Night of the Animals(116)
With one nostril missing, a body racked by Flōtism, insanity, and poverty, and his clothes in dirty, torn strips, Cuthbert faced the comet with what could be regarded as astonishing courage. He held his blood-caked fists up and shook them at the comet. He screamed, with a hoarse voice, “In the name of Saint Cuthbert! You’ve no right to come here!”
He fell down again, in exhaustion, on all fours, his bolt cutters clanking down, and said, “And we’ve got otters! Good English otters!” He was beginning to suffer acute liver failure. In fact, his skin was turning a sickly yellow-greenish hue, and Cuthbert’s life was ending.
At last, Cuthbert had become the Green Saint, just like the statue in the old churchyard where his grandfather’s grave was lost. He held a new power now to bring others, too, into his shimmering faith. He was the al-Khidr, the Mahdi, and now he knew it as much as he could know anything. He grasped, too, that his identity in England had always been written in the water of Dowles Brook, and in the songs of the otters since the Day in 1968 when he left the world and become someone else. Ever since, he had awaited this moment—this canonization.
St. Cuthbert the Wonderworker, the harbinger of a new animal Christ, had arrived.
LIKE MANY OF THE ENCLOSURES, the oriental small-claw otters’ exhibit was deceptively hushed at night. The otters’ nocturnal habits were only in part disrupted by the zoo’s diurnal cycle of daytime visitors and nighttime imprisonment. They remained active denizens of the dark and tended in the wee hours to inhabit parts of their enclosure not seen by zoo guests.
St. Cuthbert’s arrival was anticlimactic—at first. Much like at the Penguin Pool, he encountered no movement, no sound. On the sloped walls of textured concrete that made up the fake riverbank were tarry spraints of the animals, smeared and rubbed in by successive paws into marks that looked like a frenzied Sumerian cuneiform. The spraints released a strong, distinctive smell, like jasmine tea. The dung’s smell of wildness gave St. Cuthbert confidence and calmness, and he was quick to act on it. Gripping his bolt cutters by their foam handles, he bashed beak-like hardened steel blades against one of two thick glass panels, which allowed guests to view the otters’ underwater antics. The effort paid off instantly. A divot of glass popped out and water spouted out onto the walk. St. Cuthbert began jabbing the beak into the hole and easily worked open a gap as wide as a stove. Green water sluiced out in a roar, and St. Cuthbert stood back, staring fixedly and biting his lip. It took about two minutes for the entire enclosure to drain. The California comet aliens were everywhere now, swirling in the sky, screaming through crackling megaphones, roving the zoo to obliterate the souls of all living beings in Animalia. But St. Cuthbert, the water coursing over his feet, stood now in his little islet of English sacred reverie, his psychotic Lindisfarne.
The moment the water stopped rushing, the entire romp of the London Zoo’s small species of otter appeared and leaped down through the gap, pouring out in one quivering, shiny, river-bottom-colored whoosh. It was as though they were, together, the last and most precious thing in England to be emptied from it, a half-water and half-earth being made of golden-brown jewels and smelling of stolen foreign flowers. They were seven animals in all, with the huge and now fully pregnant female at the center of the family, swanning forward with a certain lumpy majesty. Two males, “on point,” as it were, and yikkering softly, fronted the romp, thrusting their noses out to smell for food and danger and water.
The big female turned to St. Cuthbert. He dropped to his knees. He slapped his hands onto the wet pavement of the walk. He thought he heard her say, “Gagoga maga medu,” but he couldn’t be sure, could he, really?
“I, I, I, I, b-b-b-b-b-beg you,” Cuthbert stammered, falling over and curling up. The cold air, combined with his withdrawals, was making his teeth chatter, his tongue turn to fluttering leaves. “Take away my—my—my sick head. It dunna work royt en-nay more.”
You have freed us, the otters said. Look at yourself, St. Cuthbert—and call for the Christ of Otters.
But my Flōtism? What about that?
Go to the lions. They will take away all your misery. You will save England and all its animals tonight.
St. Cuthbert began to weep. It seemed clear the otters were suggesting his martyrdom.
No, he said. I dunna want to see en-nay loyns.
It’s the only way to stop the soul-mongers. Through your salvation alone, St. Cuthbert.
No, he said. Tell me, tell me a different way. Can’t I find the Gulls of Imago? He said aloud, repeating the song of the penguins, “Seagulls of Imago, yow’re song shall make us free . . . from Cornwall to Orkney, we dine on irony . . . along with lovely kippers from the Irish Sea.” He belched.
You will free the lions, and the gulls will come, and they will set right the arts of the world, at least for many years. They will put the machines of evil back to their original, good purposes.
Must I die? When? Why? What do I do?
But the otters weren’t stopping to chat. Long used to the hundreds of incongruous scents in the zoo, they nonetheless sensed the great disturbances in the night. They were keen listeners, and the sounds of the solarcopters and the screaming chimps particularly terrified them. They moved as one, first west, then south toward the unmistakable smell of the dank water of Regent’s Canal. Before St. Cuthbert could lift his head, they were out of sight.
He felt mournful and newly devastated and very tired. He could see, indeed, that his skin’s color had darkened to a distinct green. It may have been magic, but it was also multiple organ failure.