Felidae on the Road - Special U.S. Edition (22 page)

'Th-th-three guesses. You shot away from that roof so suddenly I thought for a moment some hand had pushed you off. Then I guessed your su-su-suicidal intentions. I had to st-st-stop you. But how? I couldn't find you in the forest, or big bad Hugo either. He s-s-seems to have gone another way. So I prowled around for a bit until I suddenly saw you galloping towards me like a fu-fu-fury. What happened?'

Briefly, I told him about the amazing proliferation of murderers and monsters in this enchanted forest. At the end of my account, Ambrosius looked rather at a loss. But at least his apricot-coloured fur had completely dried off in the meantime, and reflected the strong sunlight so brightly it hurt your eyes to look at him. He now resembled an angel of light touching down for a rest in the Garden of Eden after a flying visit to this world of sin.

'What you tell me sounds co-co-contradictory, Francis. There's no reason to suppose that you were ch-ch-chased by the real murderers, or that the creature you call Monster Paw has anything to do with the whole gory business. In fact there are some indications that in your bl-bl-blind pursuit of revenge you disturbed some kind of innocent forest creatures out hunting. No wonder they reacted with in-in-indignation and wanted to teach the intruder a lesson. As for this M-M-Monster Paw of yours, you probably woke some old fox from sleep and he lashed out in panic. No, my dear fellow, your experiences, pe-pe-peculiar as they are, don't rule out the Bl-Bl-Black Knight theory. Far from it: they show how cleverly Crazy Hugo and the mastiff go about their nasty sneaky business, leading even a br-br-brilliant detective up the garden path.'

'So I was on a hiding to nothing, right? Oh, shit! There's a deadly juggernaut flattening the landscape, and here we sit no wiser than before. What do we do now?'

'Wh-wh-what we decided, of course. We qu-qu-question the forest folk and add up the results. Then we'll find where the murderer's hiding out and call the Co-Co-Company of the Merciful to our aid.'

'I rather doubt whether a wild boar, say, is going to stop and let us interrogate it.'

'We'll make our inquiries on the h-h-hoof.'

'And supposing we're successful, do Hugo and the mastiff get a proper trial? It all sounds pretty weird to me. The bear as wise old judge, the fox as a real shyster of a defending counsel, the beaver as stern state prosecutor. If they ask me nicely I'll be happy to take the part of executioner myself!'

'There are no b-b-bears in this forest any more, Francis. They were wiped out centuries ago. Just as our brothers and sisters on the farms will soon be wiped out if we spend much longer sitting here ma-ma-making silly jokes.'

I agreed, though I thought the whole idea a sheer waste of time. But time was the one item of which I had ample supplies just now. Or was I wrong about that too? Now that things had calmed down, I remembered my vision of my own death again, and suddenly I felt sadder than ever. Nor could I take any real comfort either from Ambrosius's encouraging remarks or from the possibility that my vision had only been a bad dream. My infallible instinct told me it was going to come true very soon. It was like a curse. Could I escape by creeping into a hollow tree-trunk or asking for shelter in an Animal Refuge and begging them not to give me away? For how long, though? Wouldn't my fate catch up with me wherever I went? The answer was probably yes. There was no escape. My time was up, like the time on a clock which is bound to run down at some time, its hands coming to a halt. That's life - or death!

However, I could at least try to bring a particularly evil murderer to justice before I shuffled off this mortal coil. That would allow many innocent creatures to live on in peace. I would do them this last service as my bequest to them. And with these good intentions, I went on through the forest with Ambrosius in search of relevant information. First we met a Tengmalm's owl sleeping off his murky nocturnal activities on the airy heights of a thin pine branch. He had a large head with a round, brown-bordered mask, and the grey plumage of his body was fluffed up. We positioned ourselves directly under the branch, and Ambrosius began a monotonous chant made up of only a few sounds. It sounded to me more like a nasty throat infection than a language. The bird opened his bright yellow eyes, cast us an incredulous glance and began muttering away, nodding his head back and forth. This got him into such a state of excitement that at its height he unblushingly relieved himself.

'Let me guess - he's saying he thinks the law is a load of shit?' I inquired, glaring crossly at Ambrosius. The greenish droppings had landed on our newly washed heads. The Somali opened his mouth to say something soothing when a new consignment came down and stained our fur yet again. I'd never have thought a little bird could have so much shit in him. Having received this merry greeting we moved to one side, and Ambrosius conducted an extensive conversation with the owl in the bird's own strange, muttering language. I was getting a stiff neck from staring up when the twittering suddenly stopped and the bird, now lighter by at least a pound, flew away, not without bombarding us one last time.

On the way to see what the Somali ruefully called 'some nice clean creatures', he explained that in fact the owl had provided some very useful leads. He said that during his reconnaissance flights he'd often spotted two black creatures, corresponding pretty closely to the description of Hugo and his dog, slinking around human habitations in a suspicious manner. Unfortunately, however, he had never actually seen the dreadful deeds committed himself, and he didn't know where the couple was at present. If he'd fired the same sort of ammunition at them as at us just now, I thought, he might even have prevented the committing of those dreadful deeds.

In a clearing, we met some fallow deer, with the buck busy ensuring the survival of the species. He was mounting a whole herd of hinds, with lower-ranking males watching enviously from a distance, so at first it looked as if it would be difficult to get any sense out of him. But even this imposing creature with his handsome antlers ran out of steam now and then, and Ambrosius interviewed him from a suitable distance. The two of them bellowed deafeningly at each other, but I couldn't really make out whether the lord of the harem was actually saying anything or just advising us to clear out.

When we'd said goodbye and left the roaring buck to his labours, Ambrosius interpreted: he had picked up an interesting clue. The Black Knight, said the buck, preferred to live in caves when he wasn't out raiding. There were more caves in the forest than you might expect, Ambrosius told me. They were usually in rocky cliffs, with cracks in the rock acting as inconspicuous entrances. The reason why many caves in the forest had remained undiscovered was simply that the rocks were overgrown with vegetation which made the entrances practically invisible to anyone outside. They therefore made an ideal hide-out for criminals.

During our inquiries we also met a pair of ravens engaged in a violent argument. These birds, big as buzzards, with coal-black plumage, powerful beaks and a deep croaking voice, go in for lifelong monogamy - the most frightful thing in the universe, in my opinion, even worse than collecting Swatch watches or listening to
Rondo Veneziano
on disc. Whoever thought up such an idiotic institution deserves to spend all eternity in the hottest spot in hell, if you ask me. No wonder the pair of them were shooting their beaks off in the heat of their marital dispute. Ambrosius got nothing but furious insults in reply to his inquiry about the Black Knight, and when he tried setting up as marriage counsellor and suggested that a temporary separation can often work wonders, the two of them suddenly ganged up together and pursued us half a mile or so through the forest, croaking angrily.

An old red fox, weak with age and still breathless from the chase, crossed our path. At first he eyed us suspiciously from a safe distance behind a group of trees with the bark rubbed off their trunks. But when Ambrosius told him about the dreadful deeds committed by the horrific pair, in the whining and growling of fox language, Reynard's bearing instantly altered. His eyes got larger and larger, his huge tongue frantically licked up the saliva running down from the corners of his muzzle, and he began to size us up with an increasingly unfriendly expression on his face. As Ambrosius gave him an account of the Black Knight's usual treatment of his victims, a nasty notion seemed to be forming in his mind. Eventually, as my simultaneous interpreter translated it, he merely said we'd given him a brilliant idea, and he raced out from behind the tree-trunks and made for us, snarling. We put plenty of distance between us, which luckily wasn't too difficult, since the robber fox had entirely lost the suppleness of his youth.

By midday, then, we hadn't gleaned much new information. Only the idea of the caves seemed really useful. That was something. But which cave did the Black Knight hide in if he did in fact prefer such quarters? And supposing these caves really existed, a kind of secret natural bunker, then how were we to find them? It looked very much as if the whole case was going to turn into tedious routine investigation.

Meanwhile, however, we were very hungry, and Ambrosius kindly suggested a return to Diana's house for a good meal of whatever she might have laid on today. The spring sun was at its height now. Despite our hunger pangs, we stopped for a rest half-way because of the heat, and settled down for a thorough ceremonious wash. As we can't sweat because of our fur, our saliva acts as a substitute for the cooling function of perspiration. Our licking session took place at the foot of a slope covered by wild creepers and stunted bushes, which offered a little shade. Silent, wholly absorbed by the pleasant air-conditioning effect of our nimble tongues, we had settled down at a small round hillock covered with leaves and moss, where we were enjoying the sense of cooling off. I was sitting on top of this hillock, looking down on Ambrosius, who had made himself comfortable at the foot of it. I was able, therefore, to observe every detail of what followed.

Unexpectedly - and yet again I doubted the evidence of my own eyes - a little animal came strolling right out of the hillock, or rather out of a crack disguised by blades of grass. As Ambrosius was some way from the opening, the unsuspecting creature did not notice him, and went on going with the happy ignorance of an idiot wandering across a raging battlefield with a broad smile on his face. However, the Somali, his surprise wearing off a fraction of a second sooner than mine, acted with great presence of mind. He pounced on the silly creature, paws outstretched, got hold of his scruff and prepared to give the neck-bite.

'Looks li-li-like we don't need to go home now, Francis. I do-do-don't get a delicious lunch like this from Diana except at Christmas or when she's been listening to that wonderful old song "Me-Me-Memories" from that wonderful old musical on the radio!'

The scuffle died down, and now I could identify the unlucky animal struggling in the opportunist hunter's paws. It was a shrew: dark brown back, yellow flanks, greyish-brown belly. It had a long snout of a nose, tiny eyes and small round ears almost hidden in its fur. The oddest impression, however, was made by its legs and their prominent claws; they were large out of all proportion to its round little body. The nicest little lunch I ever saw! Since Ambrosius and I had been washing in complete silence, the unfortunate shrew had remained blissfully unaware of the dangerous situation out here.

'Well, I don't know, Ambrosius. To be honest, all this back-to-nature business spoils my appetite. I have this fancy for tins, you know. I do hunt this little poppet's town cousins now and then, to relieve the tedium of everyday life, but it's only a kind of sport, say the equivalent of squash to humans. But it strikes me it might be an idea to ask this fellow about the Black Knight.'

'You can't mean it, F-F-Francis!' said Ambrosius, quite heated. He looked offended. I suppose I should at least have expressed my admiration for his swift reactions. 'You won't catch a de-de-delicacy like this every day. Look how nice and fat he is! Anyway, I don't speak his la-la-language!'

'I speak yours, though, gentlemen!'

We stared at each other as if the Great Manitou had spoken from the Beyond. Was there something wrong with my ears as well as my eyes? But Ambrosius had obviously heard it too. Next moment we turned our astonished gaze on the shrew again. The white whiskers on his nose, sharp as a pencil point, were quivering with satisfaction.

'You heard me, gentlemen! I speak your language. Without wishing to seem vain, I'd like to add that this circumstance is the main reason why I didn't land up inside your wild relatives long ago. If I may be permitted to pay a compliment, however, their hunting instinct is nothing like as good as that of the gentleman who at present has me in his grasp.'

Ambrosius tightened that grasp, causing the shrew to squeal with pain. However, he seemed uncertain what to do next, and shook his head violently as if trying to wake from a dream.

'Thi-thi-this is incre-cre-cred ...'

'Before you get carried away and do anything you may regret, allow me to introduce myself,' continued the shrew undeterred, turning his beady black eyes on me in a bid for sympathy. He had noticed that I was the kindlier of the two of us. A calculating beast. 'My name is Zack: young, unattached, owner of a very desirable residence. While my friends went to a lot of trouble to build their own nests, you see, I simply commandeered this hill ...'

'What do you think, F-F-Francis - shall I bite through his windpipe straight away or shall we play with him a bit?'