“A rope will not stop a snake. It will, however, give a frightened man something to hold on to.”
–Poor Brentford (b. 1947). Acclaimed folklorist and voice of reason in the Wilderness.
Something was afoot, and I knew it. I had just finished making my rounds upstairs shining my Eveready along every wall and under every piece of furniture in every room. In that moment, I heard Poor Brentford downstairs.
He wasn’t talking.
He wasn’t praying.
He was chanting.
Now mind you, this wasn’t some halfhearted mumbling under his breath. No. This was a serious incantation. I looked downstairs and there he stood in broad daylight. With all the solemnity of a monk, he began:
“May the highly renowned Sage Astika, born to Jaratkaru and steadfast in truth, protect me from all serpents.”
He had hardly finished that one when he drew a deep breath and released a long, resonant “Ommmmmmmm.”
Without missing a beat, he launched into another invocation, this one delivered in a decidedly Appalachian twang:
“May all the Nagas be pleased with me, the ones who inhabit on the earth’s surface … residing in the rays of sunlight …”
I listened for a moment. His invocation droned on and on as he wandered through the earth, the heavens, rivers, ponds, and places I had never heard of. When he reached the River Saraswati, I quietly cleared my throat.
“Brentford. what on earth is going on down there?”
“Going on? Have you lost your mind. There’s a blacksnake in the house.”
“I know. So?”
“So? We have to get it out of here.”
Poor Brentford was visibly shaken: “Ommmmmmmm.”
“I get it,” I replied. “You think you’re some kind of mountaintop St. Patrick chasing snakes down into the Shenandoah River.”
“Well, at least that’s a far cry better than the blanket, broom, and bucket you plopped down on the floor down here.”
“Cute, Brentford. Real cute. Unlike you, I’m being sensible. I don’t have a doubt in the world that the snake will coil up on the towel. Then I’ll coax it into the bucket with a broom and carry him safely back outdoors.”
“Safely?”
“Of course. Safely. I don’t want to hurt it.”
“Hmpfff. I’m here to tell you exactly what that snake’s gonna do. It’s gonna slither up your leg, kwile itself around your waist, and squeeze every last bit of air out of you.”
“Whatever. Have it your way. I have work to do.”
Poor Brentford did too with his fierce determination to rid the house of the snake before dark set in. He started singing something that hardly had a tune. He had unmercifully cobbled together all the snake lore of all the ages into the most pitiful lyrics imaginable.
“Hang the garlic, spread the clove,
Sweep the lemon where you rove.
Splash the vinegar, bless the floor,
You don’t live here anymore.
“Cinnamon upon the sill,
Take your leave beyond the hill.
May your journey safe now be,
Just… don’t spend the night with me.”
And so it was. Poor Brentford carried on his shenanigans all afternoon.
Throughout it all, the blacksnake remained mysteriously hidden, no doubt frightened by the quiet that was no more.
Gary seemed unfazed by it all. Yet when it was time for dinner, he thought it best that I should go downstairs and select our bottle of wine.
I was glad to do so, but I swear. I am certain–well, I think I am–that I caught a glimpse of a black tail beneath wine cooler pulling itself out of sight. All right. Fine. I did. I scooted the cooler back a little, real gentle like, and sure enough, there was the blacksnake, all three feet or so, stretched out along the wall. By the time I got back with my bucket, he was long gone.
I decided that it might be a good thing to leave all the lights on down there. After all, he was a stranger in a strange place and dark was coming on.
As I made my way back upstairs, I kept reminding myself of something I read somewhere–I think I did–that each of us is connected to a powerful spirit animal, guardians believed to watch over us, based on when we were born. And get this. I’m Scorpio, so the snake is my protective spirit.
Gary and I decided to watch TV in the loft instead of downstairs the way we usually do. I don’t think we’ve ever watched it in the loft before. But I enjoyed it immensely, because it gave a fresh perspective on things, and Poor Brentford left us alone for a while at least.
But by the time we came down for bed, he was right there, as agitated as ever.
He was just inside our bedroom, holding two pieces of rope–one much longer than the other.
“Ropes in the bedroom?” Gary raised an eyebrow, looking quizzically at me and then the bed.
Poor Brentford looked at Gary as though the answer should have been obvious.
“Well, duh. You have to put a rope in a circle around the bed, and once Ruby hops up, put a circle around her, too.”
He started laying the rope on the floor, encircling the bed.
“Trust me. A snake will not crawl over a piece of rope”
Enough was enough.
“Get out, Brentford Lee, right now. And close the door behind you.”
I read somewhere that a snake will not crawl under a closed door. I think I did. I’m almost certain I did. Somewhere. National Geographic?
The Wired Researcher 