My spying activities, which were getting to be rather tedious, were suddenly interrupted when my claws inadvertently scratched the wood of the window-sill and gave me away. The painter's head shot round towards me with the lightning speed of a lizard. The face I saw for the fraction of a second scared the living daylights out of me. It was ageless, yet like an old woman's. It reminded me of the faces of children suffering from that mysterious ailment the Methuselah syndrome. Although she was probably in her late forties there was a childlike curiosity in her eyes, yet that curiosity went hand in hand with a vague fear. However, any gleam in those eyes seemed to have been extinguished, and the woman's features were frozen like the face of an ice queen.
Belonging as I do to a species which has made a fine art of developing the niceties of invisibility, I slipped soundlessly down from the window-sill and got underneath it. I heard footsteps above me. They had to mean that the woman was now hurrying over to the window to find out what had caused the sound. After an anxious interval the steps retreated again; obviously her glance outside had borne no fruit.
Of course I could have turned my back on this odd house and its even odder inhabitant at this point and gone on my way. But I was still tempted by the other dimly lit window, up on the first floor. Who knew, I might meet some delightful human there who skinned my kind alive and then roasted their tender flesh over a romantic camp fire while playing For We Will A-Hunting Go on the mouth organ. I couldn't let a chance like that slip, now could I? I spotted a tree growing near the veranda; its largest branch bent down towards the eaves of the roof. It didn't look difficult to climb the tree, do a balancing act well within my powers along the branch to the slope of the roof, and then nip in through the window.
No sooner said than done. Once I was up on the tiles after a ridiculously easy manoeuvre, my paws led me straight to the open window, which showed a softly flickering light. Having reached it, I cautiously put my nose into the room. I'd already noticed that this was an odd house, but by comparison with what my astonished glance now beheld, everything I'd seen so far was the flattest normality. To be honest, at first I doubted my own reason, because the sight that met my eyes strongly reminded me of humorous depictions of my species. Believe it or not, but in this room, which was lit by several candles burning in antique branched candlesticks, magic and fairy-tale had really come true, along with a touch of the facetiousness human beings like to project into my kind.
Another member of my species was seated at a solid desk in the old English style. He was obviously male, and of the Somali breed. He was sitting up on his hindquarters in the middle of a chaotic arrangement of open books, untidy papers and inkwells whose contents had been sprinkled all over the desk in large blots. As a long-haired variant of the Abyssinian breed, he had fur of a lustrous apricot colour, thick and slightly shaggy without being at all woolly in appearance. Rather oddly, there was a fine film of moisture on his coat, as if he'd just taken it out of the washing-machine, and a damp patch had also formed around the spot where he was sitting. Although he came of very good pedigree, as you could see from his bushy tail and full ruff, there was something scholarly about his appearance, or perhaps I should say something of the dotty professor. Apart from the shelves lining the walls, full of very old-looking books, he was surrounded by various peculiar objects: wooden totems and primitive masks representing animal gods from Africa, Australian spear throwers and other exotic hunting gear, even genuine shrunken heads. The place felt like an ethnologist's lumber room.
However, what really rocked me back on my heels wasn't this old colonial junk, reminiscent of vanished worlds in the muted candlelight. No, it was the sight of the Somali himself that made my jaw drop in amazement. In spite of his wild origins he appeared to be a confirmed ink-slinger in the most literal sense of the term. What do I mean? Well, it was fascinating to watch! With all the skill of a poet of the Romantic era, he dipped the middle claw of his right paw in the inkwell and then used it to scribble on the sheets of paper in front of him. The velvety fur of his paw acted as a blotter to sop up the ink, and I assumed that he'd sharpened the claw to give it a fibrous texture so that he could use it like a quill pen. Every now and then the writer stopped to think, raised his writing paw in imitation of a great mind meditating, until the Muse seemed to descend again, whereupon he nodded and eagerly resumed work. What on earth was he writing? His memoirs? His doctoral thesis? Or the definitive book on our species and its ways?
My head was whirling, and I felt positively dizzy as I stared open-mouthed at this king of wise guys. But His Majesty was good for yet another surprise. Although I'd taken a lot of trouble to exercise the utmost caution as I prowled around in secret-agent mode, it soon transpired that he could outdo me in even the most primitive matters of instinct. As if his skull had a built-in monitor of its own, he suddenly started, turned swiftly in my direction, and I found him staring right into my astonished face.
We screeched at one and the same time. Don't ask me why, but both the Somali and yours truly were so alarmed by our abrupt eye contact that caterwauling seemed the only thing to do. However, the ink-slinger was clearly in the grip of some much worse anxiety, something which made his whole body vibrate as if caught in an earthquake.
'Please do-do-don't kill me, brother! It was only a jo-jo-joke!' he begged after he'd stopped yowling. As he spoke he put both forepaws up in the air as if I were holding a pistol to his nose.
'Then don't you write anything about my reactions just now, brother! It wouldn't look good in my biography,' I begged him in return.
'Y-y-you mean you won't punish me?'
His face, its apricot glow distorted with alarm, began to brighten and took on the expression of a crotchety old owl again.
'Of course not. Good heavens, they let even the most avant-garde writers live these days! I'm a law-abiding character.'
He frowned, as if baffled. 'Some th-th-things should be explained, stranger.'
I suspected that his stammer was not because of the shock of our meeting. Even at the risk of disturbing him yet more, I took a step into the room. The alarm system outside was making me a trifle nervous.
'Why would I want to hurt a relative? Anyway, I only ever kill on special occasions.'
He calmed down again, put his paws back on the desk and smiled broadly.
'I ge-ge-get the idea. Obviously all just a mis-mis-misunderstanding! My name is Ambrosius. I'm a seeker after knowledge in the field of ESP.'
Hang on a moment! A certain Alcina had introduced me to the bitter-sweet pangs of jungle fever. She had told me that her mother was called Aurelia, and now I met Ambrosius. What was all this - some kind of medieval Scrabble? Well, why not? After all, there seemed to be Black Knights lurking outside. I wouldn't have been surprised if that autumn crocus of a woman downstairs had suddenly come flying into the room on a broomstick.
'Well, pleased to meet you. My name's Francis, and I'm a seeker after knowledge in the field of CTF.'
'CTF?'
'Commercial Tinned Food.'
'I s-s-see. Come on in, Francis. I th-th-think I can help you there.'
Stepping back, he pointed to a corner of the room with his paw. I jumped from the window-sill to the desk and looked that way. The beautiful sight took my breath away. I saw a plastic bowl the size of a swimming pool containing a Mount Everest of chopped meat. There was also plenty of dried food and a bowl of water. It all went to prove no less than the existence of God. I put up a silent and joyful 'Halleluia!' and then, casting good manners aside, I fell upon the spread even before Ambrosius could invite me to tuck in. Only as I sank my teeth into these delicacies did I realise how close I'd been to perishing of hunger and thirst. The stressful activities of flight and mating had drained my body of strength, and my short sleep hadn't made up the deficiency. What I felt during that orgiastic banquet could be described in a single word, a word not much used these days: gratitude. I felt the deepest gratitude to the friend who had seen my need and was inst
antly ready to share what he had. Indeed, I loved this stammerer. The title of Your Oddity might seem too conventional for him, but he possessed an organ found in fewer and fewer of our contemporaries today: a heart. The only trouble was, I had my mouth too full to express this fervent gratitude.
When at last the bowls were empty, because I hadn't left even a scrap for Mr Manners, and I had delivered my culinary verdict in the form of a satisfied belch that seemed to go on for ever, I got it out. 'Thanks, Ambrosius! You saved my life. And that's not just a manner of speaking, friend.'
'It t-t-takes a bi-bi-bit more than that to save a life, Francis. Glad you enjoyed it. I li-li-live in luxury myself. My companion Diana ha-ha-has gone a bit funny in the head since burying herself in this forest. But the le-le-less normal she got, the more care she lavished on her little da-da-darling.'
It was on the tip of my tongue to remark that her little darling didn't exactly seem to represent the normal EG reading of mental health either, but I managed to swallow my words at the last moment.
'Listen, Ambrosius, I've already seen some odd things about here, even apart from your own amazing skills. For instance, I never heard of a great painter obsessively hoarding thousands of video cassettes before. I suppose she even watches the stupid things too.'
I jumped up on the desk again and took a quick squinny at the handwritten - sorry, paw-written - effusions of my generous host. The contents of those scattered sheets of paper might contain the meaning of life, the universe and everything, but calligraphy was not their author's strong point. They looked more like coded secret messages from the likes of Dr Mabuse. The writing itself was very thin, in accordance with the nature of the writing implement, but the author also seemed to have developed a preference for an ant-like, miniature script such as particularly unsympathetic human eggheads use. Arrows linked the separate entries, as if they were all in some kind of sequence. However, before I could examine the manuscripts more closely Ambrosius lay down sideways on them, obstructing my view, and began calmly licking the ink off his claw. Perhaps he was addicted to the stuff. I couldn't be sure if he had suddenly settled into this comfortable position spontaneously, or if he just wanted to keep me from poking my snotty nose into what was none of my business.
'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.'
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