1775 Tee

The boy was fast, but not silent. Each footfall stirred the dust of his ancestors, and he knew the snake could feel it. He was not a warrior yet. Not until he brought back the serpent alive. The old ones had given him no weapons. Only a clay bowl, a looped yucca cord, and the blessing of his uncle—the Snake Priest. “If the snake bites, it is your fault. If it flees, it is your shame. But if it trusts you—you will never go hungry, and your enemies will never see you coming.” He ran between the sun-blasted stones, following the trail of the rattler, its winding body leaving tracks like lightning in the sand. The creature had nested beneath a sacred juniper—where prayers were still tied in faded corn husks. When he saw it, the snake was still. Coiled. Watching. He slowed his breath. Snakes did not fear strength, only chaos. He knelt. His hand trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of generations watching. Then he spoke, as taught: “Brother Snake, I bring no war. Only the will to l