Felidae on the Road - Special U.S. Edition (18 page)

'Ah, I see, you've been doing some sp-sp-spying, my dear Francis,' said my ink-addict friend, with a cryptic smile. Since his mouth was now stained black, he looked like a small child who's been eating too much chocolate.

'However, your conclusions are both right and wr-wr-wrong. Right be-be-because Diana is anything but a great artist, and wrong because none of the videos has a movie on it. They contain nothing but sci-sci-scientific data - or rather stills, pictures showing no movement at fi-fi-first glance. They'd be very bo-bo-boring to a layman, I'm afraid.'

Light suddenly dawned. Why hadn't I guessed before?

'They're satellite pictures! And as the satellite dish out there says ARK on it, I suppose the satellite of that name is picking up information about natural phenomena down here.'

Ambrosius appreciatively raised the greying tufts of hair over his penetrating amber eyes. My swift deductions brought an expression of great surprise to his features, which were very mobile anyway.

'M-m-my compliments, friend! Logic certainly seems to be your strong point. I hope it will be co-co-compatible with mine! But we can discuss that later. Anyway, ye-ye-yes, you're right. Until eighteen months ago, Diana was a scientist doing re-re-research into forestry. With a hi-hi-highly motivated group of young colleagues, she was studying the damage to trees caused mainly by air pol-pol-pollution. On the sur-sur-surface, everything may seem to be g-g-green and lush, but the forest is sick, Francis. In fact it's reached the in-in-intensive care stage without anyone noticing. Wherever he goes, man makes it either a d-d-desert or a rubbish tip. Everything he touched withers in his gr-gr-grasp, everything he looks at burns before his eyes. But then, as if he had a spl-spl-split personality, he struggles fanatically to put things right. Diana's that sort of human. Using expensive fi-fi-filter techniques, the Ark was sending back pictures of wooded areas in various phases of si-si-sickness, shaded in different colours. But then the government suddenly dis-dis-discontinued the research grant, the project was abandoned, the group dispersed. Diana n-n-never got over the disappointment. Ever since she's been guarding the abandoned research station like an embittered mo-mo-mother watching over her child's grave, going more pe-pe-peculiar every day. She's t-t-turned into a real witch in this lonely place. She took to p-p-painting recently to calm her nerves. Even I bl-bl-blush with shame at the results.'

'That's a very sad story, Ambrosius, and I can assure you my own won't have you rolling in the aisles either.'

'I'm sure it's ve-ve-very interesting, though. "What sad circumstances can have brought a gentleman like you to this wi-wi-wilderness? Te-te-tell me, my dear fellow!'

So I told him. About Francesca Scissorhands, the terrible storm, the Atlantis of the sewers and its zombie inhabitants, the hunter with the high-tech rifle, the keen motor-racing fans and how I managed to escape them in the nick of time, my wild fling with Alcina, the massacre in the farmyard and my sighting of Monster Paw, and finally my dream featuring the Black Knight in the leading role. As he listened attentively to my story, Ambrosius licked and sucked the remaining ink from his paw and the corners of his mouth. Amazingly, not a single blot remained to mar his looks by the time he'd finished.

'Ta -ta-talk about adventures! Sinbad the Sailor's were a ho-ho-holiday cruise by comparison! Francis, you're a hero,' said the Somali, flattering me quite unnecessarily. 'However, you're wrong about that la-la-last point, my friend. You di-di-didn't dream the Black Knight and his mount, oh no, you saw them all right. They're r-r-real enough.'

'Oh yes?' Something in me was still reluctant to accept the couple's existence. I felt as if I were chasing an imaginary bogeyman.

'N-n-no doubt about it. Saffron, Niger and your wi-wi-wild friend told you so too.'

'However, I've had at least one other suspect since I saw Monster Paw at the scene of the crime in the farmyard.'

'Perhaps you didn't really see that p-p-paw at all. Perhaps you were so horrified you just imagined it.'

'Maybe. But it seemed more real than the Black Knight even when he appeared to me life-size.'

'I d-d-don't understand.'

'Nor do I. But if you put certain coincidences together they come to look like more like Chance's cunning brother, whose name is Delusion. Let me put three particularly notable points to you. First, Hugo and the dog appear to me just when I'm so befuddled with sleep I might take my own reflection for Elvis Presley. Second, the pair of them assume a suitably theatrical position high on the cliff-top as if on a pedestal, so I certainly get an awe-inspiring view of them, but I can't make out a clear picture. They're just shadowy outlines, which heightens the eerie effect no end. Third, our two desperadoes obviously have nothing to do all day but traipse about from farm to farm and try out their teeth on innocent necks to see if said teeth deserve the Consumers' Association accolade of Best Buy. However, the moment they spot a helpless bundle of fur at dead of night, right in the middle of the jungle where they needn't expect any unwelcome eye-witnesses or the arrival of the RSPCA cavalry, they suddenly discover their finer feelings and turn away in remorse. Wouldn't you call that suspiciously touching behaviour for a pair of serial murderers?'

Ambrosius jumped to his feet, swept aside the papers under him with his forepaws so as to get at a blank sheet, and reached for the inkwell again. Then he raised his dripping claw in the air, as if he'd just had another flash of inspiration. His amber eyes were glowing, and his face wore that expression of passionate determination characteristic of zealots with a messianic mission - but also of the deranged.

'Logic!' he cried, as if I had flung some coarse insult at him. 'Logic is your str-str-strong point, Francis! So the way you see it, it mu-mu-must be possible to account for everything in the world by pure reason. But I'm s-s-sorry to say, my dear fellow, the world c-c-couldn't care less about logic. Ask human beings. They can tell you how all their pr-pr-principles and ideals have failed. Logic, Francis, is for logicians in ivory towers trying to de-de-decipher the mathematics of life. In vain, as we know. No, no, no, my fr-fr-friend, chaos rules the world, chaos and madness. And the Bl-Bl-Black Knight and his murderous dog know all about madness. You mu-mu-mustn't think we country folk would cl-cl-close our eyes to these unspeakable murders. But such br-br-brutality rules out any suspects but Crazy Hugo and his mastiff.'

'Why?'

'Be-be-because it's just pointless violence. There are no co-co-conceivable reasons for the crimes.'

'Maybe not at first glance. But take the method of killing, for instance. The murderer or murderers tore the victims to pieces, more or less beheading most of them. Now I ask myself, why wouldn't a clean neck-bite do the trick? Perhaps the victims had something the murderer or murderers badly needed.'

Ambrosius smiled knowingly. 'You mean blood? Or a liver?'

'Well, yes, for the sake of argument. Blood does contain concentrated glucose, i.e. sugar, and proteins. Beasts of prey crave those substances. And the liver contains more sugar than any other part of the body.'

'Well done. The logician in his element. Bu-bu-but tell me one thing. Why doesn't this evil b-b-beast of prey go after his usual game? Its blood contains the same de-de-desirable substances.'

'Ah, now you're turning my own weapons against me, Ambrosius. Of course I can't explain that. I'm just throwing out a net of ideas, hoping the right fish will get caught in it.'

'Very well, my dear fe-fe-fellow, then let's try the me-me-methods of logical detection. First, there's the Company of the Merciful ...'

He scribbled the words down on the paper with his nimble claw and drew a line all round them. Then he added a question mark. His tiny handwriting made the composition look like something a fly with diarrhoea left behind.

'Who's to say these imitation mo-mo-moles don't leave their gigantic la-la-lavatory now and then and get blood transfusions from their country cousins? From what you say, they d-d-don't object to the odd execution and they have a liking for p-p-painful rituals.'

'That's just what rules them out as suspects, Ambrosius. The pain which has become so much a part of their life would be more than they could bear if they left their bunker. And even apart from the physical superiority of their intended victims, they have no obvious motive. Furthermore, they'd hardly have asked me to solve the case, they'd have done me in on the spot.'

'Right, so let's go straight on to the next suspect, your friend Mo-Mo-Monster Paw!'

He scribbled the name down again, drew another line round it and added a question mark.

'Obviously this creature is a b-b-beast of prey. We've all heard st-st-stories of wild animals seeking out human habitations, lured by comfortable living co-co-conditions there or unguarded farm livestock. In Ca-Ca-Canada, g-g-grizzly bears are said to have overcome their timidity enough to walk into houses in broad daylight and raid the fridge. And in A-A-Africa, elephants raid b-b-breweries because they like to t-t-tie one on now and then. It's a fact. Well, why not? So Mo-Mo-Monster Paw just happens to have specialised in our kind. I expect we really do taste as fabulous as the Chi-Chi-Chinese say.'

'Objection, Ambrosius! If Monster Paw really thinks we taste so good, then why doesn't he eat the entire corpses, skin, fur and all, instead of just a few bites? And why does he go to the trouble of concealing his dreadful deeds, dragging the victims down to the sewers whenever possible?'

'So that just 1-1-leaves Hugo and the mastiff.'

Once again he wrote the words down, circled them and added a question mark.

'Hold on! You've forgotten one whole group of suspects.'

'Wh-wh-what group?'

'The Wild Ones!'

Ambrosius roared with laughter, bringing his writing claw down on the paper so hard that his extreme merriment not only produced a well-marked paw print but made drops of ink fly all over the place. Without wishing to sound obsessive about cleanliness, I may remark in passing that my face now looked rather as if someone had been trying out his paint spray on it.

'S-s-sorry, Francis, but that's the si-si-silliest thing I ever heard ...'

'Before you die laughing, Ambrosius, one simple question: has a Wild One ever featured among the murder victims?'

'No.'

'Isn't it extremely odd that the Black Knight apparently makes a hobby of trying to wipe out our pointy-eared race, but turns a blind eye to the Wild Ones?'

At once my new friend the pen-pusher sobered up again, as if I'd shocked him by breaking some taboo. There it was again: the fanatical gleam in his eyes, the faraway expression that suggested he was drifting away into mysterious dimensions, the unutterable contempt for anyone who cast doubt on the integrity of those sanctified forest-dwellers. I was acquainted with that contempt already, from the élitist wrinkling of Alcina's nose. Ambrosius leaned towards me with the stern expression of a head teacher, and our noses almost touched.

'I'm so-so-sorry, Francis, but now you're talking like a f-f-fool! However, as I know you aren't a fool, you're just trying to pr-pr-provoke me, I'll pretend I didn't hear that last remark. L-l-let me tell you one or two things about
Felis silvestris
. You know, my friend, there's one si-si-sin worse than any other, and that's to slander the victims of a crime by making out after the event that they p-p-perpetrated it themselves. The Almighty has left only a few ma-ma-manifestations of his greatness and goodness here on earth, even f-f-fewer specimens of the wild race, and those are de-de-decreasing every day. I'm sorry to find that you nurture the same pr-pr-prejudice against our wild cousins as humans have felt for th-th-thousands of years. "Incomparable cruelty"- "boundless fury" - those are the kindest things the lords of cr-cr-creation have ever found to say about the Wild Ones. Of c-c-course forestry management reform sped up the pr-pr-process of wiping them out; after the middle of the eighteenth century those reforms tried to turn the forests of the time, which were m-m-more like pri-pri-primeval jungles, into strictly delimited areas of mo-mo-monoculture. It wasn't difficult to wipe out any k-k-kind of animal you liked in such areas. When Paradise dies, Francis, so do the elves, and G-G-God with them. It's a-a-amazing how we ourselves have been infected with human parrot-cries about "exterminating vermin", which entirely fail to understand the true workings of na-na-nature. Resist such wicked fancies, Francis! The Wild Ones are vi-vi-victims, not murderers. If a Wild One were to attack any living cr-cr-creature other than his proper prey, his tribe would tear him apart! The m-m-mere idea is crazy. No, Francis, the Wild Ones are the forest, and the forest gi-gi-gives them enough food. The only question is, for how much longer?'

He seemed to have tears in his eyes, so moved was he by his own oratory.

'They're go-go-going to set off for Scandinavia very soon,' he went on. 'There's more prey in the forests there, and be-be-better nature conservation. Aurelia, the leader of the tribe, pl-pl-plans to set off this summer. I'm d-d-doing what I can to help them by looking at the old sa-sa-satellite pictures and picking good routes. In s-s-secret, of course, while Diana's out on her long walks. I meet Aurelia in secret too and pass on the re-re-results of my research. I just hope they make it and find better living co-co-conditions there in the north.'