The Serpent's Tooth

CHAPTER 1
Rising Water

Gary put the receiver back on its hook. He sat engulfed in the huge bed, an oversized pillow behind him, wooden writing board on his lap. Dazzling paisley sheets were lying in casual disarray at his feet. A nervous hand attempted to smooth the tousled hair of translucent gray that topped his shaggy brows.

“Charlotte,” he called in a tone that said, please come help me deal with the world.

She opened the door to this academic retreat with reluctant compliance. Really those paisley sheets were a lovely bargain, she couldn’t help but note, though they did lend an air of Arabian Knights to the bedroom/study. And her professor husband, with his fly-away hair and high Croatian cheekbones looked almost like some mythical Persian piloting a flying carpet; or maybe a lecherous Bedouin about to usher in his favorite harem girl.

“The horses are out. They’re in Henry’s pasture. Corvel said he herded Henry’s stray calves back through the gate, and somehow the horses ran through. He couldn’t get them back and had to close the gate. There isn’t much of anything for them to eat back there, you know.”

Charlotte remembered the bleached bones and skulls that dotted the pasture owned by Henry. And she couldn’t forget the rusted pieces of barbed wire that seemed to grow from the neglected and weedy land.

“I’ll go out right now and get them back.”

“I’d go with you, honey, but...” He looked in frustration at the tidy piles of paper anchoring the disheveled sheets. Obtuse mathematical formulas were etched in decisive black felt tip on some, pages of esoteric prose on others, but even more ominous were the thick piles of blank pages on the wooden writing board.

“I’ll take Brandy with me,” Charlotte reassured him. “It will be relaxing for her after all those final exams.”

Brandy retrieved the boots from the hall closet, sleek English riding leathers for her, and mud-coated western pig hide for Charlotte. With inner amusement, Charlotte made her way to the front door of their comfortable urban dwelling past first the antique writing table in the parlor, then into the living room with the old roll top, catching a glimpse of the huge wooden table in the dining room. Then she pictured Gary, engulfed by paisley sheets, floating on a sea of academic scribblings, with his back propped up by a pillow on their double sized bed. “Well, a writer writes where he wants, where he feels secure, in that personal nook that is found by instinct not logic,” she reflected. Maybe the same contrary instinct, she thought, that makes horses leave a field of healthy Bermuda grass for an ill-tended pasture of weeds, barbed wire, and livestock skeletons.

The recent rains had created an emerald landscape quite unusual for Texas in June. The gently rolling slopes to the east of Balcones Fault defined the small oasis of black farmland just thirty miles from Austin. Not as thrilling as the rough beauty of the hill country to the west, this land offered the more serene beauty of a nourishing earth mother. The clay soil held precious water that just washed over the sheer rock cliffs to the west, held it so long and with such fierceness that a loose boot heel might be sucked off during a walk on spongy turf.

So, like a suddenly mature man who abruptly tires of giggling beauties and begins a quest for “a good wife,” Gary and Charlotte had stopped traveling to the exotic hill country and began a systematic effort to secure land east of Austin. The forty-acre ranch, complete with ramshackle house, was the reward of two years of laborious searching. One horse expensively boarded at a stable had now become six who lived quite well off the fat of the land, country western music occasionally supplanted Vivaldi, and Charlotte now wondered if her training in classical violin would be a help or hindrance in learning to play the fiddle.

Brandy closed the ranch gate and hopped back in the Bronco just as the storm broke. A long narrow cloud, looking like a threatening charcoal snake above them, held its ground and refused to move on.

“Let’s not even try to drive up to the house,” Charlotte decided aloud. “In fact, I’m going to back the car closer to the asphalt. You know the water runs over the gravel road here right at the gate sometimes.”

Brandy quickly relocked the gate, and the two climbed over it, resigning themselves to soaked clothes and drenched hair. Charlotte guided Brandy to the high grounds and was surprised to see puddles even on the hillside. The ground was really saturated; this rain would only run off the soaked landscape.

By the time they’d gathered halters, lead rope, and the all-important bribe of grain, the rain was pelting them in a soft but steady stream of huge drops. The front tank was spilling over to the green tree-lined valley, churning a narrow brown path down its center.

By now Charlotte and Brandy had given up dodging standing water, but they both kept alert eyes on the ground. Stories of snakes fleeing flooded holes to seek higher ground added tension to an already challenging chore.

“I see them, Mom.” Brandy pointed to a slight rise about 200 yards the other side of the property line. The gate that once linked the cross fencing of Henry’s 1000 acre ranch was now on the boundary of their forty acres and his last 100. It was a mute witness to more prosperous times. What was usually a pleasant dip of land under the gate became a moving swirl of muddy water, and Brandy had to struggle to pull her boot from the sucking clay.

Charlotte looked for the best way back to the horses and saw only a few islands in a tangle of rushing rainwater. She and Brandy sludged their way to the stranded animals, first taking the depth of the many opaque rivulets that they had to ford.

They would only catch one horse, lead him out, and hope that the others would follow. This was their usual practice when catching the horses for a ride. Charlotte had made use of reinforcement theory, one of the few practical applications of her college psychology course, and rewarded the herd with grain in the corral at random intervals. Thus, she had surprised several seasoned horse trainers who were sure that five horses wouldn’t follow one captured cohort into a corral. Sometimes academic training was unexpectedly relevant, she smiled.

It was easy to catch Abras, her stubborn gray gelding, even without the grain. The glistening horses were stoic structures almost glued to the muddy ground. At the sight of the grain bucket, however, they roused themselves and began a curious and greedy walk to Brandy and the aluminum pail. The slippery ground and circle of horses, each irritably vying for the grain, was suddenly an unforeseen and real danger.

“Dump the grain,” Charlotte commanded. Brandy did so with quick compliance and backed away from flattened ears and warning kicks. That these menacing looks and behaviors were directed toward each other and not Brandy didn’t lessen their potential harm.

The protective mother had rescued her offspring from harm, but at what expense? Now, as the remaining horses poked their muzzles into the yellow corn, oats, and sweet molasses on the ground, Charlotte wondered how much time this delay would cost them.

They had made it there with cautious determination, but some fifteen minutes of rain had bathed the saturated clay since then. Was the gateway a swollen river now instead of the earlier oozing puddle? Charlotte led her gelding toward the gate, ignoring his resentment at being left out of the feast. Soon, the two youngsters were edged out by the three bossy mares, and they took hesitant steps toward Abras and the gate. Now Charlotte and Abras were approaching the gate with the two year old Shazaar and yearling Shazaara about 100 yards behind. The greedy mares had finished the soggy grain by now, but instead of following, they had resumed their earlier stations. Worse than that, the herd leader, Capzara, was calling to her filly, which now ran back to Mama, her delicate legs prancing high and mischievously in the mud.

“I’ll get them,” Brandy called, the worry in her voice mounting at the same rate as the flood tides. She went for her Silver Sun, the nineteen year old sprightly copper beauty that was the object of Brandy’s devotion. Coaxing her forward, awkwardly pulling her head, and finally trying the other end with a resounding slap on her rear, Brandy succeeded in herding Silver Sun toward the gate.

Charlotte, never one to let a false sense of dignity obstruct whimsy, curiosity, or now necessity, began to nicker to the laggards. Soon Abras was encouraged and whinnied himself. His girlfriend, the maiden Silver Sun, answered and began to splash forward through the spongy earth and swirling water with renewed effort. The hesitant youngsters caught this enthusiasm and began again toward the gate, while Brandy yahooed and waved her hands to shove the last two mares forward. The smoky Meleoxon reluctantly slushed ahead, but a brave whack only rooted the Stubborn Capzara to her ground.

They’d have to leave her then, and get the others out now, before the water rose any further. Charlotte and Abras tromped through the opening, going steadily until Charlotte stepped in a hole and went down to her knees. She might have lost her balance, but for her iron grip on Abras’ lead. He dragged her forward a step or two and she was on high land.

The others ran through almost joyously with Brandy poised at the gate, closing it behind their tails.

Just as she was securing the chain, there was a blur of silver and a panicked neighing. Capzara thundered to a stop at the aluminum barricade. There was a risk in opening it, as Capzara might just as easily lead the others back through it as come through herself.

Brandy chanced it and opened the gate just enough to let the panicked mare through, but a few hesitant testing steps into the charging water and she balked. Brandy braved her touchy hind­quarters with a well timed slap, and finally, the troublesome beauty was through.

Brandy, whose dreamy teenage reveries sometimes kept her at routine chores forever; Brandy, who usually was the last one out of the house each school day, running to the car with shoes in hand or blouse askew, had closed and latched the gate, chosen safe footing through the water, and was suddenly behind Charlotte in shocking haste.

With a triumphant click, Charlotte released Abras, and the two humans watched the horses thunder through the rain to their favorite high ground, running with prancing legs and arched necks. with streaming manes and flagging tails, like carousel horses suddenly released from an evil spell by some repentant wizard.

The graveled road was now part of the brown stream overflowing the front tank, an opaque barrier some twenty feet wide between them and the parked Bronco. Bisecting it was the still locked gate, part of which was submerged in the muddy flow. For a moment, they felt trapped, unwilling to ford the current. Charlotte recalled front page pictures of helpless motorists stranded in the flash flooding that often followed heavy rain here, snapshots of a stricken husband who had watched his wife being swept away by the powerful current. Sometimes horses, cows, and even cars were washed downstream in the engorged rivers.

From its mark on the orange gate, however, the water was only 8-10 inches deep, so Charlotte grabbed Brandy’s hand and started to pick her way cautiously to the car. She chose her footing slowly, testing for sudden holes where sections of gravel might have washed away. The metal gate reached a welcome hand out half way through the crossing. They climbed it quickly and leapt into the remaining water with relieved splashes. The Bronco was waiting patiently, its tires just touching the brown flow, like some venerable bather dipping its toes in water’s edge while watching the younger generation frolic and splash in the greater depths.

With tacit efficiency, Charlotte and Brandy each crouched next to a front tire to turn the hubs to the lock positions. Even as they jumped into the car, the water had gained ground. Had they parked closer to the gate or been detained any longer, the Bronco might have been stuck, or possibly, washed into the ditch.

They would take the longer way home, avoiding the caliche roads and low crossings that were part of their usual scenic shortcut to the main highway. Charlotte stopped at the first stop sign, turned off the motor, and stepped onto the reassuring asphalt. With an awkward tug, she pulled off her boot to pour cupfuls of water onto the pavement. Brandy followed suit, and they both laughed. This had been the first relaxed moment since the storm had broken. But a glimpse at the rapidly overflowing stock ponds and drainage ditches reminded Charlotte that it was still raining. and they had a 35 mile ride back to Austin ahead of them.

It was a tedious trip, with the lashing rain obscuring visions and several patches of highway covered with water. One lightweight compact had washed into a ditch, its passengers waiting in the rain for the flashing lights of the highway patrol. Nearer to Austin, the storm was less intense, though, just a steady light rain that ran in civilized obedience into the waiting concrete drainage pipes.

So an incredulous Gary received their tales of flood and mayhem with raised eyebrows and cool skepticism. Only the evening news and reported road closings northeast of the city could corroborate their story. But the pooped pedant, eyes irritated and overused, was sound asleep by the 10 o’clock news and its brief coverage of the heavy rain outside of town.

***

Brandy slapped the paper onto the table next to Gary with such force that she nearly toppled his morning cup of coffee. She pointed with enthusiasm to the large picture and bold print beneath it on the front page: “Daring Flood Rescue” Pictured was a local volunteer fire fighter with a rope around his waist. moving toward an almost submerged car and the woman who was perched desperately on its roof. A second story was headlined, “Man Drowns Near Bridge Construction.” Brandy read it aloud:

“A 59 year old man drowned in his pickup yesterday, as flood waters swept it from a temporary crossing at a bridge construction site in Williamson County. The victim, Henry Sweigurt, was apparently going to rescue some stranded cattle when he met with the tragedy. His body was found yesterday at 6:00 p.m. by a local rancher.