the snake

PLATE 52: THE SNAKE FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD. Torrid, muggy; smell of rotting vegetation, many mosquitoes; constant sound of movement, listening, watching, smelling presences behind the green entanglement; the force of wilderness entering the body, like an ancient rage; paranoia, a descent into madness. The steaming landscape slowly ferments; it is oppressive and unnaturally alert.
My stomach is tied in a knot; I walk away from the others and quietly retch beside a stream, my body aching. Cleaning my face off, I am struck by the temperature of the water; it is lukewarm, slightly greasy. I pull off my boots, submerse my sore feet, and become lost in thought as the water eddies through the grasses. A movement catches my attention - something huge glides silently below my feet, deep, deep in the stream, a primaeval monster. Drawn by my scream, Valtur runs down with his rifle and fires a single report into the rivulet - instantly the water turns red and an immense coil rises from the murk, a huge serpent writhing and twisting.
It takes Valtur a week to dress and cure the pelt of the great beast, which measures over twenty feet in length. He digs a special smoke pit over which he hangs the skin, rubbing salt into it every few hours. He tells us we have reached the thermal region, “snow fawl from sky, but watir nevir freezee, manee strange aneemil heere.” At the trading post in Dzhigudzhak, the pelt of the snake will bring in much new equipment, maybe even a new rifle from the thriving black market.