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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Fantastic Adventures, December 1945
with "Tears for the Crocodile"
What could a beautiful girl have in
common with the murderous snake god?
We seemed to sense the shadow of an evil monster as the native talked.
PROFESSOR BRADY'S thoughts were bordering on desperation. He stood head and shoulders above the group of bushmen, the sun beating down on his pith helmet, perspiration running off his stubbled chin. The little aborigines moved in about him as tightly as possible. They listened as he struggled to get across his point.
"White men go long way. Lake Tanganyika," he pronounced the words with deliberation; He had to convince some to cooperate with him. "One guide—two guide—give plenty beads—much cloth—good money. How many guide?"
He waited, knowing that they would not answer. Something, and he thought that something was fear, prevented any of these beady-eyed little people stepping forward.
"Much beads—much money," he repeated.
White dust arose from the village square, 'darkening his wet face. He smiled at them, trying to hide his doubts. This village had been the same as the other.
He and Pete Larson had a date at Tanganyika. It wasn't the type of hunting he usually did. Captain Pete Larson promised him bigger game.
"Dear Prof," Pete's message had said, "pull yourself loose from that village of yours and meet me in Usumbura in three days. I need your knowledge of the lake to track down a man. Erich Mueller, German prisoner of war has escaped and is hiding out in the brush. I'll depend on you."
Brady had made his way toward Tanganyika, for he was at home in his own section. Now, with jungle swamps ahead, he needed men who could get him through. Some of the bushmen, feeling that they had heard Brady's complete speech, were breaking away from the group. They drifted toward the mud-walled palm-thatched huts that surrounded the square.
Brady's throat was dry. It was almost noon. The sun beat down upon him as though it, also, did not approve of him going further. He tried again:
"Give fine rifle warrior can guide me from Tanganyika." He held his big-game rifle aloft: He had another in his baggage, "much beads."
The sight of the rifle brought gleams of interest into the eyes of several of the men. Still, they drifted from him as he stepped into their midst. He was growing angry. The heat did that to a man. Suddenly the little savages looked stubborn to him. He raised his voice, shouting at them:
"You God-damned unreasonable little midgets. Isn't there a man among you?"
A voice came from directly behind him. A soft feminine voice. He pivoted, startled at the sound.
It was a white girl.
She stood there, legs spread apart, arms akimbo, smiling at him broadly.
Brady was no fool. He ruled three hundred square miles of bush country to the east. Ruled it with medicine and kindness. He'd visited every village in his own domain, and yet had never heard of a white girl living within five-hundred miles. But here she was.
The sun had burned her to a clean bronze. Her clothing was simple and, it seemed to him, impossible for such a place. It consisted of a white silk blouse, somewhat frayed at the bottom and hanging loosely over a red skirt of the same material. Long, curly chestnut hair encircled a beautiful pouting face.
"Remember your temper, Englishman," she said. "You must not lose it. My people might misunderstand."
For a moment his eyes remained wide and his mouth hung open in-astonishment. Then he regained control of his speech.
"I say," he stammered, "where in Heaven's name?"
She shifted her pose slightly and the sun exposed the slim lines of her body.
"If you are going to ask about me," she suggested, "forget it. I live where I wish. You do the same. I don't ask your business here."
He had to admire her for that, though it left his face a little red.
"I Snow it's none of my business," he admitted, "but you—here with these—these...?"
"Savages," she said coolly. "They are quite kind and considerate of me. You wish to go to Tanganyika?"
QUESTIONS seethed inside him, but he recognized a worthy
opponent and decided, at least for the present, to respect her
words. He nodded. "I've got to reach Usumbura in three days," he
said. "Why?"
He was about to answer that, but that also was none of her business!
Yet, she was treating him quite decently. Perhaps she could help. Should he tell her the real reason he had to meet Pete Larson? It would be best. These people were uncanny at detecting a lie. He would have to pay her every respect if he hoped to win her confidence.
"There's a war on," he said. "It seldom touches this remote part of the world, but when it does, we must fight in the best manner, we know. A German prisoner of war has escaped from a camp far to the north. He's clever. He has reached Tanganyika and is hiding somewhere in the brush. I meet an American officer at Usumbura. Together we'll hunt down our man."
At the mention of American, her eyes flashed. A frown wrinkled her forehead. Then, without acknowledging his words, she walked past him, into the center of the crowd of pygmies. As she walked, she touched several of the men on the head.
Her voice became guttural and Brady recognized the Bantu dialect flowing from her lips. When she returned, five of the men followed her. They had taken a complete about face in their attitude toward Brady. The first, a wrinkled, leathery little fellow, grinned broadly as he faced tie Professor.
"Name number one fella, Mambi." He pointed to himself. "Must hurry—you say three days. Must give much beads and gun."
He reached for Brady's gun and the Professor passed it over, staring at it as it rested in Mambi's hands, with a lingering love for something fine that has been sacrificed. The girl spoke to him in short, abrupt sentences.
"Take five men. Leave all but your important luggage. We must start at once."
"We?" he stammered. "You aren't going to enter the jungle, not dressed like that?"
Her feet were bare. Her toes dug up little mounds of warm dust as she moved about.
He stared at him a little scornfully.
"Why do you think my men are going?" she asked. "They wouldn't travel the Snake God country without me."
THE sun filtered down through age-old trees, penetrating the
dense foliage and the twisting vines. It was cooler here, but the
swampy trail steamed with a different kind of heat. The rotting,
degenerate earth gave up the stench of dying thing.
Mambi, leading his men, moved forward steadily, cutting and hacking his way through the undergrowth. Brady had time to wonder on that trip. Not once during the full three day trek did the girl falter or lag behind. She walked steadily, lightly, between the last carrier and Brady. She never turned and he had ample opportunity to watch and wonder.
When night came, Mambi built roaring fires and they slept with one man on guard, until the first rays of sunlight sent them onward.
Brady was at home in the jungle. Although this trail was strange to him, it tired him no more and no less than the others. The strength of the girl amazed him. Hour after hour, day after day, her slim legs carried her over rotting logs and waist deep through black swamp water. She spoke only when necessary, giving sharp reproachful orders to her men. Her smooth body held up under every strain and many times, the Professor was forced to puff a little breathlessly to keep up with her.
Who was she? Why did she refuse to volunteer information? Did she actually live throughout the year with the little people of the village?
CAPTAIN Pete Larson of the American Intelligence emerged from
the thatched hut near the marsh and hurried across the native
compound. He hesitated when the path led into a narrow trail, and
then waited. His number one boy had told him a party of seven
were on their way up the trail. Pete Larson had every reason to
expect Professor Brady.
Larson saw dust rising from the burned top-soil where the trail wandered out of the jungle and up the hill to the village. He took off his helmet and wiped sweat from his face. He replaced the helmet quickly and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. Larson, to put it bluntly, was damned glad that Brady could come. He had been on Erich Mueller's trail for three months, and Mueller, thus far, showed every sign of escaping Africa and eventually returning to Germany where he would be able to divulge some important information.
The people on the trail came closer and Larson's smile turned to a frown as he saw a red skirt moving in the faint breeze.
"For Gawd's sake," he mumbled, "a woman."
He hadn't seen a white woman for a year. He started toward Brady's party. His tall, slightly stoop shouldered figure ambled easily over the rough ground. The grin of delight widened as he drew closer to them.
At last they were within hailing distance.
"Brady," he called, and broke into a run. "And a white woman. Man, this is wonderful."
Brady met him with outstretched hands.
"Guess I kept my word," he said.
"There were a few bad hours when I thought I'd never get here."
He turned to the girl, as she came up to them, staring with ill-concealed respect at Larson's tall figure.
"Leeta got some boys for me; I owe my punctual arrival entirely to her."
"Leeta?" Larson said, and grasped the girl's hand. "Your name is as pretty as you are. What's the rest of it?"
She shook her head and her hair tossed about in stray curls. Her teeth sparkled.
"That's all," she said. "Your professor insisted on a name. Leeta will do."
Brady interrupted.
"By the God's, Larson," he said. "You'd better not keep after her for more information. She's a little spitfire if you get too curious. A darned welcome one though, with the help she's given me."
LARSON tried to keep his eyes, his thoughts, off the girl as
they hurried on to the shade of the village. A half hour later he
had explained to Brady what lay ahead.
"Mueller is one of the top men in the Gestapo," he said. "He's been in a prison camp up north. I was detailed to bring him back and I almost nabbed him in this very village. He's slipped away again and I don't know the lay of the land south of here. I sent that note to you last week. A flyer dropped it off near your place, and paid a boy to run it in to you. That gives Mueller a six-day start."
They were fairly comfortable now. The chief of the village knew Brady and seemed to have great respect for Mambi and Leeta. They ate plentifully and as dusk fell, Larson was sure that Mueller could be apprehended with the help of his old companion.
As they talked, Leeta sat quietly, eating fruit that was brought to her.
"We'll need a couple of good boys and a guide," Brady said. "I wouldn't tackle this country alone."
"Mambi will go with you," Leeta offered. "I will go along also; I know the country of the Snake God very well."
Larson turned and studied her carefully. He had fought to keep his eyes off her. Now, with their plans made, he found it hard to remain silent.
"Look here, Leeta," he said. "I'll take Brady's advise and not ask too many questions. Remember, though, that you're a damned attractive girl! Why not volunteer some information? Surely you don't make a habit of running around the country with so little protection?"
To Brady's surprise the girl laughed. He realized that Larson was handsome enough to get a favorable reaction from most women. But from Leeta? She had hardly spoken ten words to him during the three days they were on the trail.
"Leeta will be the only name you'll ever know me by," she said. Then the smile vanished. A tiny frown took its place. "You will be very foolish if you let your heart rule your head. You may thank me for helping you and I will leave when we reach the end of Erich Mueller's trail."
Quite abruptly she arose. Darkness was closing in around the village. Out in the brush a lion roared its challenge. Leeta faded into the night. As she left, Mambi stood up and stalked after her.
Brady looked at Larson. The big American's face was a study.
"I'll be damned," he said softly. "I've know some exclusive numbers, but never anyone like her. She's ready to help us as long as she's needed and she's no more than a half-pint of woman. Ask her a single question about herself and she fades out of the picture in a hurry."
Brady sat silently for a long time. At last he reached for his bed-roll, unstrapped it and arranged it close to the fire.
"Unprotected perhaps," he said thoughtfully, "but I doubt it. I have the impression that she knows exactly how to take care of herself." He added dryly: "Under any circumstances:"
NINE days out of Usumbura. The country was covered with tall
marsh-grass and, in the distance, Lake Tanganyika lay like a
smooth burnished plate of copper. Constantly, throughout the day,
Mambi found fresh signs of Erich Mueller's trail. At times they
seemed very close, then, when both Larson and Brady were ready to
close in, Mueller's trail was lost once more.
Leeta, as had been her custom, was sleeping well away from the campfire. Mambi, his leathery face wrinkled with importance, leaned forward close to the fire, talking in a low monotone.
Both Brady and Larson listened, so tired that they could not sleep. Their nerves had been worn to a raw edge.
"Number one woman strong medicine against Snake God," Mambi was explaining. "Snake God powerful in this country. Snake God kill strange men who not belong here. Strangle boys. Strangle white men."
"I'd like to see this creature for myself," Brady said. "I've heard the legend before. Men found with their bodies crushed and broken. Always it happens away from trees. Away from the jungle. At first I suspected there really was some huge killer snake, but the snake won't leave its tree. It certainly wouldn't come out into this open country."
A shudder coursed through Mambi's body.
"Number one white woman strong medicine," he repeated, as though to reassure himself: "You have no fear."
Larson smiled a little ruefully.
"Strong medicine is right," he said. "I can't get next to her, because she'd probably tear my eyes out. Darned if I'm not taken with the little devil."
Brady didn't know why, but he worried much that night about Larson's words. He had seen Leeta's eyes on Larson as they followed the trail. Her eyes were bright, and it seemed to him, a little frightened.
IT was late in the afternoon of the tenth day out of Usumbura.
Pete Larson led the party. They were close to Erich Mueller.
Mueller has passed the last water hole scarcely an hour before.
The German was near his trail's end. Brady was more concerned
about Larson at that moment than he was over the capture of the
German.
Then, ahead of him he saw Larson drop flat in the tall grass. He motioned for the others to take cover. Leeta, panting slightly, dropped beside Brady. Thoughtlessly he put his arm on her wrist. It was a friendly, protecting gesture. She withdrew it quickly and her eyes caught his with a gleam of utter fright as her body went rigid.
Events piled up so fast that he had little time to wonder at the gesture. Larson crawled back slowly and his face was in grim lines.
"Your Snake God, Brady," he said. "You wanted to see it."
He heard Leeta gasp and turned to see the anger that blazed in her eyes. Suddenly all beauty seemed to drain from her. There was a satanical fury on her face.
"Not—a—real snake?" Brady stammered.
"I can't be sure. It's curled around the body of a man. Mueller, I think." It was like the end of a bad dream, that sentence.
Together they moved forward on hands and knees, until their post commanded a view of the small open gully ahead. Leeta followed them and the three stared down at the scene below.
"It's Mueller, all right," Larson said, and studied the scene with his glasses. He passed the glasses to Brady. "Take a good look at that snake!"
Brady put the glasses to his eyes. He saw what appeared to be a huge reptile, nearly fifty feet long. The glasses, however, revealed that it was only the skin of snakes stretched over a long column of squatting, crawling natives. As he watched, the human snake writhed and wound its way tightly around the figure of Erich Mueller. Mueller had been trussed by vines. Now the human snake arose and poised over him. Eager, glistening arms grasped the ropes and started to pull.
To Brady's horror, the ropes cut into Mueller's flesh and the man was literally torn apart with the force of the rope-vines being drawn clean through his flesh.
He turned to see Larson's eyes still on the scene. Leeta, at Larson's side, watched also. Her face was quite expressionless, and betrayed no emotion.
"We—we'd better get out of here," Brady said, "before they start looking for more victims."
Larson nodded. For some time he didn't speak. Then he shrugged his shoulders and started to edge his way backward.
"It looks as though Mueller had been paid off in full," he said. "Let's go."
THEY would make a speedy march back to Usumbura. Larson lay
awake a long time that night. He wasn't worried any more about
Erich Mueller. He could report his mission accomplished. Tonight,
Leeta was uppermost on his mind.
He was sure that his was no foolish, sudden infatuation brought on by months away from civilization. It wasn't the mystery of Leeta either that troubled him. To Pete Larson, the explanation was simple. He loved the girl and he didn't care where she came from or what she'd done. The main thing was to convince her that he wasn't a bad bargain. Thus far he hadn't had the courage to approach her again.
It was a cool night. The wind in the grass sang a song in his ears.
Then he saw the slim, shadowy form creeping near the fire. At once, he was alert, hand on the pistol under his bed roll. The shadow came closer.
It was Leeta.
She was quite close. He could hear her breathing.
Lying very still, he closed his eyes and waited. She came directly to his side. He wanted to take her in his arms, but he didn't dare.
Then as suddenly as she had come she was gone again. This time she had arisen to her feet and run swiftly into the darkness beyond the edge of the camp.
His lips were still warm with the heat of the single, desperate kiss she had pressed against them.
That kiss had been a gesture of parting! She had promised to stay as long as she was needed.
He had to find out what sent her running from him. He was sure of her love.
He strapped on his cartridge belt hurriedly and ran in the direction she had gone. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw movement among the boys. Footsteps sounded faintly behind him.
Without looking back, Larson ran faster, trying to follow the faint trail her feet made where the grass bent, allowing her to pass.
It was very dark and the marks were faint. He was sure that someone was on his trail, but that didn't matter; He plunged forward, frightened that she might escape him forever.
Then, abruptly, he stopped. The trail had stopped also. In its place, the grass was broken down and pushed aside, as though a huge beast had lurked here. Where the trail widened, he saw something shining in the grass. He bent over and picked up two bits of silk. Leeta's blouse and skirt.
Mambi, for it was the number one boy who followed him, found Larson standing there in the darkness, the clothing in his hand, gazing ahead with dull frightened eyes. Mambi tried hard to make Larson return to camp.
"Number one white woman say she leave you when bad fella reached long time end trail," Mambi explained carefully. "You not try follow. You be sorry."
Larson wasn't in the mood to be placated.
"You're a damned heathen," he snapped. "Either you help me track down the killer that got her, or I go alone. You go?"
Mambi had respect for this white man. He also had a responsibility.
"I go," he said, and started off on a dog trot.
THE trail was easy to follow. It lead back along the way they
had come. It was still visible at daylight, a wide, crushed trail
of grass going straight back toward the scene of the Snake God's
fiendish killing.
As they drew closer, Mambi lagged, as though frightened of what was waiting for them. When they reached the clearing where Mueller had died, Larson knew why. The Snake God was gone. In its place were the shredded, torn bodies of the men who had hidden under the skins of reptiles. The same gigantic creature that had caught Leeta had passed this way. The trail of blood that it left was not a pleasant sight.
Here, alone with the pygmy who had come to protect him, Pete Larson faced the truth, and the bitterness that it brought him. Alone by the fire with the dried-up number one boy of Brady's party, Larson heard the story of the Snake God.
"Many suns pass," Mambi said softly, "and all time bad men of Lake Tanganyika worship Snake God. They dress in skins of snake and kill all who go this way.
"Our village fear Snake God. All villages fear Snake God. Then one day number one white woman come from long way and live among us. After that no one fear Snake God. Number one white woman you call Leeta have strange power against Snake God."
He paused and stared behind him into the darkness.
"Then one day Mambi see giant crocodile kill Snake God. After many day, Mambi follow number one white woman and see many Snake Gods die."
"But a crocodile," Larson protested. "Good Lord man, a crocodile can't destroy fifty or sixty men."
Mambi nodded soberly.
"All time kill many men. Always bad men who would kill women—babies—in many village, if they not killed first."
"And Leeta had to run straight into the jaws of this—this monster." Larson leaned forward with his head on his hands. "I could have stopped her."
"Number one white man not know yet why woman you call Leeta run away?"
Larson looked up, wonder in his eyes. He shook his head slowly. Mambi looked very unhappy.
"Then white man not know that woman you call Leeta is Crocodile God? That Crocodile God is good spirit and is broken-hearted because she is so ugly?"
A shudder coursed through Larson's body. He was unable to speak. He could only stare at the little man, hoping that the whole thing was a nightmare. Hoping that. Mambi was mistaken or trying hopelessly to make him feel better over Leeta's loss.
"You're—you're crazy," he said hoarsely. It wasn't his own voice. "Leeta was human. She loved me. She—she kissed me before she ran away."
Mambi nodded.
"I watched her lose heart to you," he said slowly. "I knew her thoughts. 'Love for white man cannot last. White man must not grow to cherish my heart. My heart cannot be his. It can only bleed with unhappiness.'
"That is what Leeta think. Tonight she must go away. Long time ago she make herself look like white woman. Then, when she grow to love white man, she can only remain white woman until her people need her again. Tonight we need her. She go, but first, with wet eyes, she give you one kiss. She never dare look like white woman again."
He had finished his explanation. The night was much the same. The wind still sighed endlessly through the waving grass. The fire died down and Mambi added fresh fuel.
Larson sat quietly. He tried desperately to understand.
"Africa!" he muttered to himself. But that didn't explain it either. Africa never explained her mysteries...
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.