The Snake Charmer

The city falls into silhouette. Shadows seep through vacant streets like molasses consuming the emptiness of a jar. Azure blue burns into a conflagration of orange, dimming to deep red until the dark holds reign. While the light recedes, waking those in faraway lands, the ones who shun from the brilliance emerge and night thrives.

As the sun fades, the house lights fall to mere candle flames. Twin spotlights shine their narrow beams falling still on the center of a wine red curtain. A cough emanates from amongst the sea of twitching whiskers and beady black eyes that twinkle in their reflection like the Marquee.

Large round ears, soft and preened furs of grays and whites, jut from beneath a colorful array of flowery brimmed hats. Purple ones with carousels of Lilac, red ones with Roses, yellow with Daisies, and even white ones with rings of Delphinium.

Their dresses, made from the finest silks peddled in the upper east side of Mousequette City, match the rainbow of their various brimmed hats. The perfumes of attar dabbed behind ears and upon their wrists that extend to finely manicured nails – colors to match – scent the air of the theater like the flowery fields in which they call home.

Nestled between their elegant wives, gentlemen mice rest in tuxedos of black and white. They adjust the tall top hats jauntily poised upon their heads, stroke their furry mustaches and neatly trimmed beards, and some clear the smudges from their golden chained monocles. You see, these are civilized mice. Proud and refined.

The audience patiently awaits, anticipating the performance they had longed to see. For one night only the ever famous, most worldly known, the best operatic voice since Luciano Povoracceese, will grace them with his angelic tenor and take them on a journey.

Figaroso Frog peers from behind the velvety house curtain. Two bulbous yellow eyes pour over the audience.

This. This is what he lives for. It is his gift that fills his heart in joy and happiness. And he longs to share it with the World.

“Two minutes Mr. Frog,” his assistant Carlita Chipmunk tells him. She scampers away nearly tripping over a coil of rope. Quickly regaining her composure and adjusting her headset, she jots a note upon the clipboard in her hands.

Edam Opera House is packed. Gentlemen mice murmur while their wives proudly preen in their elegant gowns.

The theater is large and wide. The most famous in the Western Hemisphere. The seating is of deep burgundy adorned with golden seams. Three aisles separate them with the largest parting the center as if Moses Mouse had divided this colorful expanse.

Along the high walls, staggered loges hang precariously between long golden tapestries depicting the family crest of the House of Edam. Here reside the mice of prominence.

George P. Edam sits stoically within the largest of these centered on the left. His wife – chatting gayly with their guests – graces the seat at her husband’s side. He is a Titan in the cheese industry. Having been born on a dairy farm, son of two nominal working class parents, he started in a Swiss factory as nothing more than a mere hole puncher.

Moonlight cascades in through the dome skylight reflecting white rays off of a large chandelier. Three rings of gold, one below the other, hold thousands of diamond cut facets which dangle from shimmering threads twinkling like stars.

This rippling echo of light dances a Waltz upon the plaster reminding Figaroso of a time long ago. For years he poised himself on a Calla Lily perfecting his art, his gift. If you were to stop taking a rest on a warm summers eve near Lilylond Pond, you would have heard the sweet caressing lilt of a little frogs song.

Figaroso closes his eyes shutting out the hushed whispers, the rustle of stagehands, and the erratic tuning of strings, and returns to a time before the fame. Taking his mark on center stage, the heavy velvet curtain hangs loosely before him.

To his right, Carlita raises her paw. Five manicured fingers alert him he is on in five… four… three… The curtain bunches from the bottom and rises ageing in wrinkles until it disappears into the heights.

Just as the shadows consumed the evening, the bright beacons of spotlight creep over Mr. Frog’s webbed feet revealing him to the waiting audience. First his long slender legs hidden in flowing black slacks to the cherry red cummerbund enveloping his waist. Over the bright white of his dress shirt lined with buttons of black. To his adorning red bowtie and finally uncovering his face of dark ebony skin between two golden eyes.

With a deep clearing breath, Figaroso Frog begins his aria. Only himself and his soothing tenor perched upon his lily under the smiling moonlight. The audience was captivated. Hundreds of little black orbs locked in stare, some weeping, all in rapt fascination.

Moving from his mark, he glided across the smooth Mahogany stage. His hands outstretched and flourished as he gracefully moved in pirouette embellishing his words. He danced with his partner, his love, his song, his art.

As he croaked his perfect pitch singing low and high. He was home. Only him on his lily pad, afloat in the calm waters of Lilylond Pond. Where the fireflies flashed their effervescent glow amongst the swaying reeds and tall pine trees under a starlit sky. Where the water bugs jittered and glittered in that mirror of Heaven, prancing to the chorus of his song mixing with the chirping crickets and buzzing mosquitos.

Yes. He was home.

He sang and he sang, the song of his kind. Hopping and prancing he sang of his journey stemming from his home of Lilylond Pond. The many lonely nights with only him and his love and now he shared this gift, the best way he could.

As he neared the end of his solo, this aria of love, he crouched down low. And with a deep-deep breath, his vocal sac puffed. He hopped up high spinning in the air wiggling his toes holding the final note in a melodic vibrato.

As the wind in his sac waned, he landed with a plop. Opening his eyes and spreading his arms wide. He ended his song with the beat of the drum, perfectly in time.

The orchestra fell silent and after a moments pause, the audience erupted. Gentleman stood doffing their hats and their wives applauded merrily. They clapped and they clapped. It was a veritable sight.

Bravo. Bravo!

The house lights brightened bathing the theater in a warm yellow glow. Roses were tossed to the stage and Figaroso bowed down low while a solemn tear pooled in the corner of one yellow eye.

The applause continued unabated. Mr. Frog stole a glance to the loge upon his left. Even Mr. Edam himself had rose to his feet and tipped his tall top hat.

For Mr. Frog, time no longer existed. This night like all his performances knew no bounds and locked into memory. He will live these moments forever. This was his love. His reason for being and nothing could shatter that.

As the theater thundered, emerging from the shadows like a repugnant reek from the rot of decay, a Harbinger of death crept silently towards that thin veil between the happiness of the theater and itself, a being with abhorrent hatred for those that run rampant in his city.

The twin doors made of the same stout Mahogany, boomed and shuddered. Not from the din of applause but from an unwanted guest. Ears of the dapper mice which were seated nearest, twitched and twisted. Listening. Searching.

With one Herculean tremor, the spotlights listed lazily towards the ceiling, their gazes falling onto the chandelier. The facets twinkled in their beams and their reflecting glow glistened on the white architectural ceiling sparkling like a blanket of fresh fallen snow.

Lifting one yellow eye, Figaroso gazed out into the crowd. The applause began to ebb while whiskers twinged and noses sniffed.

Silence fell. It was then the thick double doors could hold back the night no longer and in one thunderous shudder, burst inward, erupting in a spray of splinters.

What emerged in that shattered entryway was that feeling of dread that roils in your stomach, makes your heart fall off of the invisible chasm, ripples your skin, and causes the hairs on the nape of your neck to stand erect.

Slithering over the shards, a Black Adder – the largest any have seen – sailed down the center aisle like a ship parting a sea pooling itself into a writhing coil. Wrapping over itself, its black scales, dark and deep like the hidden depths of an unlit ocean, seemed to drown all of the light.

A large head rose high over the crowd brushing the bottom shards of the chandelier. Its menacing snake face peered over them.

With a flick of a black forked tongue, it tasted the air. Ogling them with two red eyes, burning like embers of malice, two curved fangs dripped in glistening venom as it opened its maw.

Mice scattered in an explosion of chaos. Skittering and dashing, they streamed along the floor clambering over one another hoping beyond all hope for escape. They scaled up the tapestries tearing them to shreds and over the backs of seats peeling them from their moorings. They poured out into the night squeaking and squealing in fright.

Mr. Snake let them go. They were not what he was after.

No. He was here for a special delicacy. The one he knew whose purpose was not tainted with greed, corruption, or envy. The mice, yes, they could tide him over. And they have. But he longed to taste the one whose blood ran strong and pure like the ichor in his veins.

Mr. Figaroso Frog.

His piercing red eyes focused on the little frog center stage and ignored the tide that scurried away in fear.

The theater now lay barren and in complete disarray. Death had come knocking and consumed the life of the theater leaving only ghosts of laughter and joy within its’ confines.

Mr. Snake licked and tasted. He puffed up his heft and pulsed.

“Behold! Take in my might and bow to me. For I am Death and I long to feed.”

His fangs dripped acidly as he grinned.

Mr. Frog had rooted to the spot. Motionless, he gazed into those glaring eyes that ogled him lustfully.

In a thin voice Mr. Frog asked, “What is it that you desire Mr. Snake?”

“Why you, of courssse,” he hissed sampling the pleasing taste emanating from Figaroso. Smacking his black lips, his mouth salivated in anticipation. “You are the one that I crave to tayssssst.”

“And why is it that you desire me so? For I am but a humble singing frog.” Imperceptibly he looked left and then right. The theater was deserted and quite positively, quiet as a mouse.

“Yesss…You are jussst that. A humble little frog. That is why I want you ssso.” Mr. Snake drew his ominous black snout closer. The pleasing taste of Mr. Frog mixed with the aromatic scent of the roses. He desperately craved this little singing frog.

“Please Mr. Snake. Do not eat me. You can have whatever I can give. If it is fortune you desire, I will provide you with every last cent. If it is fame, I will ensure your name is worldly known. Please, oh please Mr. Snake. You can have it all. I care for none of it.”

Mr. Snake loomed over Figaroso, his hulking shadow stealing the light as if he were a dark gray storm blotting out the high architectural ceiling.

“I have no need for richesss or fame. I am Death and hold all the power. The taking of your life is what will sssate a God sssuch as I.”

Figaroso gulped. He stared into those eyes, those windows to darkness. No light glimmered within them. Only lost souls of the damned this false Deity has destroyed.

“Please. Mr. Snake. What is it that makes me so utterly tantalizing? A lowly humble frog as myself would not, could not, satisfy a God’s hunger. Surely there must be another whose greed and lust have made them rich and plump. A delicacy to a powerful snake like you.”

Mr. Snake rose his head high until his evil grinning face blocked the chandelier. The sparkling diamonds of glass shook as he spoke, “Ahh…There are others that I could dine upon until I am ssstuffed. But they do not taste as sssweetly as the likeness of you.”

“Sweetly! Oh, but you are wrong Mr. Snake. There are those whose indulgences enrich them and they would be quite a feast! Mr. Snake, please, let me live! I would not taste very well indeed. It is my only desire to sing and dance and entertain.”

Mr. Snake’s grin widened at this merciful plea. “Yesss. But that is what will make you taste so good. That simple humbleness within you. The lack of want is what makes you so delicioussssly pure! You will make a fine meal Mr. Figaroso Frog. And I have come for you.”

Mr. Snake opened his mouth wide. The muscles throughout his body tensed and he poised to strike this little frog before him.

Figarroso’s mind whirled. He had no intentions of becoming a meal but his time, he feared, was running short. With one final attempt, one last bargain, he hoped for the chance. He knew what he must do.

“Please. Mr. Snake. Grant me one last wish.”

Mr. Snake paused, coiled and reared. What could this little frog ask of him? He hissed a low guttural growl that shook the very theater. “What isss it Mr. Frog. For I am hungry.”

Beads of sweat rolled down Figaroso’s neck and slid into his jacket. This was it. His one chance. “Mr. Snake. Before you make me your meal, allow me one last song. A hymn of farewell. A grand finale if you will.”

Mr. Snake regarded him, this small singing frog. What harm could it do? “Ahh… Dinner and a show. Very well. One last song and then I will dine!” That vile forked tongue lashed out and flicked. “Go ahead Mr. Frog. Sssing for me.”

Figaroso’s heart raced as rapidly as his mind. This is it. The performance of a lifetime. His palms sweating and his body shaking; the pit of his stomach churned and rose.

Closing his golden yellow eyes, he retreated into familiarity. Calming his thoughts he returned again to the place where time ceased ticking, back upon his Calla Lily.

And with a deep calming breath, his mind at home under a cloudless night sky, the stars began to swirl. Spinning like pinwheels they formed the words of his song and he smiled. Knowing from that deep sense of love and happiness just how to best Mr. Snake. This false God.

And he sang. He sang like never before. Mr. Frog danced and twirled. Roses billowing and swirling like the stars in his mind. He sang of how he, Mr. Snake that is, was a truly powerful being.

Grabbing the tasseled end of the golden braid that lay neatly coiled to his side, Mr. Frog whispered to it as if it were he, the almighty, the power that is, that false Deity Mr. Snake believed himself to be.

“You. Mr. Snake. The powerful God that you are. You are strong; truly a Titan!”

As this little frog – the one from Lilylond Pond – used his voice. Mr. Snake puffed out his chest and swelled with pride.

He is the greatest! The mightiest! The Elitist Fate deciding who could live and who must perish!

Figaroso hopped into the aisles, the long golden braid trailing him. He hopped back and forth over and under the large beast that he entranced in song. He continued to sing spinning and dancing with the rope in his hands.

And in one powerful kick, rising high off the floor. Mr. Frog jumped right onto the chandelier! The Golden braid of rope – still in his clutches – dangled down low draping over and under the snake down below.

He hopped from the chandelier and landed with a plop onto the stage billowing the roses in a ripple like a drop in a pond. He bent low into a bow and stretched out his hands.

Mr. Snake eyed him. He was done with this little frog. He craved the sweetness within him. Now was his time.

He reared his head and hissed.

“Ssssss!”

With one sweaty hand, Figaroso grabbed the wooden handle behind him and snapped it down. Sandbags fell high from the rafters and the heavy velvet curtain fell in a swish pulling the golden braid taut. It buzzed around the chandelier in a cloud of dust and cinched tightly around Mr. Snake like a constrictor squeezing him so! It pulled Mr. Snake up high, high from the ground until he was suspended, writhing and hung.

He was trapped!

How could this be! This little frog had tricked him!

Squirming and fighting, the rope cinched tighter and tighter. Unable to breathe, unable to move. Mr. Snake fought until he could fight no more.

Slowly hitching, he ceased and hung still. His large black snake body rocked gently like the large velvety curtain.

Mr. Figaroso Frog bent low in his final bow. In the silence he stood and adjusted his little red tie. He had beaten this demon, this Harbinger of Death. For he knew just how to best him. He had known all along. The way to beat fear was to face it head on.

Clasping his hands behind his back. He flicked off the house lights and pushed open the door. Without looking back, he hummed a sweet song. And stepped out into the night.