Rolling Snake Eyes

By Pamela Love

“Behold!”

The ringmaster’s bellow startled me into sitting up so fast I slammed into the calliope I was fixing. With a moan, I squirmed out from under it.

Mr. Trent brandished a contraption that looked like a bicycle snapped in half. “Behold the latest invention, the unicycle! Its rider will save Trent’s Traveling Circus.”

I eyed the odd wheel and rubbed my aching forehead. “Who’d you hire to ride it?” Half our performers had mumps and the other half had measles.

A smile stretched out from under Mr. Trent’s mustache.

I hastily backed away. “Mr. Trent, I sell candy and tickets—”

“You’ll do neither if the show folds! We’ve lost a good six weeks here in the middle of nowhere with all those hicks who can’t appreciate a good show. If we can’t sell a lot more tickets than usual during what’s left of this season…” He somberly shook his head.

My boss had a point. I stuck out my fool hand and shook his. “I’ll do my best.”

Ha! I’d never even ridden a bicycle—or anything but a four-wheeled wagon with someone else holding the reins.

I spent the next ten days shaking atop that wretched wheel.

At first, I practiced on the campground where Trent’s Circus was stuck. But the jeers, guffaws, and unhelpful “advice” the other performers called out from inside their wagons got to be too much.

So I took to the backroads of New Eden, figuring nobody could watch me there. Even before sickness had struck our crew, the townies had shunned our show. Seems the local preacher said anything that wasn’t work or worship was sinful. Trent was sorry we’d stopped there, but relieved they didn’t chase us away.

Trent had told me that you turn a unicycle by leaning where you want to go. “Mine thinks I want to go to China,” I grumbled, brushing off my trousers. By that afternoon they held more dirt than the road did. I’d toppled to the left, right, back, and front. Next thing you know I’ll run into a tree.

It was hot, even for August. Sweat did more rolling down my face than I did rolling down the road. Scrambling back onto the unicycle, I pedaled off—and promptly fell off. Again.

That did it. “Consarn you!” I hollered, plus a few more choice words that would’ve shocked any preacher. I kicked the unicycle twice for good measure.

A hiss resounded behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. What looked like another unicycle, but without a seat or rider, rolled toward me. Someone’s loose wheel?

Except it was speeding up and starting to kick up dust. Impossible. As the wheel closed the gap, I recognized its red and white patches and sucked in my breath. Hoop snake! Though I’d never seen one before, I’d read about those critters. They chase their prey by holding their tails in their mouths and rolling.

I hopped onto the unicycle, my feet a-whirling. I’d never pedaled so fast. If I fall off, I’m a goner! But I couldn’t lose the snake. It was closing the gap. Its patches were clearer now.

They were skull-shaped.

Then I had a notion. Maybe the hoop snake was chasing my unicycle. Might think it’s another hoop snake. Could be it’s in love. My heart pounded. I just kicked its sweetheart.

So I braked—not falling for once, and set the unicycle flat on the ground. Once that critter learns it’s wrong, it’ll be on its way, I hope.

I crouched beside a tree. Hoop snakes have a poisonous stinger on their tail. Duck behind a tree at the last minute and you can avoid it, if you’re lucky. I crossed my fingers.

The hoop snake slowed, then bumped against the unicycle’s tire a few times. The critter rolled back a bit. I sighed with relief.

Then it headed toward me at top speed. It wants revenge.

I took a deep breath, ready to dodge that tail—but inches from the trunk, it unrolled and came at me on its belly. Maybe its fangs weren’t poisonous, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

Up the tree I scrambled. Guess what—that hoop snake could slither up just as fast. So I grabbed the only thing close to hand—an apple—and threw it. I missed. When I heaved another, the snake caught this one in its mouth, sinking its fangs into the fruit, and froze. Its forked tongue flickered against the apple. The snake started chewing.

I stared as the juice dribbled off its scaly jaw. Now’s your chance, Nick. Dropping to the ground, I sprinted to my unicycle and sped back to the campground.

“You didn’t try to catch it?” Trent’s shoulders slumped. “Nobody has a real hoop snake. P. T. Barnum never even had a fake one!”

I folded my arms. “Well, you’ve still got a real unicyclist. Sorry if that’s not good enough.”

He patted my shoulder. “Sure, Nick. But what a draw it would have been! I—Why, what’s going on?”

A long line of townsfolk, led by the white-haired parson, came marching toward our wagon.

Trent’s face turned white. “A mob? Now? They’ve never given us trouble before.”

The preacher raised a finger and pointed at me. “There he is!” He pumped my hand. “Magnificent, young man! An inspiration!”

“I—Thank you, sir, but, um, why are you here?”

“Young man, I’m Reverend John Whittaker. This afternoon I was in my son’s orchard and saw you tempt a serpent with an apple. And the beast took it!” He pulled out a wallet. “Half the town’s here to listen to your story, and the other half is coming tomorrow. How much are the tickets?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey, and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test”, which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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