Snake-Bite

We take turns trying to slide for a while. A flattened cardboard box and the steepish sides of a disused railway embankment, it's pretty shit. There are brambles and clumps of razor sharp grass that impede any smooth descent, too firm rooted to give up when we kick at them with this useless footwear - canvas or sandals or something. So we scramble up there and start tearing at them with our hands.

It's stupid difficult; bare, slick hands slip and get ripped up. The earth appearing is orange dust and sticks strongest in the thorn welts. Our hands and arms mirror the emerging channel cutting through the undergrowth, or multiply it, in miniature. Maybe we spit on these little wounds, like our saliva holds magical healing properties, but we're silent and stoical and the air is thick and weighted.

When this kid, Jonathan, let's out some high, unearthly noise - like a rabbit in the jaws of a stoat - it's a minor annoyance. He rolls on the ground, clutching his wrist and we make some mental note not to play with him again. Until we see the snakes body desperately trying to vanish beneath the depleted covering - then -  wow -  that's pretty glamorous.There's this one venomous creature here, it's kind of shy and retiring and getting one to put it's teeth in you would be a very illusive quest, but there's Jonathan with these perfect baby vampire punctures and a fast moving red stain. We coo over it for a while - noises of concern and admiration with a firm underlay of envy.

"Should we - suck out the poison?"

Someone asks, hesitant but with enthusiasm. Nobody knows. Jonathan looks spaced out now, greying and clammy, so we hold these quick elections and the sturdiest of us, plus the one with the most to lose if Jonathan's adventure proves fatal start to drag him over the field towards his house.

We beat around the brambles with sticks for a while, trying to flush out the assailant. Give up pretty quickly then half-heartedly reap the rewards of our former labour. The potential excitement of the slide is muted by the alluring prospect of assault by a kind of deadly creature.

"He won't die"  one of us mutters, half regretfully and we slope off home to get berated for the state of our clothes and skin and to mention nothing about snakes or bites to whatever adults are doing this berating.