'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.'
'You've got me quite wrong, Ambrosius,' I said, rather subdued by this moral battering. Of course I'd suggested the Wild Ones as suspects only as a hypothesis, although Alcina's hostility to her domesticated cousins, and the disconcerting understanding she showed for the Black Knight's dreadful deeds, did give me food for thought. 'You can spare us both any clichés about townies who see creatures of the wild as either dolts or dangerous monsters but haven't a clue about the ecological disaster going on here. I've been deeply concerned about the sad fate of the Wild Ones myself, although in a theoretical way. It's only because we're busy examining a theory for weak spots that I had to mention this dubious point, so do be fair!'
'O-O-OK, I'll take you at your word and he-he-help you.'
He put the Wild Ones down on his list too, but this time, to my surprise, he drew a circle round all the groups named on the paper.
'Although you're an excellent th-th-theoretician, or perhaps because you are, of course you haven't thought of the simplest so-so-solution of all. Perhaps the m-m-murders aren't being committed by a single group but by all of them!'
I frowned. What was that supposed to mean? 'I don't really get you.'
'S-s-sorry, I put it mystifyingly on purpose. What I mean is, if you don't fancy ma-ma-making the Black Knight your prime suspect, why suspect only those you've already met? There are pl-pl-plenty of other creatures in the forest who m-m-might have committed such crimes. Be-be-because of course we do have natural enemies, whatever people say. For instance the stoat or ermine, thought of by human females only as a soft luxury fur. Stoats are generally believed to attack our li-li-litters; the mother sometimes has to leave them alone in the n-n-nest. They say no litter would survive long in forest areas where there are m-m-many stoats. And they like to eat our livers and suck our bl-bl-blood. Our brothers and s-s-sisters on the farms aren't great on taking precautions any more, so it's easy to imagine a st-st-stoat commando getting at them.
'B-b-but that's not the only possibility. We all know the golden eagle will attack our kind, particularly when the su-su-supply of rabb
its and rodents is low as a result of so-so-so-called civilisation. Bones and remains of the Wi-Wi-Wild Ones are found more and more often in the eyries of the lords of the air, but eight times as many remains of our d-d-domesticated kind are found. The list of possible ki-ki-killers goes on indefinitely. Just off the cuff, I can think of hounds gone off their h-h-heads, or lone foxes - they still roam the forest. So I make you a pro-pro-proposition, Francis: we s-s-sleep till sunrise and then set out to make professional inquiries together. We can visit those fo-fo-forest-dwellers who are well-disposed to us - ask them what they th-th-think about the case and if they've ever witnessed any of the crimes.'
'Sounds like a good idea, Ambrosius, but with the best will in the world I can't see how it could work. I don't speak Elkish or Grouse.'
'I do, though.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'You heard m-m-me. I'll interpret for you. Don't g-g-gawp at me like that, Francis! Do you think an old forest gnome like me would have been ki-ki-kicking his heels in this wilderness so long without learning the language of the other gn-gn-gnomes?'
He opened his mouth wide and let out a shrill croak. I couldn't say for sure whether the demonstration was meant to sound like a constipated baboon or Tarzan in a state of post-coital depression, but I mimed surprised appreciation all the same.
'Terrific, Ambrosius! If I had hands I'd clap you. May I ask what language that proof of your abilities was in?'
'You'll s-s-soon find out, my friend. Let's rest now, so as to be fi-fi-fit for tomorrow's investigations.'
'Not before you've explained two things which have been puzzling me since we first met. First, how you learnt to write, and second, why you said you were a seeker after knowledge in the field of ESP.'
'The t-t-two are closely connected. But it's easier to explain the wr-wr-writing than you may think. There came a point when I had to 1-1-learn to record what I knew, because of the extent my studies of ESP were assuming. So I looked over Diana's sh-sh-shoulder and practised on the quiet, until one day it worked. Of course she doesn't know. I hide my ma-ma-manuscripts in a hurry as soon as d-d-day dawns and she gets sick of her own artistic efforts.'
'ESP. Extra-sensory perception. Forms of perception other than by the normal senses, such as telepathy, clairvoyance and prophecy, the subject of parapsychological research, right?'
'My t-t-turn to applaud you! But whereas the abbreviation usually stands for the extra-sensory abilities of the human psyche, my research goes the other way, s-s-so to speak: ma-ma-manifestations of ESP in animals, also known as animal psi re-re-research. Animals have often behaved strangely in the pr-pr-presence of ghosts, or when their owners die, and there are well do-do-documented cases of "psi-trailing", the phenomenon of an animal left be-be-behind by its master who travels great distances to find him, through districts it has never seen before.'(10)
Well, well, well! I couldn't wait to hear what came next. Probably a UFO to take Diana and her psi-pussy off on a shuttle flight to Andromeda. To be honest, I was getting thoroughly fed up with all this hocus-pocus. Had I landed up in some course on esotericism for burnt-out managers? And yet ... my mind, now working at furious speed, was gradually beginning to entertain the uncomfortable feeling that all these bizarre pieces of the jigsaw belonged together in a way I still didn't understand and that some time, when they were all fitted into each other, they'd show a picture which explained everything. I also suspected that Ambrosius would play no small part in this final jelling process. Perhaps, I said to myself, perhaps he should have put his own name at the top of the list and added an exclamation mark.
'You leave me speechless with amazement again, Ambrosius. In the course of my life I've met many extraordinary members of our species, but you outshine them all with your remarkable abilities. Just why have you gone in for such a way-out branch of science?'
Ambrosius smiled proudly and began an extended stretching and back-arching exercise. In the process, his sharp claws perforated the paper under them and crumpled it. I was suddenly dazzled by the beauty and flexibility of his body, which was still very vigorous. The shimmering sorrel of his coat, a warm and lustrous apricot-pink spreading like a ghostly shadow to cloak him from back to feet, did in fact make him look rather like some wise old scholar. In mild contrast to his almost flesh-coloured back, his front was a dull creamy white from his lower jaw down to his belly, so that all things considered he looked like some improbable optical illusion. His eyes, half closed as he stretched and as if illuminated from within, were the eyes of a magician with a mysterious smile doing his very best trick. But my vague feeling that he'd sold his soul to the devil for something unspeakable was growing stronger and stronger.
'W-w-way-out? Depends on your point of view. But your surprise shows how r-r-ready we are to adopt humanity's in-in-infatuation with cold reason, Francis. We've ab-ab-absorbed a mechanistic view of the world as seen by unimaginative idiots, with the brain regarded as a kind of pocket cal-cal-calculator and the body as coachwork that can always be repaired. A pity, a pity. But even d-d-dry science now admits how little it really knows. In-in-instinct's the magic word that's supposed to explain our behaviour. In co-co-connection with our kind, they mention it sometimes with a smile of acknowledgement, sometimes with b-b-barely veiled arrogance. We're supposed to have the instinct, the hu-hu-humans have the clear intellect. How simple their co-co-complicated world really is, though! Just occasionally, when they hear a few n-n-nasty facts about their species, for instance how there'll soon be ten billion of them on this fragile little pl-pl-planet and no appeal to reason can stop this urge to se-se-self-destruction, just occasionally they get a vague feeling that even their intellect can't be any great shakes. Now I see instinct as a direct hot line to an almighty be-be-being permeating all creation with a glowing current of power. Call it nature, the spirit of the earth, even Go-Go-God if you like. I discovered this aspect of our na-na-nature through close contact with the other forest dwellers. I was struck by the se-se-sensitive, in fact clairvoyant way their internal antennae responded to danger, finding food, the approach of death. So I studied the lit-lit-literature on the subject until it all made sense. Did you know that in the d-d-days of classical antiquity the Greeks and Romans drew conclusions about the future from observing birds, their flight, their feeding ha-ha-habits and their calls, and by examining the entrails of sacrificed animals? Our own kind has more intensive access to p-p-paranormal abilities than any other creature. We are all ou-ou-outstanding mediums. It's been shown that we can foresee volcanic eruptions, severe thunderstorms and earthqu-qu-quakes. When the city of Pompeii perished, buried in a stream of lava, not a single classical member of our species was found in the ruins - but any number of do-do-dogs! We were per-per-persecuted in the Middle Ages for our prophetic talents, and burnt alive by superstitious Christians who thought we had supernatural knowledge. And my word, those ba-ba-barbarians came pretty close to the truth. Be that as it may, my own field is the future, Francis, and I'm experimenting with various ways of mama-making it visible.'
I took a deep breath while at the same time contemplating an extremely terrestrial phenomenon, to wit how much humans and their domestic pets resemble each other, and not just in point of physiognomy either. Or was it living together that made them turn out that way? With our chief rivals, dogs, the fact is so obvious that there's no need to argue about it. And now it was happening to us too! At least, after this sermon on psi powers I was having some difficulty in deciding which was the crazier, Diana or Ambrosius. Somehow or other, it seemed, the forest had turned them into pre-sent-day dervishes who thought more of the swing of a divining rod than of the collapse of Communism. Next moment it occurred to me that outsiders probably thought just the same of Gustav and me in the days of our happy life together, i.e. that we looked amazingly like each other. Not only did the notion instantly turn my stomach, it then made me feel like sinking into the ground for shame.
'I must admit there's something intriguing about your sub
ject, Ambrosius. I just don't believe in it. OK, so I do get nasty presentiments quite often, and my instinct is practically infallible. But you couldn't say I had clairvoyant gifts. For instance, my home is miles away, and with the best will in the world I couldn't find my way back to it. So where does that leave your extra-sensory direction-finding magic?'
Ambrosius had come to the end of his stretching exercises, and extended himself fully one last time. This manoeuvre entailed raising his rump right up in the air while he pressed his chest flat to the desk top and stretched his paws out in front of him, so that his form resembled a question mark fallen over on its side. I saw his apricot tail winding in the air above his back like a fakir's dancing snake. It gradually attained an unusual stability. Then it began swinging steadily back and forth like the rod of a metronome. The movement was surprisingly fascinating - and paradoxically enough it made me feel very sleepy.
'V-v-very likely the failure of your homing instinct can be explained more simply than you think, my friend - by the way, do you like my tail, Francis? Sw-sw-swings nicely, doesn't it? To and fro, to and fro, to and fro ...'
'What? What do you mean by that?'
The pupils of his eyes, right in front of my nose, seemed to be swaying in a metronomic rhythm too - to and fro and to and fro and to and fro ...
'To and fro - now watch this carefully, Francis! To and fro - don't take your eyes off me, Francis! - to and fro - do you feel yourself getting heavier, Francis, feeling calmer? To and fro ... '
My eyelids did indeed feel very heavy, as if anvils were weighing them down. I half closed my eyes, though I couldn't take them off the swinging tail. The movement was just too fascinating. Like a good friend waving, like blades of grass blowing in the wind before a beautiful sunset sky. All the same, the last wakeful part of my mind uttered a criticism, if a very muted one, of all this overpowering harmony.
'What do you mean by that, you devil?' I almost whispered.
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