The Green Crocodile

Long ago, as the people say, seven brothers lived near the creek of the Green One. In those far-off days the creek was not called that, for the monstrous creature did not yet exist.

The seven brothers had seven wives who were sisters, and it seems that these wives were unfaithful to their husbands. One night, when the moon was full, the brothers returned from a hunting expedition and discovered the truth. In their anger they tied the sisters together, wrist to ankle, and led them to the stream.

As soon as the women sank beneath the black waters, there was a great splashing and bubbling, and from that spot crawled a monster so terrible that the brothers fled in fear.

That was the Green One, with his long ugly snout, cold, vicious eyes, and great clawed feet. Some say the women were changed by magic into the Crocodile of the Pool, and many still believe that and speak of the Green One as if it were more than one being.

Certain it is that the terrible crocodile lived through the ages.

No one hunted her, and she was left in possession of the flat sandbank where she laid her eggs, ranging the sandy shore undisturbed. She was regarded with awe; sacrifices, both living and dead, were offered to her from time to time, and sometimes a cripple was knocked on the head and left by the water’s edge for her pleasure. She was indeed a veritable scavenger of crime for the neighboring villages, and earned a kind of respect, for people said: “Sandi does not speak the language of the Green One.”

Sometimes M’zooba would leave her quiet creek and pool, her own territory, for the more adventurous life of the river. One day she lay in the river, her body submerged, only her wicked eyes showing above the surface, when a timid young roebuck came picking a cautious way through the forest to the water’s edge. He stopped often, trembling at the slightest sound, looking this way and that, then taking a few steps, then searching again, until he reached the water. After a final look around, he lowered his soft muzzle to drink. Swift as lightning the Green One flashed out her long snout and gripped the buck’s head. Ruthlessly she pulled, dragging the struggling deer under the water, until its white tail vanished.

Out in midstream a small white boat was moving steadily up the river. On its shaded bridge stood an indignant young man who witnessed the tragedy. The Green One stored her food in a cave under a large rock a few feet beneath the water. She pushed the dead buck inside and covered the entrance with sand and stones. Satisfied with her morning’s work, she came to the surface to bask in the morning sun. She surveyed the world of low shores and hot blue sky, saw the river broad and oily, and a strange white object steaming toward her—and that was the last thing she ever saw.

For Bones, on the bridge of the Zaire, squinted along his rifle sights and pressed the trigger.

Struck in the head by an explosive bullet, the Green One went out in a flurry of water.

“Thus perish all rotten old crocodiles,” said Bones, pleased with himself, and he placed the rifle in its rack.

“What the devil are you shooting at, so early in the morning?” asked Hamilton, coming out in his pajamas, a sun helmet on his head and boots reaching to his knees.

“A crocodile, sir,” said Bones.

“Why waste good ammunition on crocodiles?” asked Hamilton. “Was it something exceptional?”

“A tremendous fellow, sir,” said Bones enthusiastically. “Some fifty feet long, and as green as—”

“As green!” repeated Hamilton quickly. “Where are we?” He scanned the shore for landmarks. “I hope to goodness you haven’t shot old M’zooba.”

“I don’t know your friend by name,” said Bones, “but why shouldn’t I shoot him?”

“Because, you silly ass,” said Hamilton, “she is a sacred crocodile.”

“She was never so sacred as she is now, sir,” said Bones flippantly, “for she’s flapping her wings in the crocodile heaven. I’m one of those dead shots—once I take aim at an animal—”

“Get out a canoe and set the divers to search for the Green One,” Hamilton told his orderly, for a shot crocodile sinks to the bottom and can only be recovered by diving.

They brought it to the surface, and Hamilton groaned. “It is M’zooba,” he said in resignation. “Oh, Bones, what an ass you are!”

Bones said nothing, but walked to the stern and lowered the blue ensign to half-mast—a piece of impertinence Hamilton did not discover until much later.

No matter what Hamilton wished now, he was entirely at the mercy of his men in the matter of the green crocodile. He could not call them together and ask them to keep silent without making Lieutenant Tibbetts’ rash act seem important. The only attitude he could take was to treat the Green One’s death as a normal event, not to be mourned or celebrated. So when the first village sent a doleful deputation—a worried chief and a sulky witch doctor—to lament, Hamilton treated the matter jovially.

“For what is a crocodile more or less in this river?” he asked.

“Lord, this was no common crocodile,” said the witch doctor, “but a very reverend ghost. She has been our ju-ju for many years, bringing good crops and fair weather, and eating up the devils and sickness that came to our villages. Now that she is gone, only ill fortune can come to us.”

“Bugobo,” said Hamilton, “you talk like a fool. How can a crocodile that never leaves the water, and is evil and old, a stealer of women and children, bring good fortune to anyone?”

“How can the river run, lord?” replied the man. “Yet it does.”

Hamilton thought a moment. “Now I tell you this, and you shall say to all who ask, that by my magic I will bring another green one to this stream, greater and larger than the one who has gone, and she shall be ju-ju for all men.”

Later, when the deputation had left, he said to Bones, “Now it is up to you to go out and find a nice, respectable crocodile to take the place of the lady you have so light-heartedly destroyed.”

Bones gasped. “Dear old fellow,” he said weakly, “the habits and customs of the fauna of this land are beyond me. I will fetch you a crocodile with the greatest of pleasure, although nothing in the King’s regulations defines the catching of crocodiles as part of an officer’s duty.”

Hamilton made no further move to replace the lost spirit until he learned that his offer had been taken seriously and that the coming of the new great Green One was discussed up and down the river.

Official records support this: although reports dealt with mundane facts like crops and discipline, in that district that year the reports made gloomy reading. Although crops were good in most of the country, in the immediate neighborhood of the pool they failed miserably. Fish migrated, there was a blight in potatoes, the maize crop was meager, there were three unexpected cases of sleeping sickness, and a storm struck the village with lightning.

When they brought the news, Hamilton said, “My son, you have to go out and find a green crocodile, quick.”

So Bones went up the river with the launch, leaving Hamilton the delicate task of explaining away the disasters.

Green crocodiles are rare, for green is a sign of age and, by report, of cannibalistic tendencies. In the lower river, green ones were killed in their youth. Bones spent seven exciting days chasing, lassoing, and sometimes shooting at great reptiles, but never found a green one.

“Ahmet,” he said in despair, “there seem to be no green crocodiles on this river.”

“Lord, there are very few,” admitted the man, “for the people kill them because of their evil influence.”

At every village there was news: some monster lived in a pool or creek, but when they arrived there was nothing. Bones waited with baited lines, but never caught even a glimpse of green. Urgent messages came from Hamilton, who was rattled by the daily reports of disasters. Bones finally decided to consult old Bosambo.

So he set the Zaire’s course for the Ochori country and arrived on the second day.

“Lord,” said Bosambo loftily, “I have thousands of crocodiles.”

“Green ones?” asked Bones anxiously.

“Of every color,” said Bosambo. “Blue or green or red, even golden crocodiles I have. But they will cost great money, for they are cunning, and my hunters are independent men.”

Bones cut him off. “O Bosambo, there is no money for this palaver, but a green crocodile I must have, because the evil people of the Lower Isisi say I put a spell on their land when I slew M’zooba. And I must have it before the moon is due. My Lord M’ilitani has sent me powerful messages.”

Bosambo looked dubious. “Lord, what manner of green was that crocodile, for I never saw it?”

Bones looked around. Neither the green of the trees, nor the grass, nor the elephant grass, nor the tender green of the high trees or palms was the exact shade. He searched his books and possessions, even Hamilton’s, to match the color. He found a suit of Hamilton’s pajamas with a stripe close, but not perfect.

“O Ahmet,” he said at last, “go to the storeman and bring all the paints he has, so I may show Bosambo the color.” They finally found the exact shade on a ten-pound tin of enamel paint. Bosambo thought long.

“Lord, I think I know where I can find such a crocodile,” he said.

Late that night Bones and Bosambo had a long palaver, and an hour before dawn they went out with hunters to a creek in the Ochori land notorious for its crocodiles.

II

Hamilton had a serious task, for although the grievance was limited to the area where M’zooba’s spirit brooded, the people had many sympathizers who resented this interference with what Downing Street called “local religious customs.” An unauthorized palaver was held in the forest, attended by delegations from the Akasava and the N’gombi, and spies reported that the witch doctors were spreading tales.

Hamilton broke up the palaver with twenty soldiers and a machine gun. Two witch doctors were caught. One was flogged in public, and the other was sent to prison for a year. And all the time Hamilton spoke of the new green one that was coming, which his magic would invoke, and which would appear tied by one leg to a stake near the pool. He unwittingly founded a sect of new-green-one worshippers. It only needed the physical presence of the new deity to wipe out distrust.

But days passed without news from Bones. Hamilton cursed him and his luck. Then, unexpectedly, the truant arrived early one morning, proud and triumphant, before Hamilton was awake. He sneaked in so quietly that even the sentry didn’t notice. Silently, with fierce whispers, Bones landed his unruly cargo—its feet chained, its muzzle lassoed and bound with raw hide, its tail bound between planks of wood. Then Bones went to wake his chief.

“So here you are, are you?” said Hamilton.

“I am here,” said Bones with trembling pride. “According to your instructions, sir, I have captured the green crocodile. He is of monstrous size and vastly superior to your half-worn lady friend. Also, as per your instructions, I have fastened him by the right leg near the pool—at least, he was fastened, but he slipped cable and is now wallowing in his native element.”

“You’re not joking, Bones?” asked Hamilton, busy dressing.

“Perfectly true and sound, sir. I never joke,” said Bones stiffly. “Give me a job of work, and with the assistance of jolly old Bosambo—”

“Is Bosambo in this?”

Bones hesitated. “He assisted me considerably, sir, but the main idea was mine.”

The chief’s drum summoned the people, but the news had already spread, and a crowd gathered. Hamilton spoke from the hill: “O people, all that I promised you I have performed. Behold now in the pool—and you shall come with me to see this wonder—is one greater than M’zooba, a vast and splendid spirit that shall protect your crops.”

“Lord Tibbetti has done it,” whispered Bones hoarsely.

“All this I have done for you,” repeated Hamilton firmly, “because I love you.”

He led the way to the great pool. The whole countryside stood watching the still water, but nothing happened.

“Can’t you whistle him up?” asked Hamilton.

“Sir,” said an indignant Bones, “I am no crocodile tamer. However willing I am, I haven’t induced a crocodile to come to heel after a week’s acquaintance.”

The people were patient. They waited half an hour, and then suddenly there was a stir. The new one came up. He made for a sandbank in the center; first his snout, then his long body emerged. Hamilton gasped. “Good heavens, Bones!” he said in a startled whisper.

And well might he be amazed.

The reptile was more than green—a vivid, glittering green that shamed the forest, with a zigzag splash of orange down its back.

“Phew!” whistled Hamilton. “That’s something like.”

The crowd roared approval.

The crocodile turned its head, and for a moment its eyes glinted viciously at Bones. Then with a malignant “woof!” it slid back into the water and vanished.

“You have done splendidly, Bones!” said Hamilton, clapping him on the back.

“Not at all, sir,” said Bones.

That evening on the Zaire, Bones was unusually silent. After dinner, over cigars, he asked, “When was this boat decorated last, sir?”

“About six months before Sanders left,” said Hamilton in surprise. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Bones, and whistled lightly. “I just thought the enamel in the cabin has worn very well.”

“Yes, it is good wearing stuff,” said Hamilton.

“That green paint in the bathroom is rather chic, isn’t it? Is that good wearing?”

“The enamel?” smiled Hamilton. “Yes, I believe it is very good wearing. It should last another year without wear.”

“Is it waterproof?” asked Bones after a pause.

“What do you mean?”

“Would it wash off if a lot of water were applied?”

“No, I shouldn’t imagine so,” said Hamilton. “What makes you ask?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Bones carelessly, and he whistled, looking up at the stars. Inside, Lieutenant Tibbetts was one large expansive grin.