Vengeance of the Serpent

James Abraham Carter

The boat had brought Anthony Maynard to Tupa in the sharp, vibrant clarity of a tropical morning, cutting through an Indian Ocean so astonishingly blue it looked like dyed silk. Anthony, a man whose hands bore the scars from geological surveys and whose mind had been honed by the rational environment of Oxford University, had come in search of gold. He had been employed by Sherkar Amman, the island’s absolute monarch—known locally as the dagat—to scour the mountainous interior for quartz seams and the rivers that flowed from their peaks for alluvial deposits. It was the king’s hope that, in the jungle-choked valleys of Tupa, enough of the precious metal would be found to pull the impoverished little kingdom into modern prosperity.

The sun had just peeked over the horizon as he walked down the gangplank from the Seaspray, a battered passenger-cargo ship, onto the docks of the small port. It had been a two-day journey from Sri Lanka, and the young man, who could have gotten seasick in a bathtub, was eager to have solid earth under his feet again.

Scents swirled around him as he immersed himself in the bustling atmosphere of stevedores, shouting in the local dialect, which was a hybrid language of Hindi, Portugese and Malay. The smell of the sea, the odor of dried fish, and the scent of cumin, ginger, and other exotic spices assailed him as he pushed his way through the throng to the small customs office, where he was met by Vanu Thom, a wizened official from the palace. From the customs office, he was taken by sedan chair through the narrow, cobbled streets to the hilltop palace, all the while feasting his eyes on the ornately carved buildings, with their steep, pagoda-like roofs of green tiles and wide verandahs, marvelling at the blend of diverse architectural styles that fused together in pleasing harmony.

By evening, however, the pleasantness and excitement of the day had curdled.

Anthony stood in his guest suite, a sprawling chamber that exemplified the architectural alchemy of the island. Carved teak pillars of Javanese design supported vaulted ceilings painted with the golden dragons of Cathay, while arched windows that could have come from an Arabian Nights' tale opened to the cooling sea breeze. It was luxurious, breathtakingly expensive, and entirely exotic.

Since setting foot in the royal residence, a graceful harmony of domes, pillars, and arches, Anthony had felt a silent, pervasive miasma of dread that marred the beauty of the place. It lived in the white-eyed terror of the kitchen boys who dropped their trays; it curled in the rigid postures of the guards who stood like ebony statues in the corridors; and, most acutely, it lingered in the memory of his afternoon audience with Sherkar Amman.

The dagat, who had inherited the throne barely a year prior upon the death of his father, Bodjat Amman, was a man of unsettling appearance. He possessed an intense, predatory demeanor; his face was whittled down to the sharp angles of a hunting falcon. But it was his eyes that were his most disturbing aspect—dark, fathomless pools that did not blink, holding the flat, mesmerizing gaze of a serpent coiled in the dark. An unnerving chill seemed to precede him like a dark aura emanating from the man himself.

"Mr. Maynard," a voice murmured from the doorway.

Anthony turned to see a tall, slender servant bowing so low that his forehead was almost horizontal to the floor of colorful geometric tiles. "His Majesty requests your presence in the Hall of Celebration."

Anthony adjusted the lapels of his lightweight tuxedo, squared his shoulders, and followed.

The Hall of Celebration was a splendor of bright geometric tiles, gleaming marble, and wondrous Persian carpets, illuminated not by electricity, but by the warm, liquid glow of golden candelabra. When Anthony entered, the air was thick with the scent of jasmine, sandalwood incense, and roasting meat.

Sherkar Amman sat upon a raised dais, enthroned on a massive circular cushion of red velvet. As an honored guest, Anthony took his seat beside the dagat. At a clap of the king’s thin, pale hands, the celebration commenced.

Musicians clustered in the alcoves began to weave exotic, minor-key melodies from instruments Anthony had never seen before—sitars, long-necked stringed instruments from India, frame drums from the Middle East, and bamboo flutes from South East Asia; the tonal qualities of the arrangement had an alien but not unpleasing sound. Servants moved swiftly through the crowd, offering antique porcelain dishes laden with spiced sweetmeats and pouring heavy, fermented wine from clay amphorae.

Yet, beneath the glittering surface of the feast, the atmosphere was hollow. Anthony watched the courtiers. Their laughter was too loud, their smiles too wide, their eyes darting constantly toward the dais. They were terrified. The same disturbing panic that had affected the servants gripped the nobility. Only Sherkar Amman remained immune. He sat motionless upon his cushion, his falcon face impassive, his unblinking eyes scanning the room. Strangely, he neither ate nor drank a single morsel of the lavish feast spread before him.

The music swelled into a frantic tempo. The piece reached its climax, then ended, and in the sudden silence the court magicians and acrobats hastily cleared the floor.

"And now," Sherkar Amman’s voice cut through the chamber, dry as autumn leaves, "the jewel of tonight’s entertainment will shine."

From the shadows of a grand archway stepped Pavara.

She was a vision that made the breath catch in Anthony’s throat. Clad in a costume composed entirely of thin gold discs that chimed softly with every step, she possessed a face of classic, haunting Oriental beauty—large dark eyes, a delicate nose, and a mouth like Cupid’s bow.

As the drums began a savage, pulsing rhythm, Pavara commenced her dance. It was not merely a performance; it was a work of art in motion. Her body moved with a liquid, hypnotic grace; every sway of her hips and flick of her wrists told a story older than the stone foundations of the palace. The golden discs caught the candlelight, throwing bright, whirling glints across the silk-hung walls.

Anthony was completely transfixed. He leaned forward, utterly lost in the hypnotic swirl of gold and motion, unaware of the world outside the radius of her captivating grace.

When the final drumbeat died away, leaving the hall in a breathless hush, Sherkar Amman’s gaze shifted from the dancer to the geologist. A thin, knowing smile touched the king’s lips.

He raised a hand and beckoned Pavara to the foot of the dais. She approached, her chest heaving, the gold discs settling against her dusky skin like captured suns.

"You appreciate beauty, Mr. Maynard," the king declared, his voice carrying clearly across the silent hall. "You watched her as a starving man watches a feast. It is fitting, then, that she should be yours." Sherkar Amman gestured lazily toward the girl. "She is your bed partner for the evening. Take her to your rooms, and let her warm your sheets."

A jolt of electric force seemed to pass through Anthony. He stiffened, the blood rushing to his ears. "Your Majesty, I am honored, but—"

He started to refuse, but before the words could fully form, Pavara’s eyes flicked up to meet his. A flash of raw, urgent terror crossed her features, and she gave him an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

Anthony caught himself on the precipice. In this exotic, autocatic court, a refusal of the king's gift would not be seen as modern modesty; it would be interpreted as a mortal insult, a rejection of the royal grace that could cost them both their lives.

He swallowed the bile in his throat, forced his facial muscles into a stiff, polite smile, and bowed. "I am deeply grateful for the king's generosity."

Sherkar Amman rose, a signal that the night's festivities were at an end. "No doubt you are eager to explore the... depths of my gift," the king suggestively said, his dark eyes gleaming with malicious amusement.

A chorus of coarse laughter and vulgar cheers erupted from the courtiers, eager to parrot their master’s mood. Anthony felt his face burn with embarrassment, but he maintained his composure and offered his arm to Pavara, and together, they turned away from the golden hall, stepping into the cool, dark corridors of the palace.

**********

Once the heavy oak doors of Anthony’s suite clicked shut behind them, sealing out all prying eyes, Pavara pulled a cord on her apparel, and her golden costume slid to the floor with a tinkle, leaving her completely nude before the Englishman’s astonished gaze. Her beauty and figure were worthy of a love goddess.

"You don't have to do this," Anthony said softly, his voice devoid of any demand. "You aren't a possession. You won't share my bed unless you choose to."

Pavara looked up at him, her dark eyes wide with astonishment. The hard, defensive shell she had worn before the court melted, replaced by profound relief. "You... you are not like the others," she said, surprise evident in her voice as she dressed. "You have a kind heart. Which is why you must leave Tupa. You must take a boat—any boat—and sail away as far as the sea stretches."

Anthony frowned, guiding her toward a diwan, a large, low-profile seating piece made of carved and polished teak. "Run? Why? Because of the king?"

"Because of what I fear lives inside him," she said, her voice dropping to a nervous hush. "Since Sherkar Amman became dagat, a sickness has settled over the palace. On every night of the full moon—and tonight is a full moon—someone vanishes: A servant, a guard, a visiting merchant. Gone by morning. No screams, no traces. Just empty rooms."

The pieces clicked together in Anthony's rational mind, aligning with the all-pervasive terror he had felt since his arrival. The cringing servants, the fearful nobles, the king who never ate or drank, and the eerie darkness that seemed to emanate from the occupant of the throne.

"Human sacrifice,” Anthony murmured, sickened by the thought.

"Yes," Pavara shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. "Manu, one of our ancient kings and also a reformer, banned the bloody practice of offering lives to Nagara, the serpent god. But Sherkar... something changed in him the day his father died. Or, perhaps, long before that."

"Listen to me," Anthony said, his tone firm and reassuring. "You are safe here tonight. Take my bed in the inner chamber. I will take the daybed in the outer room. If you need anything, call for me. I am not going anywhere."

For a long moment, she simply stared at him, as if trying to calculate the sincerity of a white man in a world where might was often seen as right. Then, a ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Thank you, Anthony."

They spent the next several hours talking. Stripped of courtly pretense, sitting across from one another in the dim lamplight, they bridged the vast chasm of their different worlds. They spoke of their hopes and dreams, and philosophy, for Pavara was more than just a dancing girl. Then, on a more personal note, of the different lives they might have led had fate not ordained their birth in their lands of origin. A genuine, deep-rooted warmth began to grow between them, defying the grim situation in which they found themselves.

They lost track of time. Midnight tolled from the great bronze gong in the courtyard.

Exhausted by the emotional turbulence of the evening, Pavara finally rose, rubbing her tired eyes, and retreated to the inner bedroom.

Anthony remained in the outer suite. Realizing he was still in his tuxedo, he stood up to change. But the unease that had settled in his gut earlier returned with the midnight hour, sharper and more insistent. He forewent his pajamas, pulled on a rugged safari suit made of heavy fabric, and unzipped his leather travel case. From the bottom, wrapped in an oily flannel cloth, he retrieved his heavy Webley .455 revolver. He checked the cylinder—fully loaded—and snapped it shut, sliding it into his belt holster.

He settled onto the velvet daybed, but sleep eluded him. He lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic wash of the waves against the cliffs far below, his thumb resting instinctively against the grip of the gun.

**********

Anthony woke instantly. He had drifted off to sleep, despite his efforts to stay awake.

There was no sound, only a sudden, icy drop in the room's temperature and a sharp spike of adrenaline that made his heart slam against his ribs. Something was terribly wrong.

Anthony shot upright, his boots hitting the floor with a dull thud, and rushed through the archway into the bedroom.

The bed was empty. The silken sheets were thrown back, cold to the touch.

The ornate Haveli doors, carved with intricate floral motives, that led out to the private courtyard garden, stood wide open, letting in a flood of pale, spectral moonlight.

Anthony dashed through the doors, stepping out onto the stone patio. The tropical night was eerily still, bathed in the sharp, chalky light of a full moon. Movement caught his eye near the far end of the colonnade.

It was Pavara.

She was walking steadily toward a shadowy archway that led deeper into the sprawling, ancient labyrinth of the palace. Anthony’s blood ran cold. She was moving with a rigid, unnatural gait—her arms held stiffly at her sides, her head tilted slightly upward, her eyes wide, blank, and glassy.

She was sleepwalking, or worse, caught in a mysterious and sinister hypnotic trance.

"Pavara!" Anthony gasped harshly, starting after her.

He kept his distance, tracking her through the moonlit corridors of the sleeping palace. The architecture here changed; the opulent Oriental motifs gave way to older, brutalist stonework—heavier blocks of granite rather than marble, emphasizing solidity instead of airy grace. A menacing preumbra hung over the place, darker than the pooling shadows.

They were heading toward the old wing.

Every servant in the palace knew about the old wing. It was a forbidden zone, sealed off with iron and heavy timber centuries ago. No one spoke of it; the local legends merely whispered that it was cursed, a place where the old gods of Tupa demanded blood before the modern kings brought a kinder religion to the island.

Pavara walked unhesitatingly toward a colossal, iron-banded timber door set into the stone wall at the end of the corridor.

As she approached, the heavy door groaned. It swung inward, moving smoothly on massive hinges, as though opened by invisible, welcoming hands.

Pavara crossed the threshold, stepping into the Stygian blackness beyond.

"No!" Anthony cursed under his breath, sprinting down the hall as the door began to close on its own volition.

He threw himself forward, lunging for the doorway just as Pavara disappeared into the dark. He slammed into the heavy timber, ramming his shoulder against it to batter his way in, but the door slammed shut with a solid thud under its own momentum, violently knocking him to the floor.

Anthony lurched to his feet. He desperately wrenched at the iron ring handle, but it was locked more securely than a bank vault and wouldn’t budge an inch.

Panic, hot and frantic, surged through him. He couldn’t lose her. Not to this devilish place, not to whatever sinister darkness lurked behind the barrier.

Scanning the stone wall frantically, Anthony spotted a tall, arched window nearby, its glass cracked and grimy. Beyond it ran an ornamental stone ledge that skirted the exterior of the forbidden wing, leading to another boarded-up window further down.

Seeing the possibilities, Anthony stepped up to the windowpane, smashed the remaining glass with the butt of his Webley, and hauled himself through the opening onto the narrow ledge. The drop to the ground below was dizzying, but he pressed his back against the damp stone, shuffling sideways along the precipice until he reached the second window.

The wooden boards crisscrossing the frame were ancient, gray, and punky with rot. Anthony wedged the barrel of his revolver into a crack and heaved with all his strength. With a loud, splintering crack, the rotten wood gave way. He cleared the remaining slats with his hands, ignored the sharp splinters biting into his palms, and vaulted headfirst into the dark interior.

He landed in a cloud of ancient dust that made him cough into his sleeve.

When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he found himself in a vast, vaulted corridor. The floor was thick with dust, crisscrossed by a single set of small, bare footprints—Pavara’s. He followed them through a suite of deserted rooms where cobwebs hung like grey shrouds from rotting tapestries until the trail terminated at a dark archway.

Anthony crept forward and peered into the shadowed chamber beyond.

He had to clamp a hand over his mouth to suppress a ragged gasp.

It was a pagan shrine far older than the rest of the palace; its architecture was antediluvian, and in its forms there was the shadow of sunken Atlantus and time-lost Mu. A bowl of fire illuminated a towering statue of a serpent-headed god, reminiscent of Egyptian deities; its gemstone eyes caught the light and glowed sinisterly with the reflected radiance.

And chained to the wall adjacent to the unsettling effigy was Pavara.

The trance had broken; she was fully conscious now, her face streaked with tears, and her body trembling violently as she pulled against the heavy iron manacles that bit into her slender wrists.

Standing before her, bathed in the eerie light of the leaping flames, was Sherkar Amman.

He was not wearing his royal robes. He wore only a simple silk loincloth; his sharp, falcon-like features were twisted into an expression of ecstatic, fanatical glee.

"—the blood of the pure," the king was chanting, his voice echoing off the stone vaulting. "The vessel is prepared. The cycle begins anew."

"Please," Pavara sobbed, shaking her head. "Please, my Lord—"

"Silence, little offering," the king hissed; his voice suddenly splitting, taking on a strange, double-toned resonance that sounded like the dry rustle of scales over gravel. "I am no mere king. I am the avatar of Nagara! The Great Serpent who slumbers in the eternal shadows between the stars!"

Anthony’s mind reeled. The old legends were true—or at least, the madness behind them had infected the king.

"As a boy," Sherkar Amman continued, throwing his arms wide, his voice rising in triumphant hysteria, "unknown to my father, I wandered into this forbidden place. I found the shrine. And Nagara entered me. He took possession of this flesh, biding his time through my father's weak reign! Now that I am dagat, the worship of the serpent shall rise again from the ashes, fueled by the blood of those descendants who thought that they could suppress it!"

Sherkar Amman threw his head back and laughed—a sound that turned into a wet, rattling hiss.

Then, the unbelievable happened.

The king’s body began to shimmer. His skin rippled and blurred, losing its solid definition, stretching and flowing like dark water beneath a moonlit sky. His limbs elongated and fused to his body as he dropped to the stone floor, his clothes sloughing off to reveal a nightmare made flesh.

A colossal serpent—easily thirty feet of glistening, bronze-scaled muscle, its eyes glowing with a malevolent, sulfuric yellow—reared up from the stone floor.

It let out a deafening hiss that vibrated in Anthony’s teeth, and its massive coils began to wrap around the screaming, thrashing girl.

"No!"

Anthony burst through the archway, leveling his Webley revolver.

Two deafening gunshots shattered the silence of the pagan chapel. The heavy lead slugs struck the monster squarely in its thick, armored coils. But to Anthony’s sheer horror, there was no blood, no entry wounds. The bullets simply flattened against the glittering bronze scales and ricocheted harmlessly into the dark corners of the room.

The giant serpent whipped its head around, fixing its burning, unblinking eyes on the intruder. It abandoned Pavara, uncoiling from her with supernatural swiftness and darted at the Englishman like a streaking lightning bolt.

Before Anthony could fire again, a massive coil whipped around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides with the force of a hydraulic press. The breath exploded from his lungs in a sharp gasp as he crashed to the floor. The coils tightened, crushing his ribs and threatening to snap his spine like a dry twig. Anthony thrashed wildly, his boots kicking uselessly against the stone, his vision beginning to swim with dark, threatening shadows. In the background, he heard Pavara scream hysterically.

The giant snake reared its massive, wedge-shaped head directly before his face. Its forked tongue darted out, gleefully tasting his wild terror.

And then, the serpent’s skull began to horrifically metamorphose.

The scales blurred, melting back into human contours. Within the grip of the monster’s coils, Anthony shuddered as the head of Sherkar Amman loomed over him—the falcon nose, the high cheekbones, and those terrible, unblinking eyes twisted into a mask of gloating, triumphant sadism.

"I treated you as an honored guest,” the man-serpent hissed, his breath hot and foul against Anthony’s cheek. "And you attack me. It is fitting that death finds you in the dark."

Black spots bloomed in Anthony’s vision. His fingers grew numb. He was losing consciousness.

Think, a voice screamed in the back of his fading mind. Think!

His right arm was pinned, but his left hand was partially trapped, and his Webley lay on the floor mere inches from his fingers. Gathering every ounce of his remaining strength against the crushing pressure of the coils, Anthony tore his hand free and groped toward the revolver.

His fingertips brushed the textured grip of the Webley. The gloating demonic creature, lost in the delight of its foul cruelty, was oblivious to the Englishman’s desperate plan.

With a final act of pure willpower, driven by his desire to save the girl, his straining fingers found the gun and curled around the weapon. He wrenched the heavy revolver from the floor and whipped it up toward Sherkar Amman’s sneering, demonic face.

With the dregs of strength, Anthony pulled the trigger before the monster could jerk its head aside.

Lead and flames erupted from the barrel of the Weblyin a deafening, thunderous report. At point-blank range, the heavy-caliber round struck the center of the man-serpent’s forehead.

A horrific, unearthly scream tore from the throat of the creature—a sound half-human shriek and half-reptilian hiss. The massive coils suddenly went slack, losing all their terrible crushing power.

Anthony slid back limply onto the stone floor, gasping for air, exhausted by the strain of the battle.

He looked up weakly.

The man-serpent swayed back, blood gushing from the bullet wound in its head. For a heartbeat, the thing stood reeling like a drunken cobra. Then, its entire body began to swiftly disintegrate. It crumbled. The flesh, the scales, the bone—all of it dissolved into a dense, swirling cloud of fine, grey dust that settled silently over both man and flagstones.

Within seconds, nothing was left of the king or the monster, save for a pile of fine grey powder.

Silence descended upon the chapel of horror, broken only by Pavara’s ragged, tearful breathing and Anthony’s coughing.

With effort, Anthony pushed himself up; his body was bruised, battered, and aching throughout every fiber of his being, but he was wonderfully alive. He stumbled toward the silk loincloth the king had worn and, near it, found the ring of keys to Pavara’s manacles that he had spotted earlier. Picking them up, he hurried to her side and, with shaking hands, unlocked the heavy irons.

The moment the final shackle fell away, Pavara collapsed into his arms, burying her face against his chest. She wept openly, her small frame shaking from the nightmare ordeal she had undergone and the horrors she had witnessed.

"It's over," Anthony said gently, pressing his cheek against her hair, his arms holding her tight. "It's all over."

After a time, the girl settled. “I thought that monster was going to kill you.” She stepped back and looked at him, both puzzled and amazed. “You shot it twice, and the bullets rebounded from its adamantine scales like a child’s ball bouncing off a wall; yet the third time, the horror succumbed to your attack. Truly, it is a miracle. Tara, Goddess of Mercy, surely answered my fervent prayers.”

“Perhaps she did,” replied Anthony, no longer a complete skeptic after his incredible experience. “But when Sherkar Amman’s head reverted to human form so he could speak,” he explained, “I thought he might be vulnerable. Fortunately, my surmise proved correct.”

Pavara looked at the crumbled remains of the man-serpent and shuddered. "Take me away from here, Anthony," she said softly, looking up at him with eyes full of admiration and the beginning of something much deeper. "Take me far away from this place of horror."

Anthony looked down at her, a deep, abiding premonition settling in his soul, a certainty far stronger than anything he had ever experienced before. The dark shadows of Tupa were broken, the ancient curse reduced to harmless dust on the floor. He could feel the change. The eerie sense of a malevolent presence permeating the palace like a necrotic fog had dissipated. Sunrise filtered down from above; a beneficent portent that their life together was just beginning, and the world outside, vast and bright across the Indian Ocean, was waiting for them.

"I will," Anthony said with feeling, picking her up effortlessly in his strong arms, and carrying her out of the darkness and into the dawn.

The End