"Hallelujah!" and "Claudandus, save us!" resounded from all sides while the master brainwashed these loonies with his unctuous sermons, making them even crazier.
In truth, these wild goings-on were way beyond The Aristocats! A sect that paid homage to a certain Claudandus and for his sake found spiritual elevation in high-voltage electrical shocks ... I'd like to see someone say now that since Jacques Cousteau and Bernhard Grzimek nature has no more secrets to reveal!
Claudandus ... A name that couldn't be more inappropriate for a saint. What could have been its original meaning? My knowledge of Latin had deteriorated greatly since that dreadful time when Gustav, in a financial pinch, had tutored feebleminded sophomores from a neighborhood high school whose thoughts were clearly more on their first onanistic adventures than on Latin. But somewhere in some cobwebbed chamber of my mind, I finally uncovered the Latin verb "claudere," which means "to close." If "claudere" was the infinitive, then "Claudandus" had to be the passive perfect participle, meaning "closed." And if you took the gerundive of "claudere," the passive verbal adjective that expresses that something must or should be done, then you would arrive at "claudandus," meaning roughly "one that must or should be closed."
One that must or should be closed—seen in this light, it was a strange name indeed for a saint or, in line with the muddled speech of the preacher, for a martyr. And what cruel, mythical tortures did this ominous Claudandus have to undergo that could later lead to the founding of a sect? One thing was clear to me: whoever could act so destructively would not treat his neighbors, his religious opponents, and especially those who would mock his beliefs, with kid gloves. This crazed mob was capable of anything, including murder.
This theory was made more plausible by a further detail that I had only gradually taken notice of. Since I had begun observing the scene below me, I had been seized by a strange excitement that soon had me completely agitated. It took me a while to realize that the cause of this excitement was due not only to the effect of the uncanny scene below, but also to the chemical smell the rooms emanated. It was very likely that the odor could stir up my kind and intensify their emotions, not to mention the effect it might have on human beings. It was, so to speak, the gaseous counterpart of amphetamines. So you could easily imagine that someone who had become high on the aggressive ceremony and was further stimulated by these chemicals would commit acts he never would in a normal state.
This ingenious theory could have cleared up everything automatically if it hadn't had one small flaw. That Kong and his fascist sidekicks Herrmann and Herrmann were among the Claudandists did not surprise me in the least. Just as flies within a radius of hundreds of miles are attracted to a pile of shit, so, too, did any misfortune unfailingly attract this calamity-loving trio. It was, so to speak, their destiny to romp in shit. And so, as I expected, they were lined up, in a middle row, waiting patiently for the chance to put their recklessness and perverse piety to test.
The one, however, who did not fit into this horrible scene at all was Bluebeard! He crouched in the farthest, darkest corner of the room, his head swaying to and fro to the rhythm of the song and prayer. Because of his various physical handicaps, he obviously did not want to risk being overrun or squeezed to death by the squirming mass. But you could see that the hocus-pocus had him body and soul and that he was also in a trance.
This amazing sight upset my clever hypothesis to such an extent that I found myself absolutely incapable of imagining my friend Bluebeard as a member of this bloodthirsty sect. Or had I been completely mistaken by him? Had he actually lied to me the entire time, and played the unsuspecting bystander? I have a phenomenal gift of psychological empathy at my disposal, and maintain with good reason that I can divine the thoughts and intentions of others by a mere, fleeting glance. But you never learn enough about a world in which people have surrounded themselves with so many lies that they automatically assume the truth itself is the only real lie. But unless Bluebeard had pulled a fast one on me, there could be no direct connection between the Claudandus sect and the murders, which, I admit, I now found hard to believe.
The exuberant religious service had now reached its climax. The joyful congregation leapt and skipped about playfully, breaking out into a weird singsong. It didn't surprise me that the few fragments of the song that I was able to make out concerned blood and suffering. A few, very wild members of the mob sprang over the heads of those in front of them to get to the cables even more quickly. Their screams followed in quick succession, but their old, awe-inspiring guru had everything under control and merely added a few colorful remarks.
"O Claudandus, thou son of pain and of light! Our wounds are full of blood as once your wounds were full of blood! Hear our suffering and accept our modest sacrifice!"
I was so engrossed in the contemplation of this drama that I no longer heeded all due caution, and leaned more and more over the rim of the hole. Without my noticing it, my front paws had begun to press down on the crumbling rim, and all at once it gave way. Tiny stones, wood splinters, peeling
