“Yes, of course. I do believe I said I would tell you about many small living pests. And I have!” Muezza sighed. “You do not always act like a cat, brother.”
Cuthbert wished he could gently clasp the fur between Muezza’s ears and hold it until the cat began talking a bit of sense. Clearly, Cuthbert’s idea of “a bit of sense”—locating a brilliant architect’s ghost, which had morphed into white birds—wasn’t straightforward. But Cuthbert was losing his mind, after all. He leaned down and reached for Muezza, and the cat leaped back violently, hissing and growling, puffing its tail.
“Don’t touch me! That is where the Prophet pets cats,” said Muezza. “You see the M mark on my forehead? Where his finger painted all small cats?”
The sand cat ventured a few steps closer to Cuthbert, but he looked frankly scared.
The mark was apparent enough, Cuthbert saw. Like on any old tabby cat, there was indeed an M in dark fur. It astounded Cuthbert.
“The sign of Mohammed,” said the sand cat.
Cuthbert said, a little nervously, “But that could just as well stand for Mary the Virgin, or some Saxon war god whose name starts with M—Mugnor or Muglund or some such. Or what about Muezza?”
“Yes, brother, you may be right. But I doubt it. You should be careful not to jump to conclusions. And since you’re not able to stop drinking, it is probably best for you to turn my M upside down, and make it a W. Consider: all things bright and green and strong to you—Worcestershire, Wyre, the Whittington, and your granny Winefride—are also on my face, and merely inverted. I have it all. The M is the version of the W which can walk upright.”
“I can walk,” Cuthbert slurred.
“You shamble, brother. You do not walk.”
Finally, Cuthbert mumbled: “I don’t think M or W has much to do with anything.” He bit his lip, then spoke more confidently: “I think you’re a bit too clever for your own good, cat. And for the last time, I’m not your brother! My brother is Drystan. ’E’s a real boffin, believe you me!” He sighed, and said: “Now, what about the gulls?”
“I never said gulls specifically. All that I meant were rats,” said the cat.
“Gerrout!” Cuthbert screamed, his frustration peaking. The sound was as loud as that of any of the animals in the zoo. The cat seemed puzzled, but unfazed.
“Do you hear them?” said Muezza. “They are everywhere. Squeaking and squeaking and gnawing all of bad Britain. Squeak, squeak, squeak. I have been freed by you so that I and my friends can kill them. Squeak, squeak, squeak.”
“The seagulls?”
“No, the rats,” said Muezza. “Squeak, squeak, squeak.”
“Cat, you’re trouble, yow am. I hear no such thing.”
It dawned on him that Muezza was acting no different from any small cat he had ever encountered in Britain. Cats were, after all, famously intractable. He suddenly felt, quite unwillingly, tender toward the myopic, rodent-obsessed cat. He felt that he wanted to rock the animal like a baby, but he knew Muezza would wriggle out from his arms, and possibly scratch or bite him badly.
“Oh, I wish I could touch you, Muezza, and hold you, and carry you ’round the zoo. You’re a perfect cat. A’m sure that every person who comes to the zoo thinks the same.”
“Not everyone,” said Muezza. “Many visitors—and many other animals here—would like to strangle me. Your comet cult, well, you know what they want to do to me! No, I will walk by myself. I don’t like to be mollycoddled, if you don’t mind, brother.”
The cat circled around Cuthbert’s legs, his tail quivering. “Besides, I am famished. The zookeepers, they pretend to know Africa, but they out-starve even the Magreb. They are fanatical about weighing us and keeping us trim. They do nothing to stop the rats from getting into the zoo, but they have never given us even one skinny one. They torture us with them, I tell you. And the rats, they’re everywhere, you know. Millions of them. Two for every human in London. Do you smell them?”
Cuthbert gazed around. He had indeed seen dirty little shadows moving in a holly bush. And there was that rustling noise.
“Doesn’t the scent make you thirsty?” asked Muezza.