He is bleeding profusely from the movement, and that is sure to attract the creatures to him. Panicked, he tries to figure out how to avoid the retribution of the dead without being killed by a crocodile himself. 

The dead taunt him, mock him, and move closer with each shuffling step. He is unsure whether they are real, or a figment of his feverish mind. Desperately he drags his body back over the sodden ground. Fire explodes in his stump, and he nearly faints from the pain. There is a rushing sound in his ears, like a mighty wind just before the storm. 

The sangoma tries to reason with the dead, tries to explain his actions. Even to his own ears, the explanation sounds insincere, a product of his fear. Slowly but surely, the dead advance on him. He knows that he has not got a lot of space to retreat before ending up in the cold waters of the river. 

Blabbering with fear, he stops to wait for their revenge. He realizes this is the end of the road for him, there is no means of escape. Not this time. He used to feel like a cat with nine lives, always able to get out of bad situations by using the power that he wielded over the tribe. Now that power means nothing. The dead cannot be manipulated, they are untouched by human emotion, unable to be merciful and forgiving. 

He prays to the ancestral spirits, whom he had served his entire life without grumbling. Surely they will get him out of this! Suddenly, the dead disappears. He cackles madly, convinced that the spirits answered him, he is safe at last!

There is a loud hissing sound behind him. Slowly he turns his head. The crocodile has returned, and the cold prehistoric eyes settle on him. There will be no escape this time! Terrified, the Sangoma tries to edge away from the crocodile.

It moves slowly towards him, head swaying from side to side. He can see the yellow teeth, and he knows this is going to hurt. A lot. The crocodile bites into his midriff. The pain is unbearable. His screams reverberates for a long time in the mountains, then it is quiet.