The Way of Muri (2 page)

‘It is even more amusing to believe in elves and fauns!’ declared Belanger in yet another article, ‘The Impenetrable Marasmus’ (
Philosophical Herald
, 1969).

François Belanger had plenty more to say on the matter, as a brief glance at his bibliography will testify. By the end of the 1980s the professor was a recognised authority on the subject and the author of such seminal works as
Can Animals Think?
A Critique of Fatherland’s Supporters
(1961),
Are There Any Valkyries and Gnomes Left?
(1973) and
The Paths of Wanderers and Birds
(1987). At the beginning of the 1990s the seventy-six-year-old warrior retired to his quiet office on a small country estate just
outside Hanover to devote himself to his life’s greatest work,
The Singularity of Homo sapiens as the Only Bearer of the Idea of God
. This work was intended as a conclusive riposte to ‘all those spirits’ who continued to insist that other creatures were capable of showing even the slightest semblance of human reason.

Doctor Stout refused to let the matter lie and launched a further scathing attack in the journal
Man and Animal
, the organ of Fatherland’s supporters. ‘Only the blindness of a rhinoceros can prevent one seeing what is before one’s very eyes. There truly is no limit to this medieval obscurantism! I have only one piece of advice for Mr Belanger:
ne sutor ultra crepidam!
4
If a mild-mannered monk in unenlightened times was able to speak of such matters, albeit discreetly, then there should be nothing to stop us, with all our laboratories and institutes, proving that animals
think
, that they
consciously
set out on journeys and have
specific
aims…
Sol lucet omnibus
5
, Professor!’

Meanwhile Muri, an impudent young cat from a Bosnian village, was utterly oblivious to Bloomberg’s variations. This feline despot held complete dominion over his place near the armchair, which had been furnished with an old blanket and his bowl. In his innocence, he also regarded the apple orchard as his territory. The peasant family sharing his home – mother, father, son and daughter – belonged entirely to him and existed solely for the purpose of fulfilling his wishes. The cat knew every inch of his territory, from the old well to the apple tree at the very edge of the garden, and guarded it jealously. He had also established something approaching a relationship with the multitude of spirits that inhabited his portion of the world – from the tiny, barely perceptible ones that lived in the bushes and among the grass, contriving to weave their cobweb dwellings on the very sharpest stalks of sedge, to the pond spirits, nimble as
water-gauges, and those that occupied the enormous moss-covered oak tree near the house. He was on perfectly amicable terms with the house spirit that lived indoors – a transparent, incorporeal bubble, which sometimes even allowed the cat to play with it.

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 eight 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.