The dog growled. This whole mission was cockeyed, and now the cat was calling him pooch. He was not a dog to get offended, but the word pooch carried a heavy load. It was impolite, if not shocking, for any animal besides dogs to use it. Humans, of course, not speaking grak, didn’t know any better. They didn’t know the story. The word carried all the trauma accumulated in one of the darkest periods of dog-cat history.
Pooch originated in ancient Egypt, under the rule of the Cat Pharaohs. At that time, cats had pride of place among the humans. They were worshipped as gods. This was no problem for the dogs until the rise of a particular cat.
Mafdet was the human name for a Cairene street cat who, through a combination of luck, cunning, and snake-killing prowess, ingratiated herself into the pharaoh’s court. This particular pharaoh was vain, insecure, eventually insane. Mafdet played on her fears, whispered in her ear. Mafdet’s legend says that she was able to speak human languages. This is of course impossible. It is not impossible, however, that a shrewd cat could manipulate a weak human, and this is exactly what Mafdet did.
Which was bad luck for humans, many of whom were forced to carve massive cat heads into stone under the desert sun. It was even worse luck for a particular dog, whom this pharaoh had named Pooch. Mafdet and Pooch were, it is said, originally competing for the affection of the pharaoh. But it was no contest. Mafdet framed Pooch for spilled wine on handwoven silks; for turds in the temple; for scaring a favored concubine. And finally:
Mafdet convinced the pharaoh to exile Pooch. But first: torture.
I am reluctant to recount it. The tale comes to us through the hieroglyphs of Mafdet’s temple in greater detail than any decent animal could wish to know: a stick thrown just beyond the reach of a chain; Pooch submerged in oils, removed, submerged, and removed; Pooch’s nails pulled out; his tail lit on fire. Worse.
In all the depictions, Mafdet looks on calmly. Thereafter the pharaoh proclaimed dogs unclean, and her people began to treat them cruelly, misuse them. At the height of her power, Mafdet might see from Pooch’s litter a dog in the street and say, threatening, Ah, are you in Pooch’s pack? This struck fear into any dog. And so Pooch’s name became a byword for cruelty. Rebellious dogs, then and since, have called each other by the name in solidarity, turning the cat’s fearful language to their own strength. The sands of the desert, of course, eventually covered Mafdet’s temple and all her cruelties. But the word remained.
And so in the tunnel the dog, hearing this word pooch, growled.
The cat had not heard the legend of Mafdet. Where the cat came from, pooch carried none of that baggage.
The bear, though, knew the history of the word. “You shouldn’t use that word, cat,” she said.
And the cat, respecting the bear, hearing her tone, wanting to keep the dog on board, said: “I’m sorry, dog, I didn’t know the word was so troublesome.”
The dog huffed but was mollified.
The animals continued down the tunnel for a while in silence.
Chapter 18
“Cat,” said the dog, “how will we find the woman who speaks grak?”
They had been walking through the tunnel for a long time. Periodically, one of the dangerous moles would stop and place his diggers on the tunnel wall, testing for the particular texture, temperature, and vibration that indicated their location.
“We’ll find her,” said the cat.
“That’s not a plan!” said the dog.
“The dog asks a reasonable question, cat,” said the bear. “What is your plan?”
“The squirrel told me she lives by herself, in a hut near the camp, and that she likes to sing. We’ll be able to find her.”
The dog and bear reflected on this.
“What if she has a gun?” asked the dog after a moment.
“The squirrels tell me there are no guns in the village.”
“Then how have the humans been hunting?” asked the bear.
“They’ve been foraging,” explained the cat. “And, being city people, they’re struggling to survive. They can’t find berries and don’t know which ones are safe to eat. They’ve barely been able to make fire. They haven’t caught a single rabbit with their traps. They’ve been eating bugs but not the tastiest bugs. They’re arguing among themselves. The squirrels think they won’t survive the winter.”
The moles, leading the way, stopped. The animals had come to a fork in the tunnel. The moles put their diggers to one path, and then to the other, and then to the first again. They huddled in mole conference, then repeated their examination of the two options.
“Jesus H. Franklin Roosevelt!” said the dog. “The moles are lost.”
The bear put his snout to the floor of the tunnel. He sniffed. The cat and dog and moles around him, a yellow whiff of snakeskin, the brown of dirt. And something else, something metallic, rusty.
The bear’s nose bumped against … a train track.
In the darkness, she could just make it out.
“Here,” said the bear. “I found something!”
The dog and cat and moles gathered round.
“Yes, this is the way,” said the cat, relieved.
“What is this place?” asked the dog.
“The moles tell me it was a gold mine.”
And the moles were right. Not too much farther up the tunnel, the animals came across some old mining equipment. A digger, a jackhammer, great coils of rope. The bear found the place rather spooky and wanted to keep moving, out of the darkness.
They walked, and walked, and walked, until: a glow. Some light seeping down ahead. The animals turned a bend in the tunnel and suddenly had to squint. Ahead, light dappled the tunnel floor. A shaft above, high and narrow. All around them, the detritus of humans. The mine appeared to have been abandoned in haste. Gloves and hard hats were scattered. And, in the center of the shaft, a skeleton.
It was a human skeleton, not a snatch of meat left. Legs at a terrible angle. The sturdy denim work clothes it had once worn were almost entirely disintegrated, just a few scraps and buttons.
“Looks like he fell down the shaft,” said the bear, as the animals gathered round.
“Why wouldn’t his platoon come and get him?” asked the dog.
None of the animals knew the answer to that. The bear’s throat caught, and she pawed the skeleton. That’s all I am, she thought. The seasons come and go; animals are only bone. Just a little more bone than a man.
The moles, in the half-light, pointed to the side of the tunnel. A hole. It was much smaller, just large enough for the bear to squeeze through.
“That’s it,” said the cat, “the moles’ access tunnel.”
The bear wasn’t listening. She was lost in her thoughts, staring at the bones.
The dog, though, peered inside. The tunnel slanted up at an angle, into darkness again.
“The human camp,” said the cat, “is at the top. Are you ready?”
The dangerous moles bowed.
“Locked and loaded,” said the dog.
But the bear hesitated.
“Bear?” said the cat. “Bear?”
Salty tears matted the fur of the bear’s snout. She pawed again at the human skull.
She picked it up and looked into its empty sockets.
Chapter 19
Do not ask why the berries are ripe.
This aphorism is usually attributed to a deer, but in our story it is the bear who needed it. For the bear was troubled, there, looking into the sockets of the human skull. Her mind was spinning.
Humanity, or not? I voted for them before. But whether they are worth the struggle, or only chew toys? Better to take my diurnal death, and hibernate, and perhaps dream of honey. What bear thinks she can save a species? This is a human dream, and for all I loved humans, their dreams brought Calamity and death. And what is the dream beyond death? They feared death so. Do I? Ahh, but there’s the rub. There’s nothing in nature that is not in us. We cannot betray our natures.
“Be
ar?” said the cat. “Can you hear me?”
Sinking ever deeper into her own thoughts, the bear slumped down on the tunnel floor, cradling the skull in her great paws.
… And I could be out in the sunshine, in a river full of salmon. Even though the rivers are all green with calamitous waste …
“Bear,” barked the dog, “what’s the matter? Are you sick? Do you copy? DO YOU COPY?”
But the bear simply stared into space.
… And my cubs were taken from me. I have no grandcubs for whom I should be risking my fur, pulling myself up into some human camp. They’ll probably adopt the cat and dog but skin me and use my fur for hats.
The bear closed her eyes. Her breathing lengthened.
“The bear is … shell-shocked, or…” The dog was out of breath from barking. “Bear, snap out of it!”
But now the bear was drifting off.
“No, no, bear!” hissed the cat. “Don’t go to sleep! Don’t hibernate!”
The bear was snoring gently.
“Wake her up, dog! Lick her face!”
“Don’t order me around, cat! Why don’t you lick the sleeping bear’s face?”
One of the three moles stood between the dog and cat, holding out its arms as though to make peace. From the folds of its fur, it produced the cocoon timer.
The butterfly was nearly free.
“We have to move,” said the cat. “The tunnel won’t stay open much longer.”
“We can’t leave the bear,” said the dog.
The moles shook their heads at the bear’s behavior.
“Bear, we agreed!” implored the dog. “If we don’t stand by the votes, then how shall we ever agree on anything?”
But the bear would not open her eyes.
“Do as you like, dog,” said the cat. “I have to keep moving.”
And the cat and the moles continued up the tunnel.
The dog stood in the gloom. “Bear,” pleaded the dog, “don’t leave me on this cat mission alone!”
After a few moments, though, the dog turned and hurried up the tunnel, after the cat.
Chapter 20
At the top of the tunnel, beneath the human camp, the dangerous moles turned to the cat and the dog. The tunnel creaked.
The moles raised their diggers to their snouts for quiet, then dug the last few inches of dirt, up into the human camp.
They peeked over the edge, then dropped back down into the tunnel.
Without any sign to the cat and the dog, they huddled among themselves. One of them pointed, emphatically, in a different direction than the tunnel had been dug. Another batted down his digger, pointed back down the tunnel.
“Well,” said the dog, “what’s the status?”
“Hmm,” the cat purred. “I’ll see.”
The moles broke their huddle and held out their claws: not yet.
The cat ignored them and lightly leapt up for a look.
* * *
The perspicacious reader may be wondering, at this juncture, how I, the narrator, could have such intimate knowledge of the events which have been unfolding, and the spectacular events about to unfold, at the top of the dangerous moles’ tunnel.
Well you should wonder, and, over the distance which separates us, I applaud your skepticism. It is such skepticism which, like an oxpecker on the hide of the rhinoceros, removes the ticks of untruth. For am I, the narrator, one of the dangerous moles? The cat? The dog? Perhaps the existentially afflicted bear?
Yes, your desire for clarity is admirable. However, I must maintain my anonymity for the moment. No matter how incredible you may find the events which are about to transpire.
* * *
The cat peered over the edge of the tunnel.
She was inside a hut.
The beams were lashed together with line scavenged from the yacht. The walls were uneven, the roof of pine and sap. The room appeared waterproof but not well insulated. And yet it was … homey. Against one wall, two blankets folded upon a steamer trunk.
And beside the trunk, in this otherwise empty hut, sat a little boy, reading a book.
* * *
The title of the boy’s book has been a matter of debate among not only historians but also laypeople. The crows hold that the book was the first human translation of the history and tenets of Birdism. It has also been reported the boy was reading the human Bible or Koran, even a newspaper from before The Calamity. With humility and due respect for my fellow historians—who have been so eloquently and imaginatively mistaken—I am pleased to put this matter to rest on the basis of sources I will be addressing in section II.
In the meantime, for our porpoises here: when we imagine the boy reading, before he was drawn into this grand misadventure, let us imagine him reading a book which transported him from the lonely hut in which he resided. That conveyed not only the pain of life but some of its joy, some of our pleasures, whether sleeping in the sunshine, hearing the final notes of a blue sheep aria, or knowing, for a little while, the mind of another animal. These are surely blessings, and if, on our way, we may appreciate them a little, perhaps we will be at peace if and when a predator chases us down in old age.
* * *
The cat, peeking over the edge of the tunnel, looked at the little boy. Then she darted back down.
“We’re inside. And there’s no witch,” the cat reported.
The moles, accustomed to the vicissitudes of even the best planned missions, were nonchalant.
“I thought your squirrel intel told you this was her home,” said the dog.
“She must be out,” said the cat. “We have to wait till she returns.” The cat paused. “But there’s a boy in the hut. A small boy.”
“And what are we going to do about him?”
“We just wait. The witch will come back.”
The cat waited beneath the hole, listening. She could hear the turning of the pages in the little boy’s book.
The dog impatiently scratched and fidgeted. Dammit, he thought, have I picked up fleas from these moles?
And the animals waited, listening. But they heard no one coming or going.
After some time the cat peered up again out of the hole and found … the same scene.
A little boy, reading.
Now the cat took a longer look. The boy was totally engrossed in the book. He was, thought the cat, in need of a wash. His trousers were tattered, his feet bare and crusted with mud. He wore an old plaid shirt with patches at the elbow. He was achingly slender. The cat climbed back down into the tunnel.
“Well?” asked the dog.
The moles, shaking their heads, already knew the answer.
“She’s still not there.”
The dog turned an impatient circle in the darkness.
“This mission is off the rails, cat.”
“Calm down,” said the cat. “It’ll be dark soon, and the witch will come back before night.”
Twice more the cat checked, and twice more she found the little boy reading against the wall. He didn’t seem to move at all. Now the sun was setting and the light in the little hut was fading, and still the little boy sat, reading. And then it was dark.
The next time the cat checked, the boy had lit a candle. He was still reading.
“Are you sure you have the right hut, cat?” said the dog. “Bigger missions than this have been scuppered by faulty squirrel intelligence.”
“The squirrels know what they saw,” said the cat. “We wait.”
And so they waited.
Chapter 21
When the cat was next about to check the hut, the dog interrupted.
“I’ll have a look this time,” said the dog. “Stretch my legs.”
“Look, dog,” said the cat. “We only have this one tunnel—we can’t startle the boy with a bunch of barking and fetching. He might warn all the humans before we can speak with the witch—”
“Startle?” demanded the dog. “I was marine recon in the bacon wars. Don’t insult me, cat.�
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“Wait here,” said the cat, and leapt up through the tunnel again before the dog could protest.
The dog turned three circles and sat down in a huff.
* * *
This time, the boy was asleep beneath one of the blankets. Moonlight fell across his face. From the little tunnel in the floor, the cat could see out of the hut’s door that the weather had cleared. It was a fine, cold night. The boy was frowning in his sleep.
Before The Calamity, the cat had liked looking at human faces. They were almost, she thought, as expressive as cat faces. Each one held secrets, a life. The round cheeks of the toddler, the porous nose of the old man. The cat thought she was good at judging character by looking at faces and judged this boy’s to be decent. But the cat also knew that faces were unreliable. Better to stick to the plan and find the witch than to take a chance on an honest face.
So, the cat was wondering, curious, where will she be?…
And on quiet paws, the cat crept past the boy to the doorway and looked beyond into the human camp. Several other huts, of equal simplicity, were scattered around a firepit. No one to be seen, but in the doorways the cat saw the flickering light of lanterns and perhaps cook fires. She felt a wave of nostalgia for her life as a housecat. Though she enjoyed hunting lizards and birds, she had also enjoyed the tinned dinners and catnip.
But that was another life.
There!
She saw across the camp the silhouette of a woman in a tall hat.
A witch’s hat.
But she wasn’t coming toward the hut—she was walking away.
The cat followed.
What would she be doing, with no fire, creeping around the edge of camp in the middle of the night? Perhaps she was going to relieve herself, thought the cat. But her stride seemed tenser than that. Indeed, it looked to the cat as if the woman were … sneaking somewhere.
The cat followed her to the edge of the clearing in which the camp stood. Here the forest thickened and the cat had to hurry to keep up with the witch’s strides. The moonlight came broken through the treetops and the cat heard all around the animals of the forest at night, going about their business, alert to the woman crashing through the …
The Council of Animals Page 6
