Felidae on the Road - Special U.S. Edition (23 page)

The Somali's surprise was turning to irritation. The tiny creature's pert chatter was getting on my wick too, but I scented a chance here. Our sweet-talking friend was the first forest creature of a different species whose remarks Ambrosius did not have to translate for me. Perhaps I might learn more at first hand.

The prospect of his imminent journey to mouse heaven didn't seem to bother Zack in the least. Far from it: he kept on chattering away like a wound-up talking doll.

'May I point out, sir, that you'd be making a mistake by eating me, and one in literally very bad taste? There's a distinct difference between house mice and fieldmice and my own kind. Our glands give off a scent which the sensitive stomachs of your own species find nauseating. That's because we contain amino acids which are good for us but bad for you. Unlike other mice, we eat insects, so our diet has a very high protein content. And carnivorous animals generally like the taste of herbivores much better than the taste of other carnivores.'

Ambrosius was having a fit of furious trembling which was getting more and more violent, and now seemed to have reached its peak. He dug his carnassials into the shrew's fur and finally prepared to give the neck-bite.

'Just one question, Professor,' he said. 'A chi-chi-chicken will run about for a while after its head has been cut off. So tell me, is the real di-di-difference between you and other m-m-mice that when I've torn yours off you'll still go on talking?'

Obviously the shrew didn't for a moment doubt that he'd survive. He seemed miffed more than anything.

'I don't understand your threatening attitude, sir,' he said huffily. 'We learn from childhood to draw the attention of your kind to this fact if we ever get into my present situation. I mean, it won't do you any good at all to kill me.'

'M-m-maybe not,' said Ambrosius, with a chilly smile. 'But unfortunately it's n-n-not Mr Spock's twin brothers you've met, it's the Kl-Kl-Klingons. Just your bad luck.'

He raised his head, opened his jaws as wide as they would go so that his four fangs glittered like oriental daggers, and gave a venomous hiss. The dear little shrew's fate was sealed.

'Ever heard of the Black Knight, little one?' I asked, intervening at the last moment. Ambrosius's fatal hiss was stifled in his throat.

'Seen him rather than heard of him,' said the shrew, chirpy as you please, totally unaware that I'd just saved his life. Amazingly, the daft creature really did think he was immortal.

'Have you had many sightings of him, then?'

'Not as many as some of the other forest-dwellers claim to have had. I mean, you don't expect a creature of legend to cross your path every day, do you? Contradiction in terms, see? It wouldn't be a creature of legend any more. But a rumour's like a collecting tin, everyone feels obliged to add his mite. There comes a point where the tiny grain of truth becomes a lie, and the lie becomes a generally accepted truth in its own turn. It's a fact that some of the forest folk have met the Black Knight on occasion, but only at a distance. And no one's ever had a sight of him doing the bloody murders he's said to commit. According to eyewitness reports, he's always seen standing on a high place, as if to reinforce his own legend that way. I, however, have seen him at close quarters ...'

'We already kn-kn-know what he looks like,' said Ambrosius crossly. 'You don't seem good for anything but fi-fi-filling my stomach after all.' With which he opened his jaws again, ready to strike.

'Just a moment, Ambrosius. Hang on! He may have other important details to tell us. Okay, Zack, so you saw the Black Knight at close quarters. What exactly did he look like?'

'Well, like you two. With black fur, of course. A bit shaggy, like your friend who won't listen to reason and wants to try out his perfect teeth on me. But there was something odd about the alleged monster's coat. It shone. As if it had a very high fat content, or was just wet.'

'Ca-ca-can I get it over with now, Francis? I really can't sit and listen to this stu-stu-stupid dissertation on fur any longer.'

It was Ambrosius getting on my wick now. Why must he insist on practising his hunting instincts on our best witness, of all people? I'd have expected more self-control of an intellectual. Ignoring his childish urging, I went on with the interrogation.

'So how about the mastiff, Zack?'

'Mastiff?'

'Well, the dog the Black Knight was riding.'

'Sorry, don't know what a dog is. Or a mastiff. We don't live as long as you, see? Not long enough to get to know all the animals.'

'But he was riding an animal of some kind?'

'That's right. It was as black as the Black Knight himself.'

'Can you at least describe this animal to me?'

'Well, it was big. Much bigger than the Knight. Its claws were a bit like hooves. And its face looked - how shall I put it? - sort of gentle, as if it had a really kind heart. Now I come to think of it, I've seen an animal like that somewhere else.'

'Where?'

'Can't really remember. Our long-term memory isn't nearly as well developed as yours. And the reason for that is ... '

'Where?'

'Let's think. Could be ...
yes, now I remember. It was grazing near a human house in the middle of the forest ...'

'Grazing?'

'Yup. There were lots of the same kind. You could call it a herd. But only one of them was black.'

'St-st-stop this nonsense!' cried Ambrosius, digging his teeth into the shrew, which uttered a pitiful squeal.

And then a shot rang out.

The bullet struck a spot right by my paws and blew almost half the hillock away. Poor little Zack: not only had he been bitten, now he'd lost his home too. Panic-stricken, I swung my head round and looked at the slope of the hill above as if spellbound, because I instinctively felt that the threat came from behind. Sure enough,
he
was standing on the slope. A tall figure in a red and black check lumber-jacket, woollen cap with loose earflaps, nickel-framed sunglasses on his nose: the hunter! No wonder he had me in his sights. Sitting on top of Zack's hillock, I might have been on a presentation platter. He quickly aimed his gun again - it gleamed dull silver - and pressed the trigger. This time the whole hillock exploded in a thousand clods of earth, and while I was flying through the air in a high arc I saw Ambrosius out of the corner of my eye as he let go of Zack and took cover behind a bush. The badly wounded shrew seized his opportunity, turned the present chaos to his own advantage, and toddled off into the thick vegetation himself. Following the destruction of the hillock, I was the only one still offering the killer an excellent target. Again.

'Why does it always have to be me?' I felt like asking as I came down hard on the ground, although I scarcely thought such a question would deter the marksman from his hobby. Yet it was a very good question. First, it seemed unlikely that he'd taken me for a rabbit again. And second, it couldn't possibly be legal to kill my kind these days, even in areas where hunting's allowed. So if the hunter was willing to risk breaking the law, which could presumably cost him dear, he must have a burning interest in exterminating Felidae.

However, I had chosen quite the wrong moment for ingenious speculations. Ambrosius's terrified face peered out from the bushes on my left. Torn between alarm and the effort he was making to try to help me somehow, he took a step forward, but revised his bold decision next moment in a fit of blue funk.

'F-F-Francis! Francis! Over here! Come on, quick!'

That wasn't a bad idea, because those bushes merged directly into the forest thickets. If I could get there, I was almost home and dry. I started a vague movement that way - and the next bullet hit the ground right in front of my paws, gouging a deep furrow out of the earth. Before the hunter had a chance to reload, I swung round and ran the opposite way as if someone were pursuing me with a whip. I'd finally mutated into the rabbit which by now I felt was my other self.

My decision - or to be accurate let's call it a reflex action - my reflex action saved my life. The hunter kept on firing away with the breathless speed of a sub-machine gun, but I was always a paw's length ahead of the bullets raining down. And every bullet striking the ground behind my paws spurred me on to maximum performance, so that at the speed I was making I could easily have won a gold cup on the greyhound track. At last I plunged into the tangled scenery of the forest, like an actor with the curtain of a baroque theatre falling behind him. However, that obviously wasn't going to make the hunter stop shooting. Impelled by demons of frustration, he kept firing at random into the jungle, reloading at once and continuing his merciless bombardment of the innocent vegetation. So a bullet speeding in the right direction by chance could still get me. I ran on and on instinctively, until the whirr of the bullets around me gradually faded and the shots couldn't be heard any more.

Out of breath, and falling into something more like a trot, I asked myself why on earth the man was so bent on making an angel of me. Or did he want to send all members of my species alike to heaven? Was he a novice hunter or an unscrupulous one, in so far as scruples mean anything to a hunter? Or was he a psychopath blasting away at everything that came in his sights? It was infuriating the way my clever questions seemed to get no answers of any kind these days, let alone clever ones. Or was my thinking too negative? Zack had given a very circumstantial account. Not only had he described the Black Knight in detail, he'd also told us some interesting things about the mastiff. For instance, that it resembled a creature which might be found living in a herd near human habitations. A grazing animal, mark you! A dog that grazed and a Black Knight apparently building his own legend up. Very helpful answers, I'm sure.

I felt both exhausted and dreadfully lonely as I made my cautious way through the undergrowth. How on earth had I got mixed up in this madness? Spring was supposed to be a festival of joy, not a collective nightmare. Nostalgic thoughts of the Gustav era forced themselves upon me. Along with other questions. What was my tin-opener doing at this very moment? Was that
vive-la-différence
monster still keeping him warm at night? Or was he now missing his fluffy old hot-water bottle which purred even in its sleep so much that his eyes were red with weeping? Was it really worth it, my friend? Had all our years together left so little trace that you could turn your back on them for the scent of cheap perfume and a few deceptive caresses? It was a shame ... and what about me? What was to become of me? I'd wanted to begin a new life. It had included fountains of blood and bullets whizzing by. I could have cursed my ... Bullets? Why was the hunter using bullets anyway? So far as I knew, professional animal-murderers preferred shot. With shot, their range was much wider. If they did use full metal jacket bullets it was usually to bring down the really large members of the animal kingdom. Then it occurred to me that the gun which went with the lumber-jacket didn't look as if you could buy it in just any old shop for sporting gear either. Perhaps the hunter wasn't a hunter at all, but someone with a very special preoccupation. The thought made me feel slightly ill. My God, surely they hadn't set a killer on my trail? But why? And who were 'they'? The Mafia? The CIA? Or the tinned food manufacturers because I'd recently discovered that their products contained more flavour enhancer than legally permitted? Questions, questions! They could use me on a new TV quiz game. Title: Francis and the Thousand Questions.

And the questions went on multiplying in what happened next. By now I had to some extent recovered from my depression, but at the same time I'd experienced one of the worst setbacks in the entire history of my bitter-sweet addiction to curiosity. So I decided to visit Ambrosius back at the house in the forest and go over Zack's sensational evidence with him in detail. I had no idea just where the house lay, but my inner voice told me I'd find it somehow. However, I didn't get that far. The labyrinth of trees suddenly grew less dense, so that I could distinguish the outlines of a strange construction. I'd really had my fill of surprises today, but the more the branches and bracken swung aside to give me a clear view, the more irresistible was the power of attraction exerted by this object. Then I came out of the forest and into a huge clearing, where the thing had simply been set down.

It was a rectangular cage made of metal bars forming a mesh with a gauge about the size of a human fist. The metal bars had rusted badly in the course of time. This cage was some twenty metres long, ten metres wide and ten metres high. A corrugated iron hut shaped like a tunnel directly adjoined it; this hut must have accommodated the animal tamers. It was obviously correct to use the past tense, because the whole place looked as if no one had used it for years. Rampant climbing plants and weeds had taken it over, conquering it bit by bit, so that it now resembled a carton gift-wrapped by nature herself. Sleeping Beauty Was Here!

As there was obviously no danger here except for an acute risk of seeing ghosts, I could at least look around a bit. After all, by now I was not unlike an eerie forest spirit myself. Yes, grotesque as it might sound, your friend Francis now represented serious competition for the Black Knight. I began my tour of inspection in the corrugated iron hut. The door was missing; perhaps a forestry worker had found some better use for it. Inside, the hut looked like an office full of cheap and disintegrating ikea shelving with a few file binders lying on them, although there were no files left in the binders. Apart from numbers and cryptic abbreviations, each binder bore the inscription: PROJECT ARK.