It didn’t take him far. With appalling agility, the crocodile from the reeds leapt at him with jaws agape. It came so close that he caught a blast of foetid breath. It fell back, then tried again. Grimly, Hylas struggled higher: shuffle, hop, hoist.
The crocodile gaped with that ghastly grin, but made no further attempt. Relief washed over him. It didn’t look as if crocodiles could climb trees.
Far above him, the Sun flashed through the spiky branches clustered at the crown. He risked a glance down – and saw with a jolt that he was now right over the water.
Behind him on the bank, the smaller crocodile, the one from the reeds, seemed to have lost interest in its troublesome prey. Slithering down the bank, it swam towards the sandbank, where more crocodiles were now hauling themselves out to bask in the Sun.
But the big one from the shallows had climbed the bank, and was lying beneath his date-palm. On land, it was even more enormous than it had been in the water. From snout to tailtip, it was longer than three tall men laid head to foot, and its scaly belly could have swallowed a deer.
As Hylas watched, it turned and slid back into the water, and went under. He strained to make it out, but its swampy hide had vanished uncannily into the shallows.
He waited. Something told him it hadn’t gone away.
He was thirsty. Only now did he realize that he’d lost the waterskin. He must have dropped it in the river-horse tunnel. Pirra would be furious. He held on to that.
Below him, the shallows were quiet. The waterlilies had stopped rocking. Had the crocodile gone back to the sandbank?
The lilies erupted, giant jaws clashing a hand’s-breadth from his face. With a cry he recoiled, nearly losing his grip on the rope. The crocodile fell back with a drenching splash.
The waterlilies rocked. The wind hissed through the reeds. A dove uttered a rippling coo that sounded a lot like laughter.
The rope was biting into his hands and wrists. He scarcely felt it. He waited for the monster to come again.
At the edge of a lilypad, two pebbles silently broke the surface – and peeled open to reveal the stony yellow crocodile stare. The pupils were black slits. Hylas couldn’t look away. He was falling into them …
Just in time, he wrenched his gaze away.
His arms were beginning to shake. He couldn’t hold on for much longer. Forcing himself to ignore the monster, he shifted the rope higher up the trunk, and resumed his climb. He had to reach the branches at the top.
He could feel the crocodile watching.
Crocodile, Kem had told him, run fast as a horse on land, and hold his breath underwater for half a day. He smell the scent of a child at forty paces, he hear it blink … Egyptians call him He Who Watches What He Would Seize.
Hylas glanced down.
It was still watching. Implacable, totally without feeling.
Deep within Hylas, his spirit rallied. ‘Well, you’re not going to get me,’ he gasped through clenched teeth. ‘If I fall out of this tree, I swear I’ll stick in your throat and choke you to death – I’ll cut my way out of your belly if I have to …’
With one supreme effort, he hauled himself into the crown of the date-palm. Not much room among the big clusters of knobbly brown fruit, and the stiff, dagger-sharp branches. ‘See?’ he panted at the crocodile. ‘I’m not finished yet!’
‘I’m not finished yet!’ he yelled. Birds flew up from the reeds in a clatter of wings and startled squawks. Hylas was shaking uncontrollably. The crocodile was still watching.
A branch snapped off from the date-palm and dropped on to the lilypads.
The crocodile didn’t stir. No creature Hylas had ever encountered was so utterly without response.
He couldn’t bear it. He had to make it do something. Awkwardly shifting position, he took a pebble from the pouch at his belt and threw it as hard as he could at the monster’s head.
His aim was off, he hit a lilypad with a splash. His next was better, it struck the flinty hide with a thud and bounced off with another splash. The crocodile didn’t even blink. Hylas didn’t throw another.
The Sun rose higher. He tensed and untensed his legs, to stop them going numb. His head was throbbing; the palm’s branches gave little shade. He thought with longing of the waterskin.
The crocodile went on watching.
It’s a messy way to die, in a crocodile’s jaws, Kem had said. He drag you under, then roll you round and round till you drown; they call it the death roll. Or sometime, he just thrash you from side to side, till you’re all tore to bits …
On the sandbank in midstream, some of the crocodiles had woken up. Squinting through the branches, Hylas watched first one, then another, slither into the water with that dreadful snakelike ease and come gliding towards him.
Too late, he remembered something else Kem had said. Any splash, any stir in the water, it draw the crocodile. He can feel the flick of a fish’s fin, the touch of a deer’s muzzle brush the surface as it drinks …
I shouldn’t have thrown those pebbles, thought Hylas.
The crocodiles were beneath him now: some in the water, some hauling themselves up on to the bank. They would wait all day and all night until he dropped from the tree like a ripe fruit.
He wouldn’t stand a chance. He wouldn’t even have time to scream.
Pirra felt a cry rising in her throat, and choked it down. ‘Hylas where are you?’ she hissed.
She’d thought he was behind her, but by the time the river horses had gone crashing through the tunnel, she’d realized he wasn’t, and she was lost.
It was terrifying being alone in the Great Green. She longed for Havoc or Echo, but she’d heard no more calls from Havoc, and she knew that Echo was far away. Sometimes, when the falcon was flying, Pirra felt that she was flying too. Now she had a fleeting impression of rushing wind, ducks exploding from glittering water and the fierce exhilaration of the hunt, driving all else from the falcon’s mind …
A desperate shout dragged her back to herself. Horror washed over her. That was Hylas. He was too far away to make out the words, but there was no mistaking his anger and fear. And it took a lot to frighten Hylas.
Starting towards where she guessed his cry had come from, Pirra burst through the papyrus on to a muddy bank rustling with reeds. A hot wind lifted her hair. A snake flickered down a hole. Before her lay another stream, much wider than before.
Another shout from Hylas. Then nothing. It sounded as if he was on the other side, further downstream.
Pirra skittered down the bank and eyed the murky green water. It looked deep, but she could swim, and if she had to, she could rest on that sandbank in the middle.
She was about to wade in when, upstream, she spotted the humped grey bulk of river horses. One gave a cavernous yawn and bared its big yellow tusks. Another surfaced with a whoosh, alarmingly close. Snorting and spouting water, it waggled its small round ears and glared at her with bulging, frog-like eyes.
Pirra backed away. At her feet, a long shallow groove led down to the water’s edge. On either side of it she made out the prints of large clawed feet. She pictured the crocodile slithering down the mud, into the shallows. She scrambled up the bank.
Now what to do? She couldn’t swim across, not even for Hylas.
If in doubt, make an offering: get the spirits on your side. She’d forgotten to do that when they’d entered the Great Green, maybe that was why things had gone wrong.
Her last remaining necklace from the House of the Goddess was under her tunic, tied around her waist: a string of amethyst beads hung with small gold poppyheads. Reaching under her skirt, she snapped off a poppyhead. ‘Spirits of the Great Green,’ she muttered, ‘help me find Hylas and keep him safe!’
She cast the gold into the water and watched its glinting descent. A large fish rose from the murk and swallowed it in one gulp. Was that good or bad?
She started along the bank, heading downstream. Perhaps she would come across a bridge, or even a fisherman willing to help her find Hylas,
for a price.
A bird flew up at her feet, its frantic wings brushing her face. She was so startled she nearly ran right past the boat.
It was small and made of bunches of papyrus tied together. Its owner hadn’t bothered to moor it, he’d simply jammed it among the reeds.
Pirra had never handled a boat in her life, but she didn’t give herself time to worry. Hauling it free of the reeds, she jumped in. It rocked violently, water sloshing over the sides.
She couldn’t find a paddle, only a pole floating alongside. She remembered the fisherman pushing off from the bank, and did what he’d done, raising the pole with both hands and jamming it into the mud, then pushing with all her might.
The pole stuck fast and the boat shot forwards, nearly leaving her in the mud. Somehow, she managed to haul both boat and pole back together. This time, she didn’t jab too hard, and when the boat glided clear, she managed to stay with it and yank the pole free.
The current was strong, and the boat sat alarmingly low in the water. She felt horribly exposed: at any moment, an outraged fisherman might spot her from the bank.
Something bumped against the back of the boat. Pirra’s belly turned over. The crocodile flexed its snaky length and swam towards her. She saw its warty snout and the mottled bumps of its eyes; the long armoured ridges down its back. Clutching the pole, she bashed it on the nose. It sank without a ripple and disappeared.
Panting, Pirra cast about. Where had it gone? She remembered something Kem had said. It’s the crocodile you don’t see that gets you.
Muttering a prayer to the Goddess, she headed off as fast as she could. The opposite bank drew steadily closer. Among the reeds, she spotted movement: was that Havoc in there, crouching down?
Suddenly the boat juddered, nearly flinging her out. She’d hit a rock. No, not a rock, a river horse, a young one rearing up, squealing in fright. Desperately, Pirra tried to back away. A giant wave crashed over her, swamping the boat – and another river horse surfaced with a furious bellow.
This was no young one. This was the mother.
The lion cub was so famished she’d hardly seen the girl on her bundle of reeds as she’d gone charging into the wet after the baby river pig – but now the mother was bursting out at her.
For something so fat, the mother moved terrifyingly fast, surging right past the girl and lunging at the cub. The cub dodged. The river pig’s tusks clashed a whisker from her ear. The cub sped up the bank – and swerved to avoid another river pig lumbering towards her.
Instead of attacking her, this one spun round and waggled its enormous bottom, lashed its stubby little tail, and spattered her with stinky black dung.
Filthy and furious, the lion cub fled.
To think that at first, she’d actually liked this soggy new place. It had been such a relief after the burning lands to have enough to drink, and she’d always loved splashing about in the wet. She’d had fun chasing ducks, and had even found some delicious crunchy fish, conveniently trapped in one of those little grass sacks which humans used for catching them.
But the reeds were swarming with midges and ticks, so many ticks. Soon her pelt was crawling with them: biting, itching, driving her mad, especially the ones in her scruff, that she couldn’t lick off.
Then she’d lost the scent of the boy and the girl. She’d heard him calling, but she couldn’t find him.
And now all this dung. Licking her forepaw, she rubbed her muzzle to clean it off. When she did it again, it tasted so awful that she gave up.
Miserably, she found a patch of wet where there didn’t seem to be any river pigs, and waded in. The mud squelched soothingly beneath her paws. She stuck her head in the wet and washed off the dung, and felt a bit better.
At that moment, she caught the boy’s scent. At last!
Bounding up the bank to catch the wind, she smelt that he was somewhere behind that little island in the middle. Eagerly, she leapt back into the wet and started swimming as fast as she could.
The falcon liked this strange new place – it was much better than the burning lands. There was plenty of wet for bathing, and those huge grey monsters in the shallows made excellent perches.
And so many birds! She’d eaten a duck, and had fun scaring those stripy kingfishers that were ridiculously easy to catch, although they tasted horrible. She’d even crunched up a few little blue damselflies, because they moved so slowly it seemed a pity not to.
It was such a shame that neither her humans nor the lion cub seemed to like this place. Just now, she’d seen the girl gliding very fast over the wet on her bunch of reeds. The falcon had sensed that the girl was frightened, but had no idea how to help; and she kept getting distracted by all the birds.
The lion cub wasn’t doing well, either. She’d just been chased by one of the grey monsters. She’d scrambled out of the wet and shot up a tree, and the falcon had been impressed. The cub wasn’t usually good at climbing trees.
A few wingbeats away, the falcon came upon the boy – and he, too, was up a tree. The falcon was puzzled. Why was everyone climbing trees?
Hylas was getting desperate. He was dizzy with thirst, and he’d been crouching for so long that his legs had gone numb. Sooner or later, he was going to fall out of this tree.
Around him, life was going on as usual. Birds chirped, frogs eep-eeped and a crow on the bank held down a snailshell with one foot and tugged out the squidgy mollusc with its beak.
The Sun was getting low. Beneath him, the waterlilies had closed their petals and were slowly sinking below the surface. Somewhere upstream, a herd of river horses was uttering deep mvu mvus.
And still the crocodiles waited. Some had gone, others had come, but the biggest, the one that had attacked him first, had never stirred from the waterlilies. Only its nostrils and eyebumps showed, but he knew it was there. He felt its stare.
Twice, he’d dozed off and nearly fallen in. After that, he’d tied himself to the crown of the date-palm. But its branches were alarmingly brittle, and he dreaded the whole thing snapping and taking him with it, into the jaws of the monster.
He thought of Pirra and Echo and Havoc, lost in the Great Green. He thought of Issi, far away across the Sea in Messenia. And here he was, stuck up a tree. Was this how it was going to end?
He was jolted awake by a tremendous splash. Out in midstream, two river horses were fighting, bellowing with massive jaws agape and lashing out with their tusks. The others in the herd parted to let them through, and the pair went crashing in and out of the water, gouging bloody furrows in each other’s flanks.
They were moving towards Hylas, and below him, some of the crocodiles were swimming away. His hopes rose.
But the big crocodile remained beneath the date-palm. It wasn’t going anywhere.
At last, one river horse proved the stronger, and the other one fled. Champing the water, the victor bellowed its triumph: I’ve won! I am the strongest!
Its huge rump bumped against the crocodile, which swung round with half-open jaws. The river horse turned on the crocodile with an irritable grunt: I’m not afraid of you!
Hylas willed them to fight, but the big crocodile merely drifted sideways, while the river horse just snorted and waggled its ears.
Hylas glanced from the river horse to the crocodile. He drew his slingshot from his belt. Maybe he could help things along.
Parting the date-palm’s branches for a better shot, he loaded his slingshot and let fly. A child of five could have hit the river horse, and his pebble struck it smack on the snout. It merely twitched its ears and glared at the crocodile.
Hylas pelted the river horse again and again. When the pebbles ran out, he used the date-palm’s hard brown fruit. All he achieved were angry snorts.
Then a lucky shot got it in the eye. That did it. With an outraged bellow, the river horse went for the crocodile. The crocodile fought back. Thrashing and rolling in a chaos of white water, the two monsters crashed against Hylas’ date-palm, shaking the tree and nea
rly pitching him out. The crocodile clamped its jaws on the river horse’s snout. The river horse squealed and reared out of the water. With one jerk of its massive head, it tore itself free of the crocodile’s grip and flung the monster out into midstream. With astonishing speed, the river horse went after the crocodile, grabbed its belly in its vast maw – and chomped it in two.
Waves sloshed up and down the banks, rocking the shredded remains of the waterlilies.
Hylas had to act fast. It wouldn’t be long before the other crocodiles returned. Shakily, he untied the rope that bound him to the date-palm, and pounded the feeling back into his legs.
A short while later, as he made his way down, he glimpsed something nosing towards him over the water. He nearly fell out of the tree.
Pirra sat in a punt with Havoc crouched uneasily before her. Both were muddy, bedraggled, and staring up at him.
‘What are you doing up there?’ said Pirra.
The falcon checked her perch for ants, and finding none, half-spread her wings to catch the cooling Wind. Her tree was peaceful and safe, and she liked the noise of her earthbound companions lumbering about below.
They too had found a safe roost, a good distance from the tunnels of the big grey monsters, and from the wet where the giant lizards lurked. The boy and girl were crunching up a pair of ducks they’d killed and burnt, and the lion cub, having demolished her share, was busy licking ticks off her pelt. She couldn’t reach the ones at the back of her neck, so the falcon flew down and perched on her shoulder and did it for her. The falcon liked the taste of the ticks bursting in her beak, and the cub enjoyed it too, tilting her head so that the falcon could do under her ears.
When the falcon had had enough ticks, she flew back to her branch, tucked one leg under her belly, and settled to roost.
She loved this strange, rustly place. She only wished the others loved it too.
The Great Green rang with the calls of millions of frogs. The fire hissed and sent sparks shooting into the dark.
The Crocodile Tomb Page 6
