Cuthbert said, “I don’t smell anything. And a’av no interest in rats. I want seagulls, a’do. And I’m losing my marbles ’cause of it.” He took a deep breath but reeled backward, almost falling. “Or maybe it’s because I’m not drinking Flōt. That. And if I could only make it a few days off the sauce, you know, I would be past the difficult bit. It’s actually something I planned to bring up with you, though I don’t see the point now. I had the naff idea that you might be able to help me to stop drinking, with your Allah and shayks and whatnot.”
“Don’t lose hope, brother!” Muezza rolled onto his back, and again stretched out his short, stout legs. He whispered, “You are the correct one always. You will be forgiven tonight in a way that you’ll feel, and you will stop drinking, and you will free the animals, and your brother, too, your wondrous emir—Drystan, is his name?—he will be brought forth into the land of the living. And . . . he may be. Drystan could be . . .”
“What? Who?”
“The Otter Christ.”
“Oh, please,” slurred Cuthbert. “He is my brother, not the world’s. I do want to see him. Just once. It has been so many, many years.”
“And since all is hope and happiness now, would you like, first, to hunt a rat with me?” asked the cat.
Cuthbert shook his head, rolling his eyes.
“No, of course not, saliq. Though if you do not want to hunt for rats, I am surprised once again, I have to say.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Yet, we have so much else in common, brother.”
“No.”
“But where was I? Yes, yes, yes—I still must show you the Sacred Trail to the Shayk of Night. You are my brother, but he is my sovereign. He is one who may be able to help you to stop drinking your fermented insect drink, that refreshment of thieves and the memory of prisoners.”
“You mean the tipple?” asked Cuthbert. “You say ‘booze,’ awlright? Flōt.”
“The Flōt jinn,” said Muezza.
“Gin is fine, too.”
The cat trotted away toward one of the main zoo paths, and stopped and turned around to face Cuthbert. When Cuthbert got to where he was standing on the path, he saw for the first time one of the Green Line markers, painted on the path, which he’d seen on the sign during his day visit. It was the same flat, broccoli green as the animal-group signs, the shirts of the zoo staff, and any of the cafés’ serviettes.
Muezza said: “I should tell you: this is an incomparable night for me, too. It is just as all the cats of the zoo have always said, brother. There is the line painted the sacred color, and if we follow it from here, it takes us to the Shayk. I also believe this line, if you follow it farther, will take you to the otter friends you wish to free, and, inshallah, to the Gulls of Imago, and ultimately to your wondrous lost Drystan. Naturally, because of my entrapment, I have never seen these things or the line myself. I never thought this night would come!”
Cuthbert did not know what to think. He said: “Let’s see this Shayk then. He offers a cure, for my—condition?”
“The Shayk can do many things. I can make no promises.”
“Well, on then, anyhow. A rat or two for you, and a cat for me.”
Cuthbert knew he would see this Shayk, one way or another, no matter what he did. So he would go with Muezza. He would seek out the otters, and help them get into the Regent’s Canal. Perhaps the otters would know where to find the Gulls of Imago. He thought of the disused canals of the Black Country, how the water turned green and luminous as one passed through the abandoned industrial landscapes toward the rural west. He did not mind following green lines—for a while, anyway. At the very least, it was somewhere to go. It was away from the aliens, away from the Black Country, and away from the Red Watch. Most of all, it was away from himself.
freeing the black panther
WITH THE SAND CAT TRAILING, CUTHBERT—STILL spiring, still in a state of Flōter’s hallucinosis—paced west and then north, and ended up passing the flamingos. The birds were all sleeping on little islands. They looked like he felt on Flōt—leggy, sleepy, solitary, needing nothing. Cuthbert thought they were shaped like beans, and he kept repeating a phrase, in his head, “Them’s like beans, they are. Them’s like beans. Them’s like beans.” For a moment, he waved his bolt cutters back and forth like a giant pair of conductor’s wands. Oh, he liked those concrete islets. “Them’s like beans!” he sang aloud.
Muezza looked at him and shrugged.
“You are funny sometimes, brother. You act human.”
The flamingos’ necks curled back like shepherds’ staffs, and their beaks rested upon nests made of their own pink-feathered backs. Cuthbert did not see how they could be so peaceful, nor why they stayed on their islands (there was no cage or netting anywhere), but he resisted his urge to awaken them. He did not often care for birds, especially the genomic clones people often thought of as posh. Pigeons, magpies, seagulls, and starlings—dowdy city birds were what he liked best. But he liked these things.