The Boy Who Stole The Leopard's Spots Part 2

"Was it a full-grown goat?"

"Eyo. A ram, even-with horns like this." Jonathan demonstrated, much to the crowd's continued amus.e.m.e.nt. "Now the muma has a bulge like a pregnant woman. Like yourself."

"With twins!" Lazarus Chigger Mite said.

The crowd roared.

"You simpleminded men," Cripple said crossly, "you have yet to tell me the nature of your palaver."

"Aiyee," said Jonathan Pimple, clapping his hands to his cheeks. "It is this. Wise woman, to whom does this goat now belong? To Chigger Mite, who slew the muma, or to me, the rightful owner of this fine white goat? I was saving this goat for my dowry in order that I might purchase a fine Protestant bride and raise children who would be law-abiding citizens and leaders for the new Congo when independence comes."

Cripple ignored the people who repeated the word independence and who simultaneously raised their hands, their fingers forming a V for victory over their Belgian oppressors. When she shook her head, the message was meant for Jonathan Pimple and Chigger Mite.

"From what I have been led to believe, the answer to your question is very plain for all to see: the goat belongs to the python, and the python belongs to Chigger Mite. Now, if someone will please help me down from these washtubs, I will go and see this wonder for myself."

Both men nodded, clearly accepting her wisdom, and the murmurs from the crowd were indeed quite edifying. However, a truly wise woman understands that there can be no public displays of pride, for hubris begets hatred.

Chapter 3.

The Belgian Congo, 1935 Both men were bound-hands and feet-with lukodi vine. They were naked as well. It was a moonless night, and with just the fire to illuminate their bodies, the boys at first mistook them for goats that had been shaved and set aside to await their turn at the spit. Perhaps there was something in the eyes of the men that helped give this impression of intelligence, for that night they gleamed, dark, wet, and much larger than either boy remembered.

The men were not gagged and were therefore capable of speech. Because their knowledge of the Kipende language was limited, whenever possible they tried to make themselves understood in French. They spoke a third language as well: Latina. It was this third language that they had resorted to when they had engaged in their witchcraft.

Every day the two white men would entice the village boys to draw close by means of food. Then they made the boys sit in rows, smallest to largest, with no thought given to age or status, so that free boys sat between slaves. When the boys were seated, the men forced them to mimic the sounds employed in their white witchcraft, bizarre incantations requiring much repet.i.tion. The boys who did the best job of mimicking these sounds received extra morsels of food, but those boys whose lips and tongues did not cooperate were actually struck-struck, if one can believe such a thing! But struck only by the man with hair the color of flame. He had even struck the smallest of them.

Much palaver was made then in the council hut of the men. As a rule, one did not strike children; surely one never struck the children of others. Here was a man who was not the mother's brother, or of the clan, or even merely just a member of the Bapende tribe. Here was a white witch doctor who reeked of the scent of wild boar, and whose hair was the color of those who suffered badly from worms. It was his loathsome hand that drew blood from the nose of a child still young enough to grab hold of his mother's teat when he needed comforting.

Chapter 4.

The Belgian Congo, 1958 Madame Cabochon loved going to Sunday ma.s.s. It was not because she was religious, but because she adored dressing up for church. Full circle cotton frocks with tightly cinched waists, in the American style, the deeply scooped necklines just a blush away from being indecent. But no stockings, of course, because this was the tropics. No woman, no matter how devout, would think of wearing stockings.

There could be no denying that Madame Cabochon was a beautiful and voluptuous woman. Unfortunately she was married to Monsieur Cabochon, who was a drunk, and a surly one at that. So each Sunday morning she was driven by chauffeur across the river that was the great divide between white Africa and black Africa, for Saint Mary's Catholic Church was planted firmly among the heathens, the people who needed it the most. Upon arrival, Madame Cabochon and her gaily colored frock would separate from the chauffeur, for they used different entrances and sat in segregated sections. After all, one could hardly expect a native who bathed in the river daily to sit next to a Belgian who bathed just once a week-and even then, was content to sit in his own filthy stew.

Madame Cabochon cherished each minute of the spectacularly scenic drive to Saint Mary's Catholic Church and back. When she arrived at church, Madame Cabochon saw it as her duty to keep a tally of who among the white employees of the Consortium was in attendance, and who was not (bimonthly attendance was compulsory). She also saw it as her duty to critique the outfits of the other company wives, so that in case any of them should wish to stop by her house later in the week for a spot of gossip, she would be equipped with the truth. Hers was not an acid tongue, mind you; she was merely gifted in the art of dressing with panache, in a tropical climate wherein even chain mail would wilt and hang like a sodden rag.

At any rate, at Saint Mary's Catholic Church a wooden screen separated the races, and platform seating ensured that the colonists said their prayers positioned closer to G.o.d than did their subjects. From her customary window seat in the front row, Madame Cabochon was a.s.sured of receiving her Communion wafer first; that way she was free to observe the others as they filed up to feast on the Savior's body.

Precedence was always given to the Europeans, of course. Not only that, but it was Consortium members first, then any other Belgians in attendance, followed by visiting northern Europeans, then North Americans (of Caucasian descent)-if Catholic-and last, Europeans of decidedly Mediterranean appearance. After a suitable pause, the mulattoes-who sat in their section behind the whites-were ushered forward. This wasn't racism; ask any of the Europeans there. This was merely ensuring that order was kept. Order: Wasn't that what human beings craved the most?

Unlike their Protestant neighbors, Roman Catholics cared about such things as modesty in their houses of worship; therefore, bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s were not tolerated, not even among those heathens attending church for the very first time. Also, women were required to cover their heads. Because of these rules Madame Cabochon was invariably treated to a parade of colorful scarves and African wrap dresses. (Although to be sure, Madame Cabochon, who had been raised in the Congo and who had glimpsed many b.r.e.a.s.t.s other than her own, was above such petty judgments.) However, as a woman of high spirits, discriminating taste, and strong s.e.xual appet.i.tes, Madame Cabochon was not afraid of judging a book by its cover. To Father Reutner, a disheveled old priest from Berne, Switzerland, she gave the grade of F-. It wasn't just his rumpled and stained vestments, his thin greasy hair, or his frizzy beard, streaked bile-brown from years of dribbling tobacco juice that she found off-putting; it was the priest's heavy German accent. Father Reutner sounded just like a male version of Madame Cabochon's mother-in-law back in Brussels. Madame Cabochon thoroughly detested her husband's mother, who was not only German born, but also a secret supporter of the Third Reich during the recent war.

At any rate, on that especially hot Sunday morning during the suicide month, the day that Madame Cabochon slew the deadly poisonous green mamba, the woman realized that she had just had all she could take of church for one day. For one thing, Father Reutner looked particularly disheveled, and for another, his crude accent sounded exceptionally grating. Ma.s.s was not yet over-the closing benediction not yet sung-but if the lady in the fetching emerald green dress, with the slash pockets trimmed in white, tarried just one second longer, she might explode like a stick of the dynamite, the kind that her engineer husband used when he blew up streambeds in search of diamonds.

The most obvious way for her to get outside-the only way outside-was to slip past her husband, skim over the knees of the lecherous (but unattractive) Monsieur LaBoeme, and around the stomach of his corpulent wife, genuflect in the direction of the altar, and then pivot left through the side door of the nave. This was a.s.suming that neither the deacon nor Father Reutner did anything to stop her. While Africans came and went with some regularity, their pa.s.sing precipitated a good deal of clucking and grunting on the part of the frustrated holy men. Madame Cabochon had never beheld a European attempt to escape before, and her heart raced with joyful excitement to think of the consequences.

Monsignor Clemente resisted the temptation to dab at his temples with the monogrammed handkerchief that he kept concealed in a secret pocket beneath his snow-white ca.s.sock. The beastly heat outside was amplified by the metal sh.e.l.l of the black automobile in which he rode. An oven on wheels, that's what the car was, and his was the goose getting cooked. In the long run, this familiar discomfort didn't matter; what mattered was that the cardinal's orders be carried out.

Yet despite feeling like a piglet on a spit, the monsignor, fresh from the Eternal City-that is to say, Rome-possessed an uncanny ability to appear as cool as a gelato. Perhaps this was his greatest gift, this ability to appear at ease in his environment. There were those, his mama in particular, who thought he should have been a film star, so regular were his features, so broad his shoulders, so clear his eyes and strong his chin, and that hair-those thick black curls, inherited from the Sicilian side of his family. But to the handsome priest, now nearing middle age, these outward gifts had never been anything but curses. Not only did women throw themselves at him, but sometimes men as well-seminary had proved to be a trial by fire for someone as beautiful as "Pretty Boy Clemente."

It was his feelings of worthlessness, however, that drew Monsignor Clemente to religion-to a G.o.d-at such an early age, and ultimately to the priesthood. What went on inside the perfect sh.e.l.l was anything but. The real Monsignor Clemente was ruined; he had been from an early age. The real Monsignor Clemente was like a rotten soft-boiled egg that, if opened, would emit a sulfurous odor even stronger than Satan's.

As always, Monsignor Clemente was determined to keep his sh.e.l.l intact, although it was a decision he had to make daily-like an alcoholic's fight against the bottle. Today would be the hardest day of the struggle. If he could make it through vespers- "Stop here," Monsignor Clemente said to his African chauffeur. He spoke in French.

"Yes, Father."

Monsignor Clemente watched dumbfounded as a white woman suddenly appeared in the window of the church just ahead, turned, then dangled helplessly for a few seconds, before dropping to the ground. He could almost hear the breath being knocked out of her, and then a soft moan. The priest still played soccer on a regular basis, and some of his regular opponents claimed he had the reflexes of an alley cat, but by the time he'd jumped out of the black sedan, the woman was up on her feet and running. Reflexively, Monsignor Clemente hitched his ca.s.sock up around his ankles and ran after her.

The route she chose took her through one of the most densely populated neighborhoods in the village. Goats bleated, chickens squawked as they scattered, and the startled cries of the women and children-the heathen women and children not in church-were bliss to the visiting priest's ears. Since Monsignor Clemente took care to follow well behind the fugitive from G.o.d, he went unnoticed by her in the din.

It was only gradually, however, that Monsignor Clemente became aware of the fact that the narrow, crooked lane was beginning to fill with people, all of whom appeared to be chasing the white woman. No-some were pa.s.sing her! Yes, now he was caught up in a rapidly flowing stream of humanity; now he saw the woman's bobbing head, now he didn't.

"What is it?" Monsignor Clemente called out in French. "What is happening?"

"Someone killed a giant python. It is said that it swallowed a goat."

It was only afterward, when the man who'd answered his question had melded into the burgeoning torrent of people, that Monsignor Clemente realized that he'd been spoken to by the man in Tshiluba. What's more, he'd understood every word.

Police chief Pierre Jardin was not a particularly religious man. If asked about his beliefs, he would admittedly give you the runaround, because he didn't see how such information was anyone's business but his own. This was especially true when it came to the nosy inquiries from the American missionaries, none of whom would accept no for an answer. To be fair, it must be remembered that these people were merely concerned about his soul because, without an exception, they believed that, as a Roman Catholic, Pierre Jardin was headed for eternal d.a.m.nation and the flames of h.e.l.l. Even the modern young woman who ran the Missionary Rest House was of that opinion.

Despite his lack of interest in spiritual matters, Pierre Jardin was a regular attendant at Sunday morning ma.s.s. It was, after all, his duty to set a good example for the citizens of Belle Vue-maybe even more so for the whites than for the Africans. Pierre always arrived early, along with three of the men a.s.signed to work for him, black soldiers all of them. They were always dressed in freshly washed and pressed khaki uniforms-but they too had to split up and use separate entrances. No one minded, of course; no one even gave it another thought. This was the way it had always been.

That particular Sunday, as usual, Pierre's mind wandered after he'd received Communion. In fact, it wandered over to where Madame Cabochon sat, and there it loitered. His few feeble attempts to rein it back in were in vain. So entranced was he by her comely appearance that he was slow to react when the object of his admiration hoisted her shapely hips into the open window well and slipped effortlessly to the ground.

Capitaine Pierre Jardin jumped to his feet. "Excusez-moi, s'il vous plait," he said to the woman he'd sat next to. She just happened to be Madame Faberge, the wife of the new operations manager.

"Certainement," she said. Her golden brown eyes were too large and round for her face, giving her the appearance of a lemur. This slight disfigurement was most unfortunate because Helene Faberge was a woman of exceptional intelligence and fierce loyalty; she would have made someone-or some people-at Belle Vue a first-cla.s.s friend.

"Is there a problem?" Monsieur Faberge demanded.

Apparently no one else had seen the incredible-merde! The entire congregation was bolting. Father Reutner and the deacon were shouting at them and waving their arms-even the acolytes were getting into the act-but the worshippers were like horses escaping from a burning barn.

"Yes, monsieur, there is a problem," Pierre said, for at the very least there would be a problem if he did not follow the crowd and help see that order was maintained.

As Pierre pa.s.sed the altar rail again on his way out through the side door, he felt the thick calloused fingers of Father Reutner digging into his collarbone from behind.

"You Judas," the old priest growled. "This is all your fault."

"My fault?"

"Oui. You are far too lenient with these people. They are like children, but you treat them like equals! Blow your whistle, Captain. Order your men to arrest them. Do something! They cannot be allowed to bolt from church before the final benediction."

"Au revoir, mon pere," Pierre said. Then he ran from the church. He ran on legs that were better nourished than any of the Africans. Soon he overtook all the parishioners except for the youngest and strongest. These he followed through the town's winding lanes, past entrances to frail bamboo courtyards, where even frailer elderly citizens sat to catch a glimpse of the world pa.s.sing by. Pierre jumped over puddles where children and Muscovy ducks splashed happily. He dashed through newly planted fields where already the cannabis-like leaves of the ca.s.sava plants grew waist-high in the tropical sun.

At the edge of the forest Pierre caught up with the runners. In fact, jostling about along both sides of a narrow ravine was the entire adult population of the Belle Vue workers' village, excepting those who had been the attending the late ma.s.s. However, it would only be a matter of minutes before these people too joined the curious throng. Across the ca.s.sava field, like a dark surging tide, was the leading edge of the congregation he'd left behind.

As a police officer, Pierre had every right to investigate something of this magnitude, but for once, on a Sunday morning, he wished to be a private citizen. A private white citizen, that is, which is something quite different from a being native African. On one hand, Pierre was tempted to pull rank as a white man and demand to be let through to see whatever it was that had drawn such a crowd. On the other hand, he had always believed that he owed a great deal of his success as a police captain-especially in these difficult political times-to the fact that he did not demand to be treated any different than he was willing to treat others. This was a lesson that he had learned from his father; it was the only good thing he ever got from the senior Jardin. It was more than enough; it was worth Pierre's weight in gold.

There was a third approach, one that Pierre knew would work, and which wouldn't be held against him. He began by greeting everyone in atrociously accented Tshiluba, even though he was quite capable of speaking fluently and sounding like a native.

"Muoyo wenu," he shouted over the din. Life to you.

It was immediately clear to everyone within earshot that a white man had joined their ranks. The throng parted like the Red Sea in the Bible story, giving Pierre unimpeded access to the bizarre scene at hand. What he saw was undeniably African, yet totally preposterous.

Even though the young white man had been raised in the Congo, Captain Pierre Jardin had never, ever, seen anything like this before. Nothing like it had even come close.

Chapter 5.

The Belgian Congo, 1935 S'il vous plait," the dark-haired man said to them. Pleading. He said more words in rapid French, which neither boy could understand. Then the dark-haired man tried Kipende. " . . . big mistake . . ." He repeated these words over and over again, growing louder each time. Meanwhile the man with flaming hair was whimpering like a hungry puppy.

Although the boys were young, with not even the hair of a man, they instinctively knew that neither of the white men was behaving in his own best interest. If the men were to put up a brave front, there was a slim chance that the chief would respect them and grant them a reprieve. If one, or both of them, were to suddenly exhibit lunatic behavior-hooting like monkeys, growling like lions, flopping about in their bonds like stranded fish-there existed an even higher likelihood that they would gain their freedom. After all, to kill someone possessed by an evil spirit is to then invite that spirit to take up residence inside you or your abode.

Despite the fact that the younger of the twins had been unspeakably wronged-for it was not just hitting that the other priest was guilty of-the boy felt sorry for the men. The boy grieved to see a goat slaughtered, or even a chicken. This way of feeling was unnatural-he knew that instinctively as well, and so he kept it hidden. The boy lived entirely within himself, and it was this ability that would help him survive to adulthood. His brother, on the hand, was a fighter who struggled always to keep some measure of control; it was this characteristic that would see him survive to adulthood.

Chapter 6.

The Belgian Congo, 1958 Being a witch doctor is an honorable profession. It is an occupation pa.s.sed down from uncle to sister's son. In many tribes, the eldest brother of one's mother takes precedence over the mother's husband when it comes to rearing the children. After all, how can one know that the offspring are really her husband's? But the mother and her brother did emerge from the same bisuna, of that one can be sure.

Many whites dismiss the witch doctor's craft as so much hocus-pocus, or collusion with the devil, but those att.i.tudes are the result of ignorance. It takes years of intense study to become a pract.i.tioner of tribal medicine, and a special personality. Cripple's husband, whose given name was Their Death, certainly had the intelligence to absorb the vast amount of jungle lore concerning herbs, barks, fungi, and insects. Some of these ingredients aided in healing a patient, while others contained lethal amounts of poison, and still others put one in a comatose state that resembled death, but from which one could spontaneously emerge relatively unscathed.

However, despite his wealth of knowledge, Their Death lacked the most crucial component required to be a successful witch doctor. Their Death lacked salesmanship. Even the best herbs produce only modest results on their own. To be truly effective, the healing power of the herbs must be accompanied by the patient's power of belief in them.

But healing is only a small part of any witch doctor's practice. It is the placing on of curses and countercurses that one depends on for a livelihood. Their Death was well aware of this fact, but he was a man with a kind heart; he was born with a twinkle in his eye. How can such a man place a curse of death upon another and have it seem true, much less have it actually come to pa.s.s?

The answer is that one cannot. Therefore, Their Death was a failure as a witch doctor. Never before in the history of the Baluba tribe-and it is a very large tribe of many millions-had there ever been a hereditary witch doctor who was such a failure at his profession as Their Death, nephew of the great Many Deaths, at whose memory people still quake.

In truth, Their Death was an educated man. He had attended the Roman Catholic mission school and was a graduate of the sixth form. In addition to that, his former boss at the post office had lent him many books on a variety of subjects. And one of the things that Their Death took away from his education was the notion that it was disgraceful for a man to be supported by his wife-even if that man was as incompetent in his craft as Their Death was. This was especially true if the wife was a semi-invalid like Cripple.

It was because of his high moral principles that Their Death risked his life in his second career: that of maker and seller of palm beer, maluvu. To make the beer one simply needed to find an oil palm tree that was flowing, cut off the inflorescence, capture the sap that oozed forth thereafter, and then let nature run its course. There were always enough airborne yeast spores to immediately start the process of fermentation in the sugary liquid. In fact, so quickly did the sap ferment that often by the day's end it would be rank, having turned to vinegar unless the liquid was tightly sealed in a gourd.

As for selling the brew, that was never a problem. Although Captain Pierre and his soldiers kept a watchful eye on the citizenry-for their protection-they pretended not to notice the consumption of the maluvu, so long as the imbibers did not harm one another or unduly disturb the peace. In 1958, life for an African was short and often brutal; if the edge could be taken off with a sip or two of palm wine, then Their Death, who was after all in the business of healing, felt obligated to do his part.

So it was that every day he went into the forest and searched for an oil palm (Elaeis guineensis) that was in flower. Having located one, he fastened a special rope called a luku around his waist and around the trunk of the palm. Next he tied his ankles together so that they wouldn't slip apart, in order that his legs might function as a brace. Then, while leaning back into the rope, he scooted his feet up the trunk, inches at a time. After that it was the rope's turn. Next it was his feet. Now so on, until he was fifty feet into the air.

At any moment the rope could break, or his feet could slip, but the real danger awaited him when he got to the crown of the tree. Up among the fronds lurked the possibility of a wide variety of poisonous snakes, but most especially feared was the green mamba. If he was bitten by nyoka wa ntoka, then death was certain to occur within minutes. Rather than face the agony of asphyxiation as his organs shut down, he was prepared to hurl himself to the forest floor, and hopefully in such a way as to break his neck.

As he neared the crown, Their Death slowed his ascent, his eyes furiously scanning the canopy of ferns and frond bases. Mercifully, it felt much cooler up out of the sun; at the same time the air was heavy and stagnant with mold. Bees and flies were buzzing around the inflorescence and Their Death foolishly swatted himself several times before tying safety ropes around the petioles of two st.u.r.dy fronds that forked above his head. At last he set to work cutting a gash in the base of the flower stalk itself.

There it was, for all Belle Vue-black and white-to see: the largest muma ever to be killed in the history of any of its beholders. Surely this was the case. African rock pythons can grow to be twenty feet long, but this one was closer to thirty feet in length. And its girth! It was as big around as a man's thigh, except for its extremities, and of course where the goat lodged; at that point the snake was as big around as a goat!

Chigger Mite laughed happily and reenacted the moment of truth for the ever-expanding crowd. "I was returning from the bush," he said, "having completed my needs, when I heard the sound of thrashing nearby. I took only a few steps off the trail and there it was-this monster. Protruding from its mouth was the rear half of a goat. Clever man that I am, I prayed to the Roman Catholic G.o.ds-Jesus Christ and his baba, Saint Mary-and they directed me to a tree overgrown with lukodi vines. These I cut and tied securely around the hind legs of the goat, and the other ends around that tree. You see?" He pointed to a st.u.r.dy young tshinkunku tree, and then he paused to let the villagers murmur their appreciation of his bravery and resourcefulness.

Not until the crowd grew restless did Chigger Mite draw a deep breath before continuing his monologue. "I knew at once that the goat belonged to my friend here, Jonathan Pimple, because it was white, and only Jonathan Pimple had a white goat. That is why I immediately sought his help in killing this muma. However, Mister Pimple did not respect the laws of the forest, so together we sought a ruling from the little wise woman known as Cripple. It was she who gave the following verdict. The goat belongs to the snake, and the snake belongs to me."

Then, for the first time, Chigger Mite noticed the headman's presence. Suddenly the day had taken a turn for the worse. The workers' village was not a traditional African village; the people represented many tribes. Although they were all black skinned-with the exception of the Flemish mulatto and his children-at least half a dozen families came from other African countries. Because of the potential problems this ethnic mix presented, the headman was appointed by the OP on a rotating basis. Because the headman ultimately had the police and the army to back him up, he had a great deal of power-indeed, even more so than the traditional chief of a very large village.

The current man in charge of overseeing the village was from the Bakongo tribe. He came from the capital city, Leopoldville, and he was supposed to be an expert on generators. It was also said that Belle Vue was to be only a temporary posting for him. What was for certain was that he loathed living in the provinces and that he disdained everyone not belonging to his tribe. He disliked the citizens of Kasai Province in general, but he particularly loathed members of the Bapende tribe. At least these were the thoughts that filled the mind of Lazarus Chigger Mite on that hot Sunday morning in the suicide month of 1958.

Indeed, Lazarus Chigger Mite did not as much as glance at the snake before waving his arms expansively at the crowd. "E, I shall keep what remains of the white goat-for believe me, my brothers, its flesh will be foul both to your eyes and to your taste. But to all of you, I give this muma, the meat of which is said to be among the tastiest in all of the Kasai."

"Kah!" the headman bellowed. "We do not eat snakes in the city where I come from. We are not uncivilized like Bena Kasai. However, we do eat goat-especially goat that has been properly tenderized."

The crowd roared with laughter at Lazarus Chigger Mite's expense.

"Therefore," the headman continued, obviously quite pleased with himself, "you will deliver a pot of goat stew and a fresh ball of fufu to my dwelling tonight for the evening meal. Shala bimpe." Stay well. After delivering the traditional Tshiluba salutation, the headman-who was not even a Muluba-turned and stalked imperiously away.

The crowd hushed. Even the babies stopped whimpering while Lazarus Chigger Mite approached the great African rock python with his sharpened machete raised high over his head. With one swift downward motion, he intended to sever the serpent's spinal cord at the base of the skull. With two or three more vicious whacks, the body and head would be forever parted and Lazarus Chigger Mite would be the stuff of legends.

But wait. Now Lazarus Chigger Mite emitted a wail that was both louder and more aggrieved sounding than that of any bereaved person that Pierre Jardin had ever heard-and in the Belgian Congo he had heard many piercing cries of mourning.

"Who killed my snake?" Lazarus Chigger Mite eventually managed to say. He dropped his machete and held up the head for all to see.

A python does not need a large head in order to swallow a goat; its jaws dislocate and the mouth stretches to accommodate the prey. In the back of the mouth a pair of backward-pointing teeth prevents the prey from escaping, but these teeth also make it impossible for the snake to disgorge the victim once the process has begun.

In at least one case, two pythons attempted to swallow the same antelope, starting at opposite ends. When the reptiles met in the "middle," the larger snake had to continue swallowing the antelope and the smaller snake-either that, or else starve to death!

At any rate, the head that Lazarus Chigger Mite held up was the size of three fists-no more.