"So many people died that all became frightened. They thought all would soon be dead. In their fear they cried to God. They said they were sorry for their foolish act, whatever that might have been. They promised they would anger Him no more. They begged Him to recall His messenger, the snake.
"After a while God agreed. He said He would recall His messenger, the snake. He would send another messenger—that is the second messenger on the other side of the pot. God sent the tortoise to recall the snake."
The old man paused and mused for a little while, and then resumed:
"When I was a young man I thought to myself, perhaps the tortoise will overtake the snake; that some day he will deliver God's message. I am an old man now. I do not think the tortoise will ever overtake the snake—at least, not in my time."
He said all this without a trace of emotion. He was too much of a philosopher, it seemed, to indulge in anything so profitless as self-pity.
"Do you kill snakes when you see them?" I asked.
"No," said he. "Why should I? But I do kill tortoises. The tortoise is very lazy. He runs with his message so slowly. Moreover, a tortoise is good meat."
Having told his story and pouched the price of his pot, the old man rose painfully and hobbled away. Just outside my compound gate he paused and made a vicious stab at something in a patch of grass.
Shouldering his assegai, he passed on his way, a writhing tortoise impaled upon the blade.