The cat was prosperous, happy and proud. Admittedly, there were frequent skirmishes with interlopers… After such encounters the tattered warrior would trot to the meadow near the mountains, where he would seek out the curative grass pektoralis and drink the dew from the trefoil plant, thereby healing the consequences of his squabbles in a time-honoured way and returning to his former spiritual equilibrium. In the meadow he often encountered tiny elfin creatures with transparent wings, darting frenetically from flower to flower. The local nymphs, of similar stature, would coax them to dance. The cat was not particularly fond of these brazen sprites. His patience was also worn thin by the ants and beetles that swarmed in the meadows, their pungent secretions irritating his nose… But on the whole these were minor nuisances, without which it would have been impossible to fully savour the delights of existence. There was no doubt that the bright, shining world inhabited by the cat was rich with meaning and purpose. His bowl was filled with fresh milk every morning and evening. There was an abundant supply of mice and shrews in the garden and the silage pit. Birds succumbed readily to his claws. Other tomcats were mercilessly chased from the garden, female cats surrendered themselves to his advances and his wounds healed surprisingly quickly. The spirits surrounding our cat were as obliging as the humans and other animals. They had not the slightest inclination to argue – instead they flitted about, trembling in the air, sighing, humming, crying, squeaking, chattering, arguing and twittering to one another. Perhaps most importantly, they were an invaluable source of information about what was happening at the well, and by the pond, and in the cowshed, and in the stable, where two shaggy fat-bellied female horses snorted and sighed in the hay. And all these inexhaustible riches, right down to the very last grain of sand, belonged to him and him alone – lord of this realm, master of man, woman and children, sovereign of the garden, the grain stores, the cellar and the cowshed. (Fortunately the family hadn’t acquired any young canine competitors. There was a dog, as old as the hills, but he was merely living out his days and barely uttered a sound.)
Thus Muri reigned, thus he governed, blissfully unaware of the swords of Wu. Such timeless pleasure! But it all came to an end in 1992, when civil war broke out in Yugoslavia.
This is how it happened: the first missile turned the sky upside down and sent bushes flying. It was followed immediately by another. And then another… Oh, the field with wild strawberries! Oh, the old apple trees! Everything was torn up by the roots. If only the humans could have heard the spirits moaning, howling and wailing as the missiles destroyed their home! The elementals went berserk, swarming above the doomed village, squealing pitifully and flitting about like bats. Their panic spread to the butterflies and the ants. Fractured trees crashed to the ground, and the air was full of mud and flying splinters.
Muri was in the healing meadow when it all began. If the outraged cat had looked upwards he would have seen a swarm of demons soaring in the sky, gnashing their teeth, flapping their wings and trumpeting with joy. They rose from cracks in the ground in their hundreds, in their thousands. But the cat had no interest in demons! He raced home at full speed, to be greeted only by the sight of shattered floorboards, broken beds and ruptured pipes. The house spirit was sitting on the steps of the porch, which by some miracle had remained intact, sobbing and howling with terror. The poor thing was doomed, because such elderly house spirits never leave their nests and tend to die with them. He had been fluttering with pleasure the day before, but now he began turning a deathly green colour before Muri’s eyes.
Muri kept bumping into weeping spirits as he inspected the site of the fire. From their testimonies and from the evidence all around him he gathered that the humans had not even paused to think about them. The family had simply fled! Unable to comprehend such a betrayal, the king of this ruined land sniffed the abandoned possessions that lay by the porch. A wave of fury threatened to engulf him, but he managed to control his anger and kept a firm grip on his dignity. Trembling with decisiveness, Muri approached the inconsolable house spirit. The two beings began communicating.
‘It’s all over,’ lamented the house spirit, swaying from side to side. ‘Life has left this place, and it’s never coming back.’
The cat stared at him without blinking. Then, articulating all the anger he felt towards his fickle family, he replied, ‘No, I refuse to accept it! I simply must have my bowl, my blanket and my place under this sun.’
‘You’re no use to anyone anymore,’ the house spirit answered miserably.
‘You don’t understand!’ retorted the cat. ‘I need my bowl, my blanket and my people to serve me.’
The house spirit began to moan. ‘Our protection…’
‘Shut up!’ miaowed Muri. ‘You faint-hearted, fat-bellied wineskin! You’re not about to give up the ghost any time soon!’
‘What shall we do?’ moaned the house spirit, rocking to and fro.
‘I intend to get back everything I have lost!’ declared the cat. And so his journey began.
On that very same day, which turned out so tragically for the cat, Sheikh Abudullah Nadari Ak-Saïd ibn Khalim – worshipper of Allah, owner of thirty beautiful women and fifteen oilfields, two ports and five tankers – one of which still to this day bears his name – set out on his own journey.
The sheikh’s super-light aircraft, named Victoria, had a wingspan of ninety-two feet. It was equipped with three engines, a spacious cabin featuring an elegant dashboard, a pilot’s seat ingeniously designed to accommodate all bodily functions, and six fuel tanks, with collective capacity sufficient for a non-stop round-the-world flight. In case of emergency landing a parachute was stored in a special compartment behind the cabin, together with a bag containing a life-raft and fourteen days’ worth of survival rations. The sheikh had at his disposal the ‘Star’ navigational system, which came highly recommended and was capable of determining the position of the aircraft to a precision of several feet, and a satellite telephone. Sheikh Abdullah Nadari Ak-Saïd ibn Khalim had spared no expense on features such as a state-of-the-art autopilot system (the latest Boeing model) and an in-built mechanism for economically regulating the fuel supply. Victoria was not only the sheikh’s pride and joy but also the jewel in the crown of ‘Nordland’, the finest craft ever manufactured by this reputable English firm. Delicate, diaphanous and created from metal so fine it was almost weightless, the aircraft occupied an entire hangar. Nobody but the sheikh and two of his technicians were permitted to so much as look into this hangar, because Sheikh Abdullah Nadari Ak-Saïd ibn Khalim feared only one thing in this life – the evil eye.
Sheikh Abdullah Nadari Ak-Saïd ibn Khalim was well prepared. After clocking up 950 hours at the helm of his own F-16 fighter jet, he had become one of the best pilots in the whole kingdom. He had eagerly completed twenty-five solo parachute jumps (two of them freefall). The sheikh kept a close eye on his weight and his blood pressure, tormented his training apparatus three times a day and often treated himself to a ride in his specially designed centrifuge, which had been delivered to the palace directly from Moscow’s Star City.
On 15 August 1992, Sheikh Abdullah Nadari Ak-Saïd ibn Khalim asked for the blessing of Allah. He attempted to console his inconsolable wives, who secretly believed that God had reclaimed their unfortunate husband’s good sense. He kissed every one of his children, the number of whom exceeded fifty. At 10.00 a.m., dressed in his flying suit, he climbed into the pilot’s seat. At 10.02 a.m., accompanied by the cheers of journalists and the sighing of his multitudinous relatives, he disappeared into a cloud that had materialized out of nowhere, the presence of which was considered by the assembled well-wishers to be an ominous sign.
Like all Arabs, Sheikh Abdullah Nadari Ak-Saïd ibn Khalim was a poet. As he surveyed the ocean he composed and sang to himself a number of rapturous verses. The visibility was remarkable and the onboard computer proved to be a wise counsellor, prompting him to keep to a height of 7,000 feet and a speed of 550 miles per hour. After ei
ght hours of steady flying conditions (during which an entire poem was composed and sung), this consigliore advised the sheikh to overtake a storm front that was threatening to engulf Ceylon.
Sheikh Abdullah Nadari Ak-Saïd ibn Khalim flew above the clouds and thunder to Singapore, where he accepted the congratulations of the air traffic control team. The Japanese authorities promised the crown prince a calm flight over the Pacific Ocean, in conditions of almost zero cloud and a favourable wind.
The weather seemed to be on the noble traveller’s side. Every now and then the sheikh would let his autopilot system take over, and then he would treat himself to a few dates, washing them down with mineral water. His cosmopolitan outlook on life, due to time spent in the West (at Cambridge University), extended to his taste in music – Beethoven and Mozart were to be found in his repertoire alongside the lyrics of the incomparable Walid Khalid. Allah had obligingly adorned the sky above the sheikh’s head with twinkling necklaces of stars, which were studded with the occasional rare emerald and ruby. Sheikh Abdullah Nadari Ak-Saïd ibn Khalim spent the entire night revelling in his solitude and indulging in philosophical reflection.
The dawn broke, seizing half of the sky, and revived this romantic Sinbad. The world was at his feet, and the traveller took the opportunity to indulge in a few mouthfuls of strong ‘El Sabah’ coffee. He acknowledged his gratitude to his flight yoke, and he prayed to the Almighty. Then he took to the airwaves, and in his palace in the middle of the Arabian Desert all thirty of his wives praised God that their husband – such a clever, capable man! – was still alive.
Success escorted the aircraft as far as the islands of Hawaii but hurriedly withdrew as it approached the mainland. The consequences were swift to follow, beginning with fuel supply problems over the state of Texas. One engine began to cough and splutter, then another, and another, until the lonely voice of the final engine died out altogether. Victoria’s cabin filled with the victorious roar of the wind. Several airports immediately offered their assistance. Thanking them for their concern, the pilot glanced at the monitor of his out-of-control computer and, in stubborn denial, attempted to straighten up his beloved pride and joy. But all his efforts were in vain! Sheikh Abdullah Nadari Ak-Saïd ibn Khalim drank the last of his coffee, tightened his seatbelt and prepared to meet his fate like a man. The length of the wings permitted this mechanical dragonfly to glide for some time on the thermals, but the epic voyage was already doomed to fail. The parachute snapped open at 2,000 feet, and the aircraft crash-landed on a Texan ranch, breaking one valuable wing and sustaining irreparable damage to its chassis. The owners of the ranch came running out, and in his impeccable English the sheikh apologized to them for the trouble he’d caused. His Royal Highness gratefully accepted a mug of warm milk from the kind-hearted farming couple and managed to turn away just in time to get rid of the evidence of his momentary weakness, brushing away a tiny tear of vexation with the index finger of his left hand.
Meanwhile the cat trotted along the road leading from the burned-out village to the Bosnian capital, a short distance away. Tractors rumbled past him, their exhaust fumes mercilessly poisoning the sky and the earth. They were loaded with refugees. The women were wailing and the children were crying; the men were covering their ears. Muri wasn’t one to waste time lamenting the past – his heart was beating steadily, his lungs coped easily with the polluted air and his paws obediently carried him onwards.
As dusk fell a Serbian tank lumbered up behind the cat – a mechanical brontosaurus with a flat, round turret. Jolting and swaying, young soldiers in swamp-coloured uniform clung to every part of the tank, even the barrel of the gun. Instead of darting out of the way, the cat flattened his ears and pressed himself into the roadside verge. Suddenly he was scooped up in a fishing net, the kind used to extract large carp from ponds.
The joker who’d caught the cat stuck the pole of the net into the open hatch. A hot stench emanated from the opening, as though it led straight to the underworld. Muri didn’t bother putting up a fight – he’d somehow sensed that the tank was rumbling in the right direction. It didn’t look as though the soldiers intended to skin him alive or burn him with their cigarettes, but then again frightened people in wartime are capable of all kinds of unpredictable behaviour. Once the laughter had died down, the soldiers carried on swilling raki from their flasks and joking about women. As their proximity to death increased, so did their crudeness and cynicism. Only the trembling cigarettes in the corners of their mouths betrayed their true despair. Humans are blind to the world around them, but as Muri twisted in his net he could see dark forces already surrounding the soldiers. A flock of demons swooped gleefully down to the tank like punctilious police officers. The cat knew that these foul creatures had been assigned to carry out the Devil’s dirtiest work, marking with their claws those who were destined to die soon. Two of the four soldiers clinging to the outside of the tank were immediately condemned to feed the worms. The doomed men didn’t even feel the touch of the demons’ claws – they had no idea that they’d been singled out in this way, and this ignorance greatly amused their invisible predators. Left to their own devices the demons would have marked all human foreheads with their claws, but even the Devil has his limits, so his servants were restricted to carrying out his orders. As he watched, Muri was filled with scorn for these wily miscreants. The demons sensed his cold hatred and turned, hissing with fury, to meet his piercing feline glare.
Sarajevo loomed into view. At the sight of so many roofs engulfed in flames, their shattered tiles littering the road, the demons became delirious with joy. They landed on the tank and struck the same foreheads again and again, their loathsome tongues protruding with the effort, for they were allowed to mark the same potential victims as many times as they liked. One of the incorporeal, web-footed assailants even had the insolence to straddle the swaying barrel of the gun. Then the firing began. In an act of unexpected mercy the pole was extricated from the hatch and, turning somersaults, the cat and the net flew to the side of the road.
The city was a scene of apocalyptic carnage. Lime trees and chestnut trees crashed to the ground, their splayed branches releasing whole hosts of elementals. House spirits ran along the collapsing roofs in despair. There was universal panic. Missiles were falling everywhere, the city was spilling its contents, the birds were going crazy… Meanwhile the sky overhead flickered with the glow of fire.
Muri collapsed onto the roadside grass. He wasn’t particularly bothered by what was going on around him, and nobody paid him any attention. The humans were intent on destroying one another; any damage sustained by the trees, birds and animals was merely incidental. The cat headed for the cellar of the nearest house. An old man was sitting on the collapsed porch, alongside a moaning house spirit. He was holding his wrinkled old face in his hands, squeezing large tears out of it as though it were a sponge. Spotting Muri in front of him, he accosted the cat just as he would have accosted any passer-by and began to wail, ‘Where’s my Annutka? My Annutka’s gone! Where’s Borislav? Gone… Where’s my garden? I planted every single tree in that garden! I nurtured them with these very hands…’
‘Fool!’ the little cat answered scornfully, knowing full well that the human couldn’t hear him. ‘Why don’t you do something about it?’
Naturally, Muri bared his claws when the man tried to stroke him.
The cat spent the night in a demolished church, painstakingly washing and grooming his fur. The resident spirits flitted about the cross, which had fallen into the smashed cupola and was now dangling in mid-air, held up only by its cross-piece. The icons had gone up in smoke, as had everything else; the charred gates to the iconostasis were all that remained. Traumatised by recent events, the spirits were conversing in quiet, sorrowful voices. They couldn’t stop trembling and crying. There was no peace, even at night.
Besides the elementals two Croatian prisoners were also sheltering in the damaged church, one of whom was quite young. Like all peasants, t
hey smelled of bread and sheep’s wool. The humans were unable to hear the hundreds of thousands of ethereal groans inside and outside the church. As far as they were concerned, absolute silence had descended on the world around them. The men standing guard outside the church, who had hidden them here and ordered them to lie still, had long since forgotten about them and disappeared into the night. The prisoners could simply have got up and left, but neither of them was to know this. So they carried on lying obediently on the bricks, terrified to move for fear of incurring the wrath of their non-existent guards.
‘Oh God!’ groaned the young man. ‘My legs have gone numb. I’m just going to turn over…’
‘Silence!’ hissed the older man, in a terrified whisper. ‘They told us not to move. Don’t you understand what is expected of us? We’re not allowed to make even the slightest movement.’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ complained the youth.
‘I said no,’ whispered the older man, beseechingly. ‘Just lie there, for God’s sake, or they’ll kill us. Just breathe, and don’t do that any more than you have to!’
‘But it’s completely quiet out there. Maybe, maybe…’ The youth’s voice cracked with the inconceivable boldness of his thoughts. ‘Maybe they’ve left their post for a little while? We might as well turn over while we can…’
‘No,’ answered the older man. ‘They’re just hiding in the silence, those Muslims. I know they are. They’re still out there, watching with their sharp eyes, and listening. If they hear anything, we’re sure to die… and it will be a quick, terrible death.’
‘Won’t they kill us anyway?’
‘If we lie as still as mice, at least we might live to see the dawn.’
They both fell silent. The angelic spirits and other elementals that were spending the night in the church sighed in sympathy.
The Way of Muri Page 2
