The Serpent King

by Jeff Zentner

“Remember how you would write psalms and sing them with the praise band? Remember that?”

  “Yeah. I guess. Yeah.”

  Dill’s father sat back in his seat, looking off, shaking his head slightly. “Those songs were beautiful.” He stared back at Dill. “Sing one for me.”

  “You mean—like right here? Now?” Dill looked for any sign that his father was joking. That would be an exceedingly rare occurrence, but still.

  “Yes. The one you wrote. ‘And Christ Will Make Us Free.’ ”

  “I don’t have my guitar or anything. Plus, wouldn’t it be…weird?” Dill nodded at the bored-looking guards talking among themselves.

  His father turned and glanced at the guards. He turned back with a gleam in his eye. “Do you think they think we’re not weird?”

  That’s a fair point. Dill blushed. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid. He quickly and quietly sang the requested number a capella. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guards stop conversing to listen.

  “More,” his father said, applauding. “A new one.”

  “I…haven’t really written any new ones for a while.”

  “You’ve given up music?”

  “Not exactly. I just write…different stuff now.”

  His father’s face darkened. “Different stuff. God did not pour out music on your tongue so that you could sing the praises of men and whoredom.”

  “I don’t write songs about whoredom. I don’t have even one song about whoredom.”

  His father pointed at him. “Remember this. Christ is the way. The only way. Your path to salvation. And your music is your path to Christ. My path to Christ was the manifestation of faith signs. We lose our path to Christ; we lose our path to salvation. We lose our eternal reward. Got it?”

  “Yeah. I got it.” Talking to his father made Dill feel like he was talking to a sentient brick wall that somehow knew about Jesus. “Okay, well, I have to go.”

  His father’s face darkened further. “You just got here. Surely you didn’t come all this way just to spend a few minutes and go back home.”

  “No. I hitched a ride with some friends who had to do some school shopping. They’re waiting out in the parking lot and it’s really hot. They were nice to let me come here for a few minutes.”

  Dill’s father exhaled through his nose and stood. “Well, I guess you’d better go to them, then. Goodbye, Junior. Give your mother my love and tell her I’ll write soon.”

  Dill stood. “I will.”

  “Tell her I’ve been getting her letters.”

  “Okay.”

  “When will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “Then I’ll see you when God wills it. Go with Jesus, son.” Dill’s father raised his two fists and put them together side by side. Mark 16:18. Then he turned and walked away.

  Dill released a long exhale as he left the building, as though he’d held his breath for the entire time he was inside to keep from inhaling whatever virulence the men imprisoned there harbored. He felt only slightly better without the dread of visiting his father. Now he just carried the original dread from that morning.

  He reached the car. Lydia was saying something to Travis about how many calories a dragon would have to eat per day to be able to breathe fire. Her argument did not seem to be persuading him.

  She looked up as Dill approached. “Oh thank God.” She started the car. “So, how’s your dad?”

  “Weird,” Dill said. “He’s really weird.”

  “Is—” Travis started to ask.

  “I don’t really feel like talking about it.”

  “Okay, jeez.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude,” Dill said. “Just…let’s go home.”

  They were mostly silent on the return trip. Travis read his book. Lydia switched to a Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds/Gun Club mix and tapped the steering wheel to the rhythm, still radiating good cheer. And why shouldn’t she. She’s had a great day.

  Dill gazed out the window at the trees that lined both sides of the highway, the occasional handmade roadside cross, marking where someone had met their end, punctuating the unbroken wall of green. Three vultures circled something in the distance, soaring on updrafts. He tried to savor the remaining moments of the drive.

  Last time school shopping together. The death of a little piece of my life. And I didn’t even get to enjoy it completely because of my crazy dad. Who keeps slowly getting crazier.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Lydia drive. The edges of her mouth. The way they turned up in a near-perpetual smirk. How her lips moved almost imperceptibly as she unconsciously sang along with the music.

  Remember this. Write it on a handmade cross and plant it in your heart to mark this ending.

  When they pulled into Forrestville, the shadows were long and the light looked like it was streaming through a pitcher of sweet tea. They dropped Travis off first.

  Travis hopped out and bent down to look in the car, his hand on the roof. “Another year, y’all. See you tomorrow?”

  “Unfortunately,” Dill said.

  Travis ambled up the front walk. He turned and waved again when he reached his porch, staff held high.

  Lydia sped off.

  “I’m in no hurry to get home,” Dill said.

  “Habit.”

  “Want to go to Bertram Park and watch trains until it gets dark?”

  “I’d love to hang, but I really need to start putting some time into the blog for the next few months. I’ll be leading with it in my college apps, so there needs to be good content.”

  “Come on.”

  “Look, that’d be fun in its usual somewhat boring way, but no.”

  They pulled up to Dill’s house. He sat for a moment, not reaching for the door handle, before turning to Lydia. “You gonna be too busy for us this year?”

  Lydia’s face took a defiant cast. Her eyes hardened, her exuberant air evaporating. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention—what were we doing for the last several hours? Oh, right.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Not today. I mean in general. Is that how this year’s going to be?”

  “Um, no dude. Same question. Is this how this year will go? You not understanding and being weird when I need to do the stuff I need to do?”

  “No.”

  “Well, we’re not off to a great start.”

  “I get it. You’ll be busy. Whatever.”

  “But you’ll just be really silent and taciturn about it and maybe somewhat of a dick.”

  “I have a lot on my mind.”

  “I’m serious, Dill. Please don’t be gross when I’m busy.”

  “I’m not being gross.”

  “Yeah, you are a little.”

  “Sorry.”

  They regarded each other for a moment as though giving the opportunity for airing additional demands or grievances. Lydia’s face softened. “On a different topic, half of my salad from Panera isn’t much of a dinner.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. I better go. Buds?” She reached over and hugged him goodbye.

  Dill breathed in her smell once more, gathering it along with his new clothes. “Thanks for doing this. I didn’t mean to come off as unappreciative.”

  “Good, because I made you something.” She pulled from the center console a CD with “Joy Division/New Order” written on it in black Sharpie. “This is what we were listening to on the drive to Nashville. I knew you’d want a copy.”

  Dill tapped the CD. “You were right. Thanks.”

  “And you should know that ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ is my favorite song on Earth.”

  “Noted.”

  “Tomorrow, seven-fifteen.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up. “I’ll be ready.”

  Dill got out and walked up to his house. He climbed the cracked, eroding concrete steps to his front door and had his hand on the doorknob before thinki
ng better of it. No use sitting in a gloomy house until it got dark. He laid his bags of clothes and CD on the steps, then sat and stared at the church sign.

  No peace, no peace. No peace, no peace.

  It cheered Raynar Northbrook’s spirit every time he returned from the hunt to see the battlements of Northhome. He wanted nothing more than to sit beside a roaring fire and let his weariness melt away with a flagon of summer mead, trading tales of conquest of lands and beautiful women with his captain of the guard. Until he looked down from his highest battlement and saw the ranks of Rand Allastair’s army of fell men and Accursed approaching to lay siege to his walls, he meant to enjoy life….

  Travis walked in to see his father finishing off a can of Budweiser, his feet on the coffee table, watching the Braves play the Cardinals. A plate covered in congealing chicken wing bones sat on his lap. His eyes were red and bleary.

  His father didn’t look up from the TV. “Where were you?”

  “In Nashville, school shopping for Lydia and Dill. I told you.”

  His father belched, crumpled the can, added it to a large pile, and drew a new can from a dwindling pile. “You get yourself some new clothes? So you don’t look like Dracula?” He popped open the beer.

  “No. I like my clothes.”

  His father chuckled. “And why on Earth wouldn’t you. Reading all that shit about wizards and fairies.”

  “Clint, honey, please don’t curse,” Travis’s mom—timid and red-haired like him—called from the kitchen. How Travis ever came from such a tiny woman was a mystery. Actually, how Travis came from his father was also a decent mystery.

  “My house. I’ll damn well curse,” his father called back.

  “Well I wish you wouldn’t. Travis, are you hungry for supper?”

  “No ma’am.” Travis started for his room.

  “Hang on. Ain’t done talking with you yet.”

  Travis turned.

  “First day of school,” his father said.

  “Yep.”

  “I ever tell you I was quarterback my senior year? Threw the winning pass against Athens High in the semis. Matt was quarterback too.”

  “You had mentioned that before. Couple of times.” Travis felt a sharp pang at the mention of his deceased brother. Matt had always sat down with him the night before school started and given him a little pep talk. Told him how to talk to girls. To stick up for himself. To be a leader and not a follower. Travis already didn’t care for this new sort of pep talk.

  “You plan on spending senior year with your dick in your hand?” his father asked.

  “No sir. In my pants like normal.”

  “You being cute?”

  “No sir.” Travis inched toward his room.

  His father wasn’t done. “What do you plan to do?”

  “Shop classes. Try to get good grades. Graduate. Learn, I guess.”

  His father smirked. “You gonna kick some beaner ass again this year?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” Travis said. “Alex’s left me alone.”

  During junior year, Alex Jimenez cornered Dill in the cafeteria and began playing the “slapping game” with him. The game was simple: Alex slapped at Dill until hopefully he provoked Dill to retaliate, so that he had an excuse to beat Dill’s ass. As the only Latino in their class, Alex wasn’t much higher in the social hierarchy than Dill, but winning a fight usually moved you up a rung.

  Travis walked up as Dill dodged another slap and told Alex to stop. Alex turned his attention to Travis. Winning a fight against someone much bigger than you? That would really cement his status. Travis didn’t do much to defend himself until Alex landed a hard slap across Travis’s eye.

  Then Travis boiled over. He picked up Alex by his soccer jersey and half-pushed, half-threw him a solid seven or eight feet. When Alex landed, he turned his ankle, causing him to fall and crack his head against the edge of one of the cafeteria tables. Blood gushed. He went into seizures.

  That was Travis’s make-or-break moment. Had he said something like “What now, bitch?” and spit on Alex, he would have advanced in the school hierarchy. Instead, he tried to go to Alex to help him, but the crowd kept him away. He paced and ran his fingers through his hair, sobbing and telling anyone who would listen that he was sorry. EMTs showed up. His clear remorse proved his salvation from a full twenty-day suspension. The school administrators knew that if someone could win a fight and still come out the loser, it was by revealing such gentleness. The contempt that earned him would be punishment enough. And when the video hit YouTube, captioned “BIG DUDE TAKES DOWN BULLY AND CRYS LIEK A LITTLE BITCH LOL,” it confirmed the administration’s suspicions.

  But Travis’s father never saw the video (which school administrators got removed in a day by threatening to expel the poster). He didn’t see Travis begging Alex to forgive him as Alex convulsed, his eyes rolled back, blood pooling all over the white linoleum. He didn’t see when Travis, fresh off his suspension, took a container of his mom’s banana pudding—his favorite treat—and found Alex sitting alone in the cafeteria with his ankle cast resting on a chair. Travis offered him the banana pudding. Alex didn’t say anything; he wouldn’t even look at Travis. Slapped away the container as Travis tried to give it to him.

  Travis’s father knew only that his son had kicked some Mexican ass and that the parents, who didn’t speak English, seemed to be afraid to go to the cops or even to ask him to pay their son’s medical bills. And so went one of the few times Travis had ever made him proud.

  “Speaking of using your size for something worthwhile, I ran into Coach the other day at the Walmart,” his father said. “Said you don’t even have to have played the other years to go out for football.”

  “Good to know.”

  “I said you don’t run so fast or catch so good, but you’re a big piece of meat he could put in the defensive line.” His father took a gulp of beer and belched.

  “That’s true. I am a big piece of meat.”

  “You going to try out for the team? Make me proud? Maybe we’ll see you with a girl other than Denny Blankenship’s dyke daughter?”

  “I guess I’ll see.”

  His father gave a disdainful snort. “You guess you’ll see.” He leaned forward and spun the plate of wing bones onto the coffee table. “And then what? After you graduate? Join the Marines like Matt?”

  Another pang, sharper still. Because that turned out well for Matt. “I haven’t thought about it. Keep working at the lumberyard I guess.”

  “You might ought to think about enlisting. Make a man of you. We could hire to fill your position easy.”

  “I’ll think about it.” There was silence as his father returned his attention to the game. Travis stood for a second, watching him, the TV reflected in his father’s eyes. He hoped that if he waited for a second or two more, his father would offer some words of encouragement or wisdom for the start of school; that he would say something that let Travis know he believed in him. Like Matt used to do.

  Just a stifled burp. Travis started once more toward his room.

  “Tell you a story,” his father said, not taking his eyes off the TV. Travis’s heart leapt with hope.

  His father sipped his beer. “Was dropping off this load of two-by-fours where they was adding on to a church. Anyway, this church had a little pond out front and there was these little ducks and a big-ass turkey, all hanging out together, happy as you please.”

  Travis forced a laugh. Best to humor him when he was in storytelling mode. “Yeah, that’s pretty funny.” Not the words of encouragement he hoped for, but better than nothing. Maybe.

  His father fixed his glassy eyes on him. Then back on the TV. “Anyhow, that’s what you remind me of, hanging out with that son of the Pervert Preacher and your dyke friend. That big-ass turkey, thinking he’s a duck.”

  Travis stood there and let the barb sink in, feeling deflated. He waited for his father to say just kidding or explain why he thought turkeys were great. Mayb
e at least wish him luck at school tomorrow. Nothing. Just the reflection of the TV in his eyes. So much for words of encouragement. There went a damn fine day.

  He went into his room and shut the door, resting his staff behind it. He sat down at his cheap, Walmart pressed-board desk and turned on his nine-year-old laptop—a hand-me-down from his brother Matt. The fan whined as he navigated his way to the Bloodfall forums. He typed in his username, Southern_Northbrook, and settled into a spirited debate about the forthcoming Deathstorm, the sixth and final book in the Bloodfall series, due out in March of the following year.

  He tilted back in his chair and surveyed his legion of digital friends—invented names, profile pictures of cartoon characters or frowning cats. He was glad to have them. As he scrolled through the forums, clicking on threads, a little pop-up window appeared at the top of his screen. A direct message. His heart galloped. He opened it. It was from exactly whom he hoped: autumnlands. He didn’t know much about autumnlands, just that she was around his age and that she lived near Birmingham, Alabama. They had just started direct messaging a week ago, after Travis had come to her defense in a heated argument over whether The Accursed were undead humans or something else entirely.

  autumnlands: Hey what’s up?

  Southern_Northbrook: Nothing much just hanging out. What’s up with you?

  autumnlands: Just hanging out too. Loved your theory about Norrell Bayne being the real son of Torren Winterend.

  Travis bounced in his chair and typed. I wish I was the real son of Torren Winterend because he’s probably way cooler than my dad LOL.

  autumnlands: Ugh I totally know what you mean. My dad acts so douchey sometimes. He’s literally on my case all the time about stupid stuff.

  Southern_Northbrook: Yeah my dad was just blabbing about me going out for football when school starts tomorrow. I hate football. Compared me to my brother. I hate it when he does that.

  autumnlands: My parents are always comparing me to my perfect younger sister. It’s the worst. And your school hasn’t started yet??? No fair mine started last week!!!!

  Southern_Northbrook: Maybe you should move here LOL.

  Travis blushed as soon as he hit “send.”