The Hibernaculum

©2001 Jess Butcher
All rights reserved.

As he spoke, Frank Pfister's dockside universe wobbled beneath him. Located just west of the main Houston ship channel, his world consisted of three slips, one covered dry-dock, and a small workshop tucked beneath a modest elevated cottage. The protection Frank had afforded himself was piecemeal, improvised from the ordinary—alcohol, television, work, junk food, sleep, these were his armor.

"No, this is Pfister's Engine Repair." Frank said, speaking into the telephone wedged between his shoulder and stubble-covered chin. "Gough sold this building to me three years ago." Frank stood unsteadily, the kitchen tilted ever so slightly as he struggled to maintain his fragile equilibrium.

"Nope, Gough went out of the import business and moved back to Australia," Frank continued. "Last I heard, he was living north of Perth. Works for some sort of zoo or something. I've got a telephone number for him there if you want."

Frank Pfister gazed out the kitchen window as a battered tug passed by, diesel engine clattering, bludgeoning its way toward the setting sun with steady, brute force. As usual, Frank was a little drunk; several moments passed before he found the postcard with the phone number and returned to the line.

"No problem," he finally said. "Tell Gough 'hello' for me if you reach him." With that final comment, Frank placed the phone in the cradle and sat heavily at the kitchen table, his fingertips absently following the contours of the nearly empty Jack Daniels bottle resting in front of him.

"No ice on the pier this morning," Frank said to the bottle. "The weather's getting better and Daugherty's bringing in his sport fisher tomorrow; twin 3208s, that'll be a good job. Four good working days and we'll be in the money," he smiled faintly, pouring the last of the bourbon into a plastic glass.

Her third Houston winter there had passed slowly, spanning the frigid months as she waited patiently for spring's arrival. This year she'd quietly relocated to the second floor at Pfister's, seldom venturing from her modest comforts. She'd grown accustomed to this new place. The activities of her neighbors seldom disturbed her; she was content, peaceful.

"March 15, 'Beware the ides,'" Frank smiled to himself as he readied breakfast. The weather was warming but the kerosene heater in the kitchen had run out of fuel during the night. Frank could see his vaporous breath as he busied about the kitchen, stepping lightly over the steel grating of the dormant furnace.

"Wish you were in working order on a morning like this," he said to the furnace as he stood atop the grate, looking down into the darkness. He could feel deep grooves, rectangles forming on the bottom of his stockinged feet as he paused there, pouring his first long draft of Jack Black for the day.

"Where are you, Chester?" Frank called. From the bedroom, Chester responded with a hearty meow. "Here's your breakfast, your highness," Frank smiled, carrying a bowl of fishy-smelling something toward the bedroom door. "I'm not serving breakfast in bed this morning, big boy. I gotta get to work."

Frank was concerned about his old tomcat; he hoped Chester wasn't dying. The old cat had been behaving strangely for months now, seldom leaving his nest on the bed at Frank's feet, steadfastly refusing to venture into the kitchen.

Out the window, Frank saw Daugherty's big sport slowing at mid-channel. He piled breakfast dishes in the sink and hurried downstairs to direct the boat into his center slip. Standing on the pier, Frank felt alive. He knew the Caterpillar engines by heart and could easily roll bearings in both by the end of the week. With any luck, he'd clear five hundred dollars on the job.

Throughout the morning, Frank's spirits soared with the temperature. By noon, in spite of the blustery March wind, the rusting thermometer on the dock piling reached eighty degrees. Below deck, Frank was warm and content in his solitude. He glanced at his watch. Time for a sandwich ... and a drink, he thought.

Instinctively, she knew she was unique, a survivor. There were no others like her here in this foreign place. Yet the weather and the surroundings pleased her, living a simple existence in this alien world.

In her second-floor refuge, she yawned, cream-colored lips parting, lithe body stretching. Today, winter's deep chill had been replaced by precious warmth, signaling her to begin anew. Her dark eyes surveyed the space around her before looking toward the barred sky.

Frank stood at the counter whistling merrily as he constructed a mighty sandwich. "Chester, you old devil," he called toward the bedroom, "come join me for lunch!" Frank's glass was already empty, he poured himself another and carried sandwich and drink to the kitchen table.

"Chester?" he called again as he sat on a kitchen chair and began removing his boots. "C'mon out, old buddy," he said softly, absently massaging his stockinged feet across the rough grating of the furnace.

Hours earlier, twelve thousand miles away a telephone had rung. "Blair Gough, here," a distinctly Australian voice answered. "Houston? Yes, I'm afraid we're a bit ahead of you here in Perth."

Gough's ruddy brow had furrowed as he listened intently to the caller. "No," he lied cautiously, "I'm afraid it's illegal to export the Inland Taipan, he's a rather nasty sort of fellow, you know."

For years, Gough had made a living selling rare, endangered Taipans all over the world.

"Anti-venom research, you say?" Gough had chosen his words carefully. Since the caller's name was unfamiliar to him, Gough was suspicious, fearing a possible trap by U.S. Customs.

"Well, the Inland would be the fellow for that I suppose," Gough continued."Venom fifty times more potent than the Indian Cobra. Very abrupt and ferocious little bugger. Multiple-striker, you know."

A few moments later, Gough had rung off after referring the caller to the office of the Australian Wildlife Ministry in Melbourne. The Aussie smuggler had walked to his porch and paused, watching the sun as it disappeared into the vastness of the Indian Ocean. Just before he'd sold his place to Pfister, a lone Inland Taipan had escaped from a crate hidden in his Houston workshop.

"Surely she's done for by now," he'd whispered.

Fully grown now, the Taipan measured nearly two meters in length. Suddenly, the bones in her lower jaw vibrated in response to a low-frequency sound. She jerked her head upward, the intruder's infrared radiation registering as her black eyes searched the steel grid for danger.

"Chester?" Frank called again, turning on his chair between oversize bites of his sandwich, his shoeless feet still tapping the furnace grating.

The big yellow cat appeared, cowering in the bedroom doorway.

"What's the matter with you?" the man asked, shaking his head, feeling better than he'd felt in months. At the very edge of his peripheral vision, Frank saw the snake as it materialized at his feet.

The enlarged scales covering the Inland Taipan's eyes projected a cold, scowling countenance. Frank turned to stone, breathless, motionless stone. The coppery-brown serpent was still, confident. It uncoiled only when the cat bolted for the front door.

As was its custom, the Taipan struck viciously, again and again, five times in all. As Chester sought trembling refuge on the prow of Daugherty's boat, Frank's life seeped away, his uncomprehending eyes peering down into the serpent's furnace lair.

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