in his computer chair. Confident that he could at least get this right, he picked up his note with th
e words from the painting.

  He found an application online that would translate the message. He struggled, typing in the strange language. Finally satisfied that the message was correct, he paused, his cursor hovering over the “translate” button. Andy wondered if he should be encouraging this. He began to doubt that any of it actually happened.

  Dean saw the mouse. So did Lysette. Lysette also saw the letters, and so did that artist.

  That made sense to him.

  If I’m crazy, they are too.

  He clicked the translate button and saw the words, “To those who can read this: Avoid all physicians of the eye.”

  Filled with pained exasperation, Andy rose from his chair and fell into the pile of clothes lying on his bed. That was enough for one day.

  As he lay there, the day’s excitement withdrew, leaving fatigue to wash over him. He shifted around in the piles of clothes, until he had worn himself a small nest between jackets and jeans. He was vaguely aware of a white mouse with a red face scurrying nearby.

  I said no more today, brain. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. And with that, he fell asleep, and slept soundly.

  The next day, he awoke refreshed and eager for school. He convinced his parents to let him walk to the bus stop alone, after relating the tragic story of Dean’s first day. He had earned their sympathy; they exchanged stark looks and relented. He was thirteen, after all.

  He helped Dean find which classes he was taking and where his locker was. Andy led him through the halls, hunting down all the right classrooms—they shared a few—until Dean was satisfied that he wouldn’t get lost. They had the same homeroom, with Mr. Holt. Andy approached his teacher and apologized before homeroom started.

  “I understand, Lysander.” Mr. Holt didn’t look angry. “I was your age once. Just don’t drag people down in an effort to look cool. It isn’t worth it.”

  Andy wanted to disagree, to argue about his motive for not following directions, but he couldn’t, mostly because he didn’t know why he did it. Mr. Holt patted him on the shoulder as they entered the classroom.