Night of the Animals(72)

“Don’t touch me! That is where the Prophet pets cats,” said Muezza. “You see the M mark on my forehead? Where his finger painted all small cats?”

The sand cat ventured a few steps closer to Cuthbert, but he looked frankly scared.

The mark was apparent enough, Cuthbert saw. Like on any old tabby cat, there was indeed an M in dark fur. It astounded Cuthbert.

“The sign of Mohammed,” said the sand cat.

Cuthbert said, a little nervously, “But that could just as well stand for Mary the Virgin, or some Saxon war god whose name starts with M—Mugnor or Muglund or some such. Or what about Muezza?”

“Yes, brother, you may be right. But I doubt it. You should be careful not to jump to conclusions. And since you’re not able to stop drinking, it is probably best for you to turn my M upside down, and make it a W. Consider: all things bright and green and strong to you—Worcestershire, Wyre, the Whittington, and your granny Winefride—are also on my face, and merely inverted. I have it all. The M is the version of the W which can walk upright.”

“I can walk,” Cuthbert slurred.

“You shamble, brother. You do not walk.”

Finally, Cuthbert mumbled: “I don’t think M or W has much to do with anything.” He bit his lip, then spoke more confidently: “I think you’re a bit too clever for your own good, cat. And for the last time, I’m not your brother! My brother is Drystan. ’E’s a real boffin, believe you me!” He sighed, and said: “Now, what about the gulls?”

“I never said gulls specifically. All that I meant were rats,” said the cat.

“Gerrout!” Cuthbert screamed, his frustration peaking. The sound was as loud as that of any of the animals in the zoo. The cat seemed puzzled, but unfazed.

“Do you hear them?” said Muezza. “They are everywhere. Squeaking and squeaking and gnawing all of bad Britain. Squeak, squeak, squeak. I have been freed by you so that I and my friends can kill them. Squeak, squeak, squeak.”

“The seagulls?”

“No, the rats,” said Muezza. “Squeak, squeak, squeak.”

“Cat, you’re trouble, yow am. I hear no such thing.”

It dawned on him that Muezza was acting no different from any small cat he had ever encountered in Britain. Cats were, after all, famously intractable. He suddenly felt, quite unwillingly, tender toward the myopic, rodent-obsessed cat. He felt that he wanted to rock the animal like a baby, but he knew Muezza would wriggle out from his arms, and possibly scratch or bite him badly.

“Oh, I wish I could touch you, Muezza, and hold you, and carry you ’round the zoo. You’re a perfect cat. A’m sure that every person who comes to the zoo thinks the same.”

“Not everyone,” said Muezza. “Many visitors—and many other animals here—would like to strangle me. Your comet cult, well, you know what they want to do to me! No, I will walk by myself. I don’t like to be mollycoddled, if you don’t mind, brother.”

The cat circled around Cuthbert’s legs, his tail quivering. “Besides, I am famished. The zookeepers, they pretend to know Africa, but they out-starve even the Magreb. They are fanatical about weighing us and keeping us trim. They do nothing to stop the rats from getting into the zoo, but they have never given us even one skinny one. They torture us with them, I tell you. And the rats, they’re everywhere, you know. Millions of them. Two for every human in London. Do you smell them?”

Cuthbert gazed around. He had indeed seen dirty little shadows moving in a holly bush. And there was that rustling noise.

“Doesn’t the scent make you thirsty?” asked Muezza.

Cuthbert said, “I don’t smell anything. And a’av no interest in rats. I want seagulls, a’do. And I’m losing my marbles ’cause of it.” He took a deep breath but reeled backward, almost falling. “Or maybe it’s because I’m not drinking Flōt. That. And if I could only make it a few days off the sauce, you know, I would be past the difficult bit. It’s actually something I planned to bring up with you, though I don’t see the point now. I had the naff idea that you might be able to help me to stop drinking, with your Allah and shayks and whatnot.”

“Don’t lose hope, brother!” Muezza rolled onto his back, and again stretched out his short, stout legs. He whispered, “You are the correct one always. You will be forgiven tonight in a way that you’ll feel, and you will stop drinking, and you will free the animals, and your brother, too, your wondrous emir—Drystan, is his name?—he will be brought forth into the land of the living. And . . . he may be. Drystan could be . . .”

“What? Who?”

“The Otter Christ.”

“Oh, please,” slurred Cuthbert. “He is my brother, not the world’s. I do want to see him. Just once. It has been so many, many years.”

“And since all is hope and happiness now, would you like, first, to hunt a rat with me?” asked the cat.

Cuthbert shook his head, rolling his eyes.

“No, of course not, saliq. Though if you do not want to hunt for rats, I am surprised once again, I have to say.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Yet, we have so much else in common, brother.”

“No.”

“But where was I? Yes, yes, yes—I still must show you the Sacred Trail to the Shayk of Night. You are my brother, but he is my sovereign. He is one who may be able to help you to stop drinking your fermented insect drink, that refreshment of thieves and the memory of prisoners.”