We walked slowly, descending once more into the foothills. The early sunlight had given way to mist, which settled thickly in the tea valleys. The air I breathed was so densely humid that I felt I was drinking it. The path disappeared under my feet. I could hardly see where I was stepping. Only a blind trust in Johnny’s judgement kept me going, and I stumbled along in his wake, desperately following the blurred outline of his body ahead of me. “Look,” Johnny said, pointing to the sky. A hawk wheeled over the valley, vanishing into the mist. Several times it did this, falling from the cloud in a slow, tilting arc above our heads before disappearing once more into the ether. I could not keep track of its movements; I did not know if I could trust my eyes.
It was not an ideal introduction to Johnny’s home. Many times before, I had imagined myself arriving dressed in perfectly pressed clothes and a fetchingly elegant cravat: witty, engaging, and adored. Instead, I found myself staggering up the stairs to the verandah at the front of the house, holding a blood-streaked cloth to my neck. My legs began to buckle and I felt a burning sensation at the back of my throat.
“Water,” I heard Johnny call.
All this time, I was acutely aware of how ridiculous I must have looked. I saw various people pass before me, and I wanted to explain to them that this was a ghastly aberration. My behaviour is entirely inexplicable, I wanted to say; and as for attire, well — I had been caught unawares; no one had told me I would be invited here. And yet, curiously, I could not speak. My throat had seized up and I found it difficult to articulate even the simplest words.
“Calm, calm,” Johnny repeated.
I’m not certain how long my embarrassing little turn lasted, but slowly I began to regain my composure. My breathing became more even, and when I coughed I felt my voice vibrate once more at the back of my throat.
“I’m awfully sorry,” I said, looking around. “You must think I’m terribly vulgar.” I stood up and offered my hand in greeting to the people now assembled: a frail, frightening old man, whom I recognised instantly as the one saved by Johnny from the fire; an equally stern-faced woman with grey-black hair piled in a thick bun; and finally a timid girl, a maid of some sort, who stood tentatively behind an enormous rosewood armchair.
“You have been bitten by a snake, I hear,” the old man said, without offering a handshake. I didn’t know what to do with my still-outstretched hand.
“This is not surprising,” his wife said. “Ever since Johnny came here we have seen many snakes. Cobras. Even in the house.” When she said “Johnny” she seemed to spit the word, as if getting rid of an unpleasant and unexpected piece of food from her mouth.
Johnny stood in silence, his head hung as though in shame.
“What do you mean?” I said. “Johnny had nothing to do with it.”
The woman laughed, looking at me as if I were a recalcitrant child. “This man comes from out there,” she said, waving her hand. She spoke in the tones of a tired schoolteacher. “The jungle is part of him. It follows him everywhere.”
“It is everywhere,” I said.
“Not in our house.”
Johnny spoke quietly. “It’s the hot season. The snakes are following food and water. There is plenty of that here.”
“No, they are following you,” the woman said, casting a sideways look at Johnny.
“Mother, you exaggerate,” a voice called. “There have only been two snakes in the house all year, and one of them was a mere baby.” I looked up and saw a woman walking towards us, emerging from the shadows of the house.
