Maya Serpentine's Arc

Chapter 4 of 5

The trees thinned. The ground turned to flat stone under moss. Maya slowed. Ahead, half-swallowed by roots and green, stood a low stone arch. Worn serpents curled across its blocks, their scales softened by weather. The map warmed in her hand until the parchment felt like skin held near a fire. She stepped closer. The air under the arch stayed gray. No path opened. No light moved. The way beyond looked like any patch of forest, ordinary and closed. Maya knelt at the threshold. The serpent slid down her forearm and pooled in her open palm. It had not left her wrist since the river. Now it lifted its head toward the stone. She understood then. The gate was not built for her. It was built for the guardian that once lived here. She had carried the serpent this far, but the door would not read her hand. It would read his. She lowered her palm to the moss and held still. "Go," she said. "If it's still yours, take it." The serpent tasted the air. It looked back at her once. Then it poured off her fingers onto the stone, thin and quiet, and moved toward the arch alone. It crossed under the keystone. The gray broke. Light ran along the carved scales in a slow green line, block to block, until the whole arch glowed faintly from inside. Beyond it, the forest changed. Ferns bent aside. A narrow path showed itself in the moss, curving down toward water she could not yet see. The serpent stopped at the far side of the arch and turned its head to her. It did not come back. It waited. Maya let out the breath she had been holding. The map cooled in her hand. A fresh line inked itself past the gate and stopped short of the garden, marking only the next stretch of trail. She rose slowly and stepped under the arch. The stone let her pass. On the other side, the serpent climbed her boot to her wrist and settled, heavier now, awake. The garden was still ahead. But the gate had known him, and through him, it had let her follow.