Step closer, traveler… no sudden movements. What you’re about to hear is no mere serpent story, but a dream given scales. Some say it came from the hush between breaths. Others swear it was born from marrow itself. One thing’s certain—it remembers every dreamer bold enough to wake it.
Now, folks around here tell of a young man and a young woman who lived under the roof of the man’s kin. Weren’t a bad roof, it kept the rain off ’em and the fire lit. But it wasn’t theirs. And like any young pair, they dreamed of a place of their own, walls built by their hands and not by another’s.
One night, after a hard day of planting crops, as the lamps burned low, the ground around that house gave a groan like thunder. The earth split, and out crawled a serpent, yellow as corn silk, bat-like wings thin as worn leather, and eyes burnin’ red as fresh coals.
That serpent raised its head and spoke as plain as you or me. “I been roused from my sleep. For that, one in this household must die.”
It lunged at the man, but the woman, bold as you please, grabbed hold of its tail. Mad at bein’ hindered, the serpent swelled and grew, scales turnin’ dark as storm-iron, belly red as banked fire, a mane of feathers crownin’ its head like a lion’s mane. With wings beatin’ like thunderclaps, it chased the man across fields and through woods.
The man spied a rope, slung it true, and caught the serpent’s head, entangling it. He clung fast, astride its back, and so it was. A stalemate. The serpent strained forward, the man pulled back, and the ground shook beneath ’em both.
The woman came runnin’, voice steady though her breath was gone. “Spare him! Spare him, and I’ll give you my land, my estate, and my firstborn child!”
The serpent laughed, a laugh that rattled the stars. “You’re crazy! You got no land, no estate, not even the clothes on your back. Yet you bargain like a queen. Still, I like your fire. I’ll grant you this: free me, and I’ll give you one year to learn the secret of my defeat. If you succeed, I’ll trouble you no more. Fail, and I’ll take my due: a death, your future lands, and your firstborn child.”
So they freed it. The serpent rose into the sky, wings blotting out the moon, and vanished into the night. Only a single feather drifted down, black as crow wing, but shimmerin’ with colors no tongue could name. They carried it home in silence, for their year had begun.
First place they went was up the ridge to the Granny-Woman’s cabin. She was old as the hills, some said, with eyes that saw straight through to your marrow. The woman laid the feather on her table.
The Granny spat once, crossed herself twice, and said: “Serpents are old, older than these mountains. Ain’t no killin’ such a thing head-on. But every beast’s got its hollow, the one place it lays its head. Find that hollow, and you’ll find its weakness. But take care: what you reckon is its weakness may turn out to be your own.”
She pressed a pouch of dried roots in their hands and sent them on their way.
They climbed higher still, where the Hunter lived, one-eyed and scarred from a black panther fight folks still whisper about. The man told him their tale and showed the feather.
The Hunter nodded slow. Then said “Steel won’t do it. Beasts that bargain don’t bleed like men. But rope… rope’s got power folk forget. Catch it once, you can catch it again. Question is, will you know the knot that keeps it?”
He showed the young man knots older than the mountains, twists and loops that looked like nothin’ but held tighter than bedrock when ya pull on ’em. The man practiced till his fingers ached, and the Hunter grunted approval.
Comin’ down, they reached a crossroads. There stood an old fiddler, leanin’ against a fence rail, bowin’ out a tune wild enough to raise the hairs on your arms. Folks said he’d bargained with the Devil and won, or maybe he was the Devil’s kin himself.
He saw the feather and laughed, near doubled over. “Lord, child, you’re carryin’ trouble sure as sunrise. Serpents like that don’t got patience. They’re proud, quick to strike, quicker to anger. You can’t fight it head-on; that’s playin’ its game. No, no… you gotta outfox it. Trick its eyes, trick its ears. Make it chase shadows till it tangles in its own rage.”
He rosined his bow, played a crooked reel that stuck to the air like cobwebs, and said: “This here’s the serpent’s song. Play it true, and it’ll stumble. But mind, music cuts both ways. The beast may falter, but so may you.”
And just like that, the fiddler was gone, leavin’ only the echo of his bow.
So it was the couple carried three lessons: the Granny’s warning of hollows, the Hunter’s knots, the Fiddler’s crooked tune.
When the year was done, they stood in the meadow, feather in hand, rope coiled at their side, and the serpent’s song hummin’ in their ears. The ground shook, and the serpent rose, wings blotting out the stars.
What happened then? Well, that’s where the tale forks.
Some say they bound the serpent with rope and feather, and it sank into the earth for good. Some say the tune tricked it into dancin’ itself to death, thrashin’ till the hills split. Others whisper they failed, and the serpent still waits in a hollow, biding its time. Still others say the couple is out there to this day, wandering the hills and hollers, avoiding the snake and trying to find the secret.
Truth is, no one rightly knows the real end. No one but maybe that couple… or the serpent.