Serpent Circles Read online

  Serpent Circles

  A Novella

  J. Clifton Slater

  This novella is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights belong to J. Clifton Slater.

  Serpent Circles

  Chapter – 1 Rare Winter Visitor

  Nobody drove the backroads in the cold season. In winter, freezing sleet encased trees, abodes, and any fool, dumb enough, to be out driving in the weather. The rays of the morning sun glistened off the ice making the hills and valleys sparkle like grandma’s Sunday jewelry. Cold and frail, the thin layer of ice looked beautiful on the leaves of the trees. But those weren’t adequate reasons to drive up Breakneck Holler during winter.

  At the sound of a vehicle resonating through the frigid mountain air, Solomon Cooper slipped a glove over his left hand before pulling on his patched-up overcoat. He took his rifle from where it rested against the wall and snatched the sonic emitter from a shelf. With the rifle slung over his shoulder and the emitter raised as if it was a lantern held aloft at night, the mountain man unlatched his door, crossed the courtyard to the circular picket wall, and opened the outer gate.

  In the patch of sky visible through the trees, he noted Wolframite, one of Planet Scheelite’s two moons, was still up. Then he swung the sonic emitter through the gate. Seeing zero on the dial, he stepped through himself and inspected this quarter of his circle. A few overgrown bushes and limbs had intruded and broken the perfect symmetry of his property. He’d need to trim them back after the spring thaw.

  Solomon kept an eye on the dial of the device as he edged away from the gate and strolled around his compound’s wall. As he patrolled the property, he inspected the cleared area and the stockade until he could see the approaching vehicle.

  Darn fool, no sane person drove in winter, he thought.

  Yet, here came a hover car. It was a nice one with reinforced bumpers and an undercarriage beefed up to survive rough terrain. And it boasted extra-large ports to lift the vehicle high enough to clear the deep and long ruts in the narrow, frozen dirt road. Of course, if the driver used the full air pressure on a busy city street, it would blow the other hover cars into the gutters and sidewalks. Out here in the boonies, as the city folks called it, the high pressure threatened to shatter the thin layer of ice on the vines, limbs, and other things lining the road.

  Adding to the insanity, it came at a high rate of speed making more noise than was sensible and dangerously cracking the thin coating of ice. That kind of stupid could only mean the driver was city folk. Figuring the vehicle was heading for his homestead as there were no homes further up Breakneck Holler, Solomon open the gate. Then he placed a board over the trench and waved the vehicle into the compound. Thankfully the driver dropped air pressure at the last second and avoided blowing the old truck over and into the curved, stockade wall.

  “Mr. Cooper?” inquired a young man as he hopped out of the hovercraft.

  “That’s me, Solomon Cooper. What can I do you for?” replied the mountain man. Then he imparted some common sense. “You know, nobody drives up here in the winter.”

  The city guy missed the warning because he had turned and was leaning into the car. When he emerged, he held a satchel and a recording device in his hands.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” the man said. “But you don’t have any communications equipment on the net. If I had been able to reach you, I would have messaged you for an appointment.”

  Solomon laughed and informed the man, “I haven’t had an appointment for several years. Don’t see why anyone would want to make one after all this time. And who might you be?”

  “I apologize Mr. Cooper. My name is Tim Constance. I’m a historical researcher from Dunston University,” the man explained. “I’m doing a research paper on the Crusty Boy Mine. The records show you are the only living resident of this area to actually have seen the mine in operation. I wonder if I could ask you about your experiences?”

  “My experiences, Timothy, are simply a man trying to survive long enough to die peacefully in his own bed,” Solomon protested. “No one would be interested.”

  “I am,” Tim assured the man. “But can we talk inside. I’m freezing.”

  Solomon eyed the light jacket, the thin shirt and khakis. The only thing suitable for venturing into the mountains was the man’s thick soled hiking boots. Dressed as he was, if there was an accident, Tim Constance would freeze to death before he became a meal for a woodland creature. Unless a puma, a wolf, or a nadreddet found him first.

  “Okay, Timothy, follow me,” urged Solomon as he closed and latched the vehicle gate.

  The mountain man, moving as gracefully as a dancer, guided Tim around the structure to the front porch of a domed house. Solomon left the researcher standing on the porch while he walked across the yard and closed the gate in the log wall.

  Tim enjoyed the view of the upper reaches of the mountain valley. The land rose steeply before the frosty tree branches joined together and formed a wall of icy green. One feature he could see above the trees was the gray rocky corner of the mountain. The scene was breathtaking but limited.

  “Most people would have their front porch facing toward the valley,” observed Tim. “You know, to take in the entire vista of the valley and the mountains on the far side.”

  “I thought of that,” admitted Solomon as he strolled back to the house. “But then again, nothing from that direction ever tried to kill me. Here you go.”

  Solomon opened the front door and ushered the researcher into his house. When the mountain man turned to bolt the door, Tim looked at the extraordinarily broad back. While Solomon was only a little taller than the historical researcher, the heavy coast made him easily twice the width. When he removed the coat, Tim saw it wasn’t the padding in the coat but massive deltoid muscles giving shape to Solomon’s shoulders.

  They entered a round room with a partitioned off restroom and three divider walls separating a cooking area from a bedroom. Above them, a skylight allowed for natural light to filter in on the mostly open space.

  Tim scanned the room and the few pieces of rustic furniture. Then his eyes settled on a metal mound in the center of the house. Spikes jutted out making it resemble a navy anti-ship mine.

  “It’s a safe room,” Solomon stated seeing the researcher staring at the rounded, unpainted metal structure. Heading for the kitchen area, he asked. “Coffee? Or are you hungry?”

  “No, Mr. Cooper. I stayed at the Old Bedford Inn last night,” Tim replied. “I ate before I left.”

  “Nice place, I stay there when I go into town. I’m surprised they didn’t warn you about driving up here in winter,” remarked Solomon. “Coffee?”

  “They did but I’m on a publishing deadline. And, yes to the coffee,” Tim said as he placed the satchel and the recorder on a coffee table constructed from cut logs. “Did you make this?”

  “I made everything in here,” Solomon bragged. “Including the safe room.”

  “I see some new patchwork on the walls. Was it a rock slide?” Tim inquired in an attempt to create a conversational atmosphere.

  The curved walls of the house were constructed of metal siding, plywood, and huge pieces of plastic. None of the materials matched or were uniformed in size. Obviously, the structure was made from scavenged items.

  “I built the safe room because of the destruction of that wall,” Solomon offered from the kitchen. “Cream and sugar, Timothy?”

  “A little cream would be great,” he replied.

  The relatively young man carried two chipped ceramic mugs from the kitchen and placed one in front of the researcher.

  “Let me know if that’s enough cream,” requested Solomon.

  “I
t’s fine, thank you,” Tim said as he turned on the recorder. “Please state your name, occupation, and your memories of the Crusty Boy Mine.”

  “The name is Solomon Cooper,” the mountain man said. Then he paused and took a sip of coffee. “Occupation? That’s a little harder to describe.”

  Tim followed Solomon’s eyes as the man gazed around the room. For the first time, Tim noticed the steamer trunks along the divider walls, the whaling harpoon mounted in one place, and a knight’s sword and small shield hanging in another area.

  “Mr. Cooper. Were you a seafaring man?” Tim questioned hoping to prompt Solomon into a reply about his occupation.

  “I always wanted to go to sea,” Solomon said wistfully. “But my calling, my challenges, and my duties were in these mountains.”

  “You seem rather young to have been a miner at Crusty Boy,” suggested Tim. “Or even a heavy equipment operator or a driver at the mine.”

  “No Timothy Constance, I was neither a miner or an operator,” Solomon advised with a stern look. “I was a nadreddet slayer. Well, at first I was.”

  “Hold on,” Tim interrupted turning off the recorder. “I am a historian. Snakes are more for the Zoology department. And nadreddets would fall under the purview of the biology department. I’m only interested in what happened at the Crusty Boy Mine.”

  “Mr. Constance. You made a dangerous drive to come and speak with me,” Solomon informed the researcher. “If my story doesn’t suit your purpose, by all means, leave. But do yourself a favor. Go slow and keep your air pumps to a minimum.”

  Tim started to stand but the harpoon and sword caught his attention. Maybe he couldn’t use the interview for his paper but he had made the drive. Why not hear the man’s story? It might be useful as a cautionary tale for graduate students. Be sure to research your subjects before making a pre-dawn drive into the wilderness.

  “Mr. Cooper, I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I wasn’t interested,” Tim said as he turned on the recorder. “Please relate your experiences as a nadreddet slayer.”

  Solomon Cooper sat back in the chair, elevated his chin, and fixed his eyes on the skylight. “I was just a teenager when my father and his mining crew arrived at Crusty Boy.”

  Chapter 2 – Crusty Boy Mine

  Sometime around the bicentennial of the settlement of Planet Scheelite, a prospector found ore in the mountain range between Admiral Hallsville and Kensington. I believe the highway and railroad tracks between them were only a few years old at the time. Old Bedford had been the mid-point between the major cities. When the expressway and rail cars took the traffic off the back road, the town floundered. With the discovery of ore, Old Bedford soon regained its usefulness. Mining equipment, transports, and workers flowed through on their way into the mountains and ore flowed back from the mines.

  Darin Crusty was a financier from Kensington with ambition. He figured if the mines in the mountain valleys were rich in ore, there had to be some oar higher up. He hired surveyors, geologists, and a crew and sent them to find ore. And they did. Not the thick veins the mining companies worked but, enough to throw off a profit by year two of the venture. Then, a hard winter dumped ice and snow in the mountains and every road and pass was blocked until late in the year. In the spring, all of the mines resumed operations except one. Crusty Boy didn’t report.

  Darin sent out a team of managers to investigate. They found food in the freezers, fuel in the tanks, and the closets and trunks in the miners’ barracks filled with clothing. But there were no miners, equipment operators, or managers. Everyone had vanished.

  When he attempted to hire more miners, he was flatly turned down. Miners can be superstitious and the disappearance of three shifts of men and women certainly demonstrated that Crusty Boy was cursed. In an attempt to appease and attract crews, Darin Crusty built Wakeman's Lodge. He didn’t dare put his name on the facility. With living quarters miles away from the mine, crews signed on and I followed my father there when he put his name on the contract.

  ***

  I was between fourteen and fifteen years old when the crew truck pulled up at the mine. Crusty Boy was a flattened fill of rocks and dirt with a set of narrow-gauge tracks disappearing into the side of the mountain. Loaders collected ore from the mining cars and dumped it into off-road dump trucks that crossed the compound to the separator. Further downhill, trailers lined up to haul the ore down the mountain where it would be further scrubbed before being sent by rail cars to the refinery.

  For the first week, my father had people watch out for me as I played on the equipment, distracted the managers, and ventured into the adit. Deep in, the miners showed me where an exploratory tunnel dug by the original crews had collapsed. They considered it an unlucky location and refused to dig it out. Thankfully, for the production of Crusty Boy, the geologists located a richer vein of ore. The miners were happy to bypass the crumbled branch and take the mine tunnel in a different direction.

  My constant questioning and appearing where I shouldn’t be made me a distraction and a general nuisance to everyone. Once the operation settled into a routine, my father allowed me to wander the hills around the mining operation.

  I already had a hunting knife, but when I reported spotting a puma, I was allowed to take the rifle my father had purchased. Between the curse and the wild animals, the adults stayed close to the mine. I didn’t. Considering myself the protector of Crusty Boy and being armed, I increased the range of my patrols.

  ***

  On a sun filled afternoon with the rays breaking through the trees, I stumbled on a nest of five juvenile snakes. At first, I thought the gold and red hue on their bodies was from the sunbeams. Being an intrepid explorer, I inched closer and realized they had gold and red scales. And being as cruel as a boy can be, I pulled my knife and sliced one of them in half.

  Reptiles are dumb, I assumed. I’d herd the expression lizard brain to describe a primitive emotional response. Snakes equal reptiles, and that meant stupid or so I thought.

  The four uninjured began slithering toward me. Not expecting them to come at me as a group, I stepped back and tripped. When I looked up, the four were almost at my feet. Jumping up, I chanced a look to where the one I cut should be lying dead on the forest floor. Both sections of its body, independently, slithered into the bush and vanished. Meanwhile, the four living snakes continued to stalk me. Panicking, I spun away from the serpents, and ran tripping and falling down the mountain slopes.

  ***

  In my explorations the next day, I avoided the snake infested section of the woods. After half a day of patrolling on the rock fall side of the mountain, I sat down to eat a bag lunch the cook at Wakeman's Lodge had prepared for me. On a rocky outcrop with a view of the valley, I smoothed out the waxed paper under my sandwich and placed my knife next to an apple. Then I leaned back and looked at the sky. Life for a boy running wild in the woods was a great adventure. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the real adventure was just beginning.

  It started when I reached for my knife to slice the apple. Four of the gold and red snakes were crawling over and under the blade. Almost as if caressing the sharp edge, they slithered around the knife. Out of fear, I leaped to my feet and backed away. But I loved that knife and couldn’t let it go. Using the buttstock, I began sweeping at the twisting bodies.

  I expected them to spread out in an impulsive display of self-preservation. While attempting to brush them away, I collected two on the end of the stock. Out of fear they would crawl up the rifle, I began smashing them against the rock. Almost as if they knew what was happening, the two hung on to the bottom of the stock until they were crushed in half. Then, like the cut snake from the day before, the two halves of both snakes slithered away. Using the barrel as if it was a pool cue, I tapped the knife off the edge of the rock. Scared and freaked out, I tripped and fell down the hill before grabbing the knife and running back to the mine.

  ***

  After dinner at Wakeman's Lodge
, I went in search of old man Tobiah. Old man? He was probably forty, but to me, he seemed ancient. Tobiah was the crew’s weaver of tall tales but there always seemed to be an element of truth in his stories. I found him sitting alone on the lodge’s long porch. As I approached, he cocked his head to the side as if questioning the reason for my slumped shoulders and downcast eyes.

  “I have a question about snakes,” I uttered so no one could hear us.

  “Snakes are rodent killers,” he informed me. “One of nature’s perfect predators. They see in the dark and wait in hiding before striking. They eat prey live in its entirety and leave no sign of their passing. Most serpents are beneficial and prefer to run away from us. Except for a few dangerous types. I’ve heard of one species that hangs in trees, drops down on unwary hikers, and bites them. Fortunately, the venom kills you within seconds. Which is good because the pain doesn’t last long. Of course, they are too small to swallow you. They bite you out of pure meanness.”

  “For real?” I questioned. “What about little ones with gold and red scales?”

  “Gold and red scales?” Tobiah whispered. Then with a twinkle in his eyes, he explained. “You may be describing nadreddets. Nadreddets are baby dragons. Not the flying types, but just as deadly. It’s best to kill them before they grow too large.”

  “How do you kill a nadreddet?” I begged.

  “You cut off its head,” he responded. “Definitely cutting off the head will kill them.”

  For the next two weeks, I beheaded as many snakes with gold and red scales as I could find. That was my first mistake as a nadreddet slayer.

  ***

  Tim Constance reached over and switched off the recorder.

  “Mr. Cooper. You are describing the antics of a bored adolescent,” he accused Solomon. “I’m seeking first hand documentation of the lifestyle at Crusty Boy Mine. Not a youthful fantasy.”