Apple Snake

I played the song my mother played. And just like my mother, I didn’t stop for death.

Mar 25, 2024

Accompaniment: Brahms, Waltz in A-flat major, Op. 39, No. 15

US 1903

The snaking conscience, writhing through men who have no business being cruel—that being another’s game—slithered into my mind that night. It took me by surprise. I’d always thought of myself as being cold-blooded, but somewhere along the way, I’d lost my desire to do harm. Now, when I look back, I wonder if my appetite had always been for the love and acceptance of my brothers.

The heat from the campfire made my face feel swollen, but I did not turn away. I let the waves of heat press against my skin until they were no longer waves but a constant oppression.

I was twelve, and I’d already killed five men and two women. I killed a dog down in Tulsa—that stuck with me—I killed a baby once, too. Accidental. Hiss.

My brothers had killed more. In fact, they were out there now, somewhere in that mess of dark, killing, robbing, raping, and then laughing and drinking.

It was my turn to watch camp, which was fine by me. I made a fuss like I was upset to be missing out, but I was glad for it. Hiss. I needed time to myself. Hiss. Time to kill the snake in my mind. Hiss. Or time to let the snake kill me. Hiiiissssss.

I looked down at my hands; they were covered in dirt and blood; the blood was there even when it wasn’t. I could feel it. It was part of me, soaked into my skin like fancy French lotion. Like the lotion Darlene wore, the whore in Shawnee, the night I’d lost my virginity. I asked her to run away with me; she declined. Said I was too young and too stupid. I didn’t tell my brothers about that.

I held the harmonica in my hands, rolled it around. I lifted it to my nose. Even after one hundred and thirty-two days, it still smelled like the man I’d killed, like apple. I’d filched the instrument from his pocket while he chatted about the weather with the owner of the mercantile. Caught in the act, the man whose harmonica I’d stolen chased me into the woods. If it hadn’t been for my brother, Small Tom, who’d been sitting beneath an oak tree out in the forest near where we’d set up camp, well, I don’t know what would have happened. Maybe I would have got a well-deserved wallop—or maybe killed—I don’t know. Small Tom woke up and put a hole in the man’s head. Hiiiiissssss.

I had been relieved in those first moments, but when Small Tom brought that apple to his lips and bit down, the juice that dribbled out of his mouth and down his chin was pink; he’d bit his tongue. My relief made way for something else, and my hatred of mankind went askew; that disdain was now pointed directly at my brother.

The sky was purple, then black. Orange firelight lit up our camp. Somewhere out there, maybe the homestead we’d passed before setting up camp earlier that day, my brothers were causing mayhem. But here, in the orange glow, the snake in my mind squeezing tight, I heard something just past the afforded line of sight. Maybe a coyote, I thought. A fox looking for meat. Then I saw them: two feet invading the flickering orange with a body still masked by the pupil of night.

I was going to call out for my trespasser to make themselves seen, but their feet weren’t right: the toes were long and sharp, and the tops, thick with black hair.

An overpowering, repugnant stench filled the air. I retched.

It stood perfectly still. I searched for meaning, for a rational explanation for what my eyes were gazing upon, but where did my mind land? The image of a man lying on a mossy green rock, a dark cavity where his right eye should be, and a perfect red apple beside his head. Hiss.

I brought the harmonica up to my mouth. It tasted of apple. I blew the deep note. The deepest note.

My trespasser’s weight shifted. When the note had ceased, I could hear it breathing. Labored. Hungry.

I blew the highest note.

Its talons curled into the ground, breaking through the dry soil. From the ground sprang hundreds of spiders, which crawled up its feet, weaving in and out between coarse hair, scaling the sinewy ankles, vanishing upward into the void.

I swallowed hard.

“I don’t know what you are,” I said just above a whisper, “but I know why you’re here. And if you’re waiting for me to scream or to call out to Jesus, best get on with it. Until then, I’m goin’ to play this harmonica. The one that cost a man his goddamn life.”

I saw it shift forward just before I began, but as the first note resonated, the creature settled back onto its heels. Its talons retracted, and its toes and calves relaxed.

I played the same song I’d been playin’ for the past hundred days. It was the song my mother played on the piano the night my father was murdered. I was nine, and my brothers, well, they were old enough to restrain me until Small Tom had finished. I’d begged them to stop, not because I wanted my father to live, but because I wanted to be the one to kill him. My father was a violent man, and hate breeds hate.

I played the song my mother played. And just like my mother, I didn’t stop for death. I didn’t stop for mercy.

I’m not sure it was even the right notes I was playin’, but it was close enough to make me feel some level of satisfaction. Like the song had some magic that could make my father rise from the dirt and judge me for my transgressions, and I, his.

“It’s by a fella named Brahms,” I said, then continued playing. The disembodied feet backed away into the void. I didn’t stop. Just like my mother, I didn’t stop. I knew that the only thing keeping me alive was the song. Then—and I’ll never sleep a restful night again—I heard my brothers out there in that forest, back from their bacchanalia, and instead of warning them of the danger, of the beast waiting for them at the top of our hill, I blew all of my soul through those reeds.

They laughed, and Small Tom shouted, “You’ll scare our new friend!” A woman screamed for help.

Hisssssss!

It didn’t matter that in those moments I wanted my brothers dead. Sure, I lured them in closer with my playing. I urged them toward the thing in the forest. Still, when I look back on it all, I know it wasn’t up to me. I blew into that harmonica; it tasted of apple and metal, of fruit and blood. I bit down on the snake. Hissssss!

Their screams were like a pipe organ accompanying me—a beautiful, tragic, bestial waltz—and a wonderful, blinding light came with that strange composition. Voices of the damned sung out—words that I can’t recall—like a dream that slips from your mind before you can say it out loud. And then, all went black.

When I woke, it was morning. The birds chirped, and the campfire smoldered. After staring at the trees for a long while, I got up and walked into the woods. There was no sign of my brothers. No demon. I set the harmonica down on a rock—a brass lizard basking in the sun—and walked down the mountain and toward the train to Shawnee.

Apple Snake

I played the song my mother played. And just like my mother, I didn’t stop for death.

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