The snake was sitting up again – if we can describe a snake as sitting up – because he was interested in Mary and had forgotten that he was pretending to be hungry. ‘Little girl, little girl, the world is an odd place to explore and you must promise me,’ he said in his wonderful voice, ‘that you will be extremely careful wherever you go.’
This seemed a kind thing to say and so Mary gave her name to the snake. ‘I’m Mary.’
‘Thank you, Mary. Mary . . .’ said the snake in a voice that sounded as if he were thinking of something sweet and sad. ‘Well, Mary, I have been in the jungle at times and I know that when you are there you must always keep your machete very sharp so that it cuts easily and smoothly and safely. And put it back tidily in its sheath when you aren’t using it and never annoy a lion so much that it wants to bite you. In fact, avoid lions and all large cats. And also bears. And definitely hippopotamuses.’
‘I thought you were weak with hunger.’
‘I am worried about you. But you are also full of remarkable wisdom – you should write down the things I tell you so you won’t forget.’ The snake blinked. ‘But, yes, I am very hungry, too. Do you have, at least, some cheese? I might be able to survive on cheese. A little Gruyère, perhaps?’
Mary leaned in very close and kissed the snake on its nose. (Although, of course, it didn’t quite have a nose.)
‘You are very forward,’ the snake mumbled. But he also – like poured gold – slipped himself around and around her arm in a pleased way that sparkled his scales delightfully. Then he came to rest peaceably in her hand again. ‘You maybe could call me Camatayon, or Bas, or Lanmo, or . . .’
Because the snake seemed to have a great many names and because Mary liked the sound of that one she told him, ‘Lanmo. I will call you Lanmo.’
‘Yes, that will be good.’ The snake nodded.
‘Thank you for your name.’ Mary realised she was a little bit hungry herself. ‘Shall we go indoors? I can toast some cheese on bread. I know how to toast cheese.’
The snake angled his head as if he were thinking. ‘I think I would have to have cold cheese with no bread – because of my teeth. Toasted cheese would be too sticky.’ He opened his dark mouth carefully and slowly so that Mary could see his teeth, which were as white as bones and pointed. To the left and to the right of his front teeth he had a longer fang that was most especially pointed.
‘Goodness.’
‘I eeth ill oh ur oooh,’ said Lanmo the snake.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Mary had been taught to be polite.
Lanmo closed his mouth and his needly teeth fitted together perfectly for an instant, before he tried again to speak. ‘My teeth will not hurt you.’
‘Oh.’
‘I promise.’
‘And what kind of snake are you?’
‘The kind that is never in books.’ And he nuzzled his head against the back of her hand and flickered his tongue.
Mary did find the snake some little pieces of cheese and he ate them daintily before telling her thank you and disappearing in his fast and snaky way.
This made Mary feel a little lonely for the rest of the afternoon, until she was eating her own dinner that evening – which was vegetable stew and then more vegetable stew – and noticed that the glow of two red eyes was blinking out from under her napkin.
‘Oh,’ she said out loud and then, because her mother and father had turned to look at her, she had to continue. ‘What lovely stew. Yes. Oh. What lovely stew.’ She did this because she realised that her parents might well wave their arms about and scream a lot if she said out loud, ‘Oh, I have a beautiful snake called Lanmo under my napkin. He has come back to see me again and so maybe he is going to be my friend.’
Lanmo, faster than a silky whisper, slipped into the pocket of her dress and she could feel him moving very slightly in a way that might mean he was giggling. This made her smile and she had to turn her smile into one that looked as if it could be about stews and not snakes.
Later, when Mary was by herself in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, she looked in her pocket, but there was no one there. Lanmo had gone again. She guessed, correctly, that he had done this so she could change into her pyjamas and brush her teeth in private. When she opened her bedroom door, there was the snake, curled on her pillow, tasting the air with his forked tongue and looking at her with his sharp red eyes. They shone in the tiny, dim room, which had no window because it was really a cupboard. He was trying to look domestic. ‘Hello, Mary. I am going to watch over you until you are asleep. I will keep away your nightmares.’
‘But I don’t have nightmares.’
‘You might now – you have a snake on your pillow.’ Lanmo grinned and rippled over so that Mary could get into bed and be snug. Then he lay very flat on top of her covers so that he could look into her eyes. ‘You will always be safe when I am here. Because I am your friend and I will come and visit you many, many times.’
‘Good,’ said Mary into her blankets, because she was very drowsy. She thought that Lanmo’s eyes reminded her of sunsets and somehow this made her very really extremely sleepy.
And the snake watched her until he knew she was dreaming safely and then he told her again, ‘I will visit you many, many times.’ He nodded his head sadly. ‘And then I will visit you one time more.’ He licked the air to be sure that she was happy and he tasted truth and bravery and toothpaste and soap that smelled of flowers and it made him sneeze one short, snake sneeze. ‘Pffs.’ And he could taste that in her dream she was already canoeing down a mighty river that wound between tall jungle trees with a pet lion at her feet. He felt a little jealous that she wasn’t imagining him with her in the canoe.
But then again, the snake was not any kind of pet.
Once Mary was fast asleep, the snake travelled invisibly and quicker than a thought across the city until he was in the basement of a man called Mr Meininger. The basement stretched away for miles in many directions. It was the most magnificent and impressive of all the city’s millionaire caverns and had taken two hundred imported Bolivian miners a year to excavate. It had a lake for swimming, although Mr Meininger couldn’t swim, and it had many ice cream machines, although Mr Meininger didn’t like ice cream. It had wonderful statues and fountains, although Mr Meininger wasn’t especially interested in art or in dancing water. It had an orchard that was supplied with electric light so the apples and plums and peaches planted in it had to grow all the time and could never rest in darkness. They could never feel the little feet of animals, or birds, or insects tickling them, because no living things were allowed in the basement without Mr Meininger’s permission. He had only ever given his permission to the two hundred imported Bolivian miners, the trees, his many servants and the tumblers and comedians he sometimes paid to try to make him smile.
He didn’t smile. He thought it was a foolish waste of effort and almost as stupid as wanting to make someone else smile. He also thought it was a good punishment for the tumblers and comedians if they had to keep on balancing and falling and doing tricks and telling him funny stories and jokes while he stared at them like a giant, solemn frog in a big silk dressing gown. He made them keep on and on until they cried, and if they didn’t cry he refused to pay them.