“We have as much time as you like,” said Mara. “My Bigfeet probably won’t come in till morning, and if they do, you can hide under the cupboard.”
Beraal thought it over. She was stuck in the house for the night, and as uneasy as that made her, she assumed she would be safe unless the Bigfeet found her. Her belly was pleasantly full of milk and egg, and Mara was washing her forelegs in an extremely soothing way.
“All right, Mara,” she said. “Now, where shall we start?”
And so the black-and-white cat and the little orange kitten sat there, trading memories and questions, for a long, long time, until sleep overtook both of them. If the Bigfeet had come in then, they would have found it hard to disentangle one cat from another. Tired from the conversation, Mara had curled into Beraal’s paws, and her orange fur was inextricably mixed up with the older cat’s fur. But the Bigfeet didn’t come in, and no sound disturbed the silence except for the very small, barely discernible sounds of two cats snoring.
Beraal padded along the road that ran parallel to the canal, pausing once to duck the muddy spray from a Bigfoot cyclist who was speeding through a puddle. At this early hour, it was hard to see the black-and-white cat; she blended into the dappled shadows, and found the camouflage useful when she was hunting rats. The call to worship from the Nizamuddin dargah floated in the air; the first prayers of the day would soon begin at the shrine of Nizamuddin Auliya, the much-loved Sufi saint who had lent his name to the colony.
Beraal had her ears cocked, she was listening to the neighbourhood in general, to the rumble and clatter of the morning sounds. She ignored the stink from the canal’s fetid waters and the grunting of the many pigs who had made their homes on the banks. She paused a second time, waiting until two rambunctious puppies had run past, their high, excitable yaps fading into the distance.
The cat’s progress through the back lanes of Nizamuddin was rapid but cautious. The Bigfeet were unpredictable, and in her younger years, she had once been caught by a pack of Bigfeet boys who had locked her in an empty plastic crate for the length of an afternoon.
They had teased her and poked sticks into the crate to make her jump. One of them had tied plastic bottles to her tail, the string knotted so tightly that it had taken her hours to gnaw her tail free, and the cuts had taken many moons to heal. She had no wish to repeat the experience, and her whiskers, ears and tail were extended and on high alert as she trotted through the butchers’ lane, past the fragrance shops, beyond the crowds of petitioners and rose-petal sellers at the saint’s shrine.
Beraal shrank back once, as a crowd of Bigfeet children ran laughing through the streets, but she had moved too slowly, and one of them kicked her in passing. The cat miaowed sharply but hurried on; the kick hadn’t broken any of her ribs, though the pain was still there as she entered the graveyard.
Beraal allowed herself to rest for a few seconds inside the entrance. The Bigfoot fakir who lived here was fond of cats, and Abol and Tabol would be somewhere inside with the canal wildings—they started the day here, spent every evening patrolling the graves at his side, and often spent the afternoons napping on the gravestones.
The fakir was the only Bigfoot that all the cats of Nizamuddin trusted. His home and the small shrine that he tended was neutral ground. Wildings from all of the clans—the dargah cats, the market cats, even visitors from far-flung Humayun’s Tomb or Jangpura—often came here, or went to the nearby baoli, the abandoned, ancient stepwell that only a few Bigfeet ever visited.
Miao, who knew more about the history of Delhi’s wildings than any of the Nizamuddin cats, even Qawwali, once said that the dargah had welcomed cats for centuries. The Nizamuddin clan and its allied branches were one of the oldest of Delhi’s many clans—older even than the wildings of Mehrauli or the Purani Dilli cats. Beraal couldn’t quite wrap her whiskers around the idea of generations and generations of cats living in Nizamuddin through the centuries. But like the other cats, she knew that she felt welcomed and safe at the shrine, sheltered against the occasional cruelties of the Bigfeet.
“Didn’t see you last night, Beraal,” said Katar, dropping down silently from a giant fig tree. “We had good hunting on the canal banks—found an entire colony of rats.”
“Did you get them all?” Beraal asked. Like Katar, she nursed a special dislike for rats: prey was prey, but there was something about the viciousness of rats coupled with the uncleanliness of their surroundings that set her whiskers on edge.
“Most of them,” said Katar, reaching across to give her a quick headrub. “One bit Hulo rather badly, but you know what Hulo’s like—he took its head off with a swipe of his paw.”
The two cats turned; the fakir had come out of his room and was calling to them, a smile on his face.
Beraal ran towards him, her tail up, the pain in her ribs all but forgotten, and Katar followed just behind. The fakir fussed over the two cats. Beraal enjoyed the way he scratched her ears and gently petted her fur just as much as she appreciated the food he set out for them whenever he could. She reached up to thank him, purring as she put her paws on his lap, rubbing her head and whiskers against his tangled locks.
Some time later, the two cats made their way to the cemetery, to find that Miao had already arrived. She lay stretched out on a gravestone. Far above her head, the parrots squawked and scolded, chattering to each other, their conversation loaded with fresh gossip. From the dargah, a slow caterwauling rose into the morning: Qawwali and his brood were clearing their throats. Beraal listened absently, as they issued a rousing set of challenges to the local dogs, who must have wandered into the butchers’ lane. Qawwali was adept at the ancient Nizamuddin cat tradition of trading insults.
“So was the famous Sender a very large cat?” Miao asked.
“She’s a very small kitten,” said Beraal, “and I have something to share with all of you.”
Katar linked his tail round hers. “A kitten?” he said. “That’s surprising. I really hadn’t believed a kitten could send with such intensity. Are you sure you killed the right cat?”
Beraal flicked her whiskers. “I’m sure I found the right cat,” she said. “And it—she’s a kitten, a very young one with no clan of her own.”
Katar’s back curved into an arc, his whiskers springing to life. “You didn’t kill it, did you, Beraal?” he said.
Miao and Katar looked at her, and Miao’s tail started to move slowly back and forth.
Beraal washed her whiskers with great deliberation. “No,” she said, “I didn’t kill Mara, and I’m not going to. Wait—” she raised her head before the other cats could interrupt. “I know she’s an outsider, and she’s really loud, but there’s something special about her. It’s not just that she’s a kitten, all of you know I’ve done my share of culls, but her abilities are unusual, and I think with the right kind of training, we could get her to turn the volume down.”
“She may be a kitten,” said Miao, “but she has a Sender’s powers, and she’s not one of us, Beraal. It’s dangerous to let a cat that powerful live if she’s not of the clan—her mother was clearly an outsider, probably from one of the clans across the canal.”
“Mara has no clan of her own,” said Beraal, her mew soft but determined. “If we bring her up as a fellow wilding, perhaps Mara can be our Sender. Her mother was from across the canal, but Mara was born under the bridge. Her scent may be different; but wasn’t she born among us?”
Miao’s blue eyes held uncertainty in their depths. “None of you were alive when Tigris was Sender,” she said. “In her time as one of the long whiskers, she scented many kinds of trouble—from the Bigfeet, from intruders, from predators—before even the best of our hunters did. But she was able to keep us safe because she was one of us, and lived with us. Her whiskers trembled for us, Beraal. This kitten with the strange scent who lives with the Bigfeet, who does she belong to? Her mother’s clan across the canal? The Bigfeet? Or us?”
Katar stirred, and both queens, the old a
nd the young, turned to the tomcat. “It would have been better if you had killed the Sender,” he said. “In the years since Tigris died, there has been little need for a Sender among us wildings.”
Miao’s whiskers rose. “I am uneasy about the Sender’s scent and the power of her abilities,” she said. “But my mother and Tigris told me that Senders are born when the clan is in need; in times of peace and ease, when the mice are plenty and the Bigfeet don’t harm us, we need no Senders.”
Katar washed his paws, taking in Miao’s words. “We have not needed a Sender in our time,” he said. “We have been each other’s eyes and ears and whiskers. But what you say and what Beraal says has the scent of truth. The Sender was born under the canal bridge, in between us and the clan across the canal. She has a claim on us.”
“Rubbish,” said a rough mew from the top of the crumbling cemetery wall. Hulo was silhouetted against the light of the rising sun, his ears twitching, a darker patch of matted fur and dried blood on his back testifying to the battle with the rats. “It’s not like Beraal to shy away from a kill, and this Mara is an outsider twice over. She doesn’t share our scent, bridge or no bridge—and she’s an inside cat, a freak who lives with the Bigfeet. Besides, she makes an awful racket. If you won’t kill the pest, I will.”
Beraal hissed, baring her sharp white teeth. “Hear me, Hulo,” she said. “You aren’t wrong; but you haven’t met her. I have, and I say we should let her live. Mara means us no harm—in fact, she’s lonely—and her talents are unusual. If she is not of the clan, she is not a stranger either. If she’s an inside cat, that’s good for us—Mara’s unlikely to ever come outside. We should wait and get to know her, perhaps train her, change her scent even, before hunting and killing the kitten. There’s something special about her, and if you wish to go into the Bigfoot house and kill her, be aware that you break into my territory. I may not allow that intrusion.”
Hulo’s growl rose from the back of his throat, as he leaped down from the wall. Close up, he was an impressive specimen—large, well-muscled, his fur permanently bedraggled and unkempt, but his flanks rippling with power. His paws were twice the size of Beraal’s, but the young queen was in no way intimidated—if it did come to a fight, she was faster, and her claws could rip chunks out of his flesh.
She arched her back and spat as Hulo padded towards her, his massive head lowered in warning. Katar moved between the two of them and hissed loudly.
“No fights in the cemetery,” he said. It was part of their pact with the fakir.
Hulo narrowed his eyes, still growling.
“I say the kitten dies, Beraal. If you don’t do it, I will. It may be your territory, but you were supposed to make the kill, and if you can’t, I have none of your scruples.”
Beraal let her fur erect; her claws shot out. “I say she lives, and we give her a few moons of grace. I’ll train her as though she were my own kitten, from my own litter.”
Hulo seemed ready to spring, but Miao intervened, her whiskers bristling. “Settle this the usual way,” she said to the tom and the queen. “To the baoli!”
MIAO THREW BACK HER HEAD and howled as the cats moved swiftly from the cemetery to the baoli next door. “Brawl! Brawl at the baoli, come out naaaaaoooowwwwww!” The Siamese cat was older than any of them, and her once bright blue eyes carried clouds in their depths, but her voice was as deep and piercing as ever.
The ground of the baoli was dry and pitted, with a few puddles of green, slimy water forcing the cats to step carefully. Beraal moved easily, darting down the broken stone steps towards the centre, turning to face Hulo.
“What rules?” sang Miao. “Will first blood do, or must the fur fly?”
“First blood,” said Hulo quickly.
“No,” said Beraal. “Let this be open throat.”
There was a murmur among the cats, and Katar and Miao both cocked their ears in Beraal’s direction. Open throat was serious business; the first cat to get a clear slash at its opponent’s throat would win, but they could risk serious injury before that opportunity presented itself. Hulo had the advantage of weight and muscle over Beraal; the young queen was lethally fast, though, and both of them were known to be dangerous fighters.
Hulo twitched his whiskers in assent. Miao hesitated, and then took up her song again:
“The rules, then, for all cats to hear;
this fight will be blood-filled and chilling.
But the rules of open throat are clear;
There shall be no killing.
First blood can be drawn, so can third;
Bleed too much, and I may give word
To stop the fight, however thrilling.”
From the dusty alleys near the shrine, from the rooftops of Nizamuddin, from the banks of the canal: in ones and twos, cats began to appear. Qawwali from the dargah, Abol, Tabol and the other canal cats, and a veritable clowder of the normally busy market cats arrived, attracted by the prospect of watching a rousing battle.
They slipped in silently, perching in small clusters on the stone steps, arranging themselves on the walls, a few watching from the branches and generous shade of a neem tree. Southpaw was the only kitten present, but the Nizamuddin cats were so used to him tagging along in their wake that they let him stay. Curled up between Abol and Tabol, the brown kitten’s eyes were wide as he took in the baoli—this was the first brawl he’d witnessed.
Katar and Miao backed off a few paces, to allow the fighters sufficient room. They would stay close enough to intervene, if there was need, but far enough so that they didn’t risk getting side-swiped.
The two cats circled each other, tails swishing. Hulo let out a long, low keening, raising it slowly to a high ululation, and Beraal could see the scars rippling on the big fighter’s flanks and forehead. In response, she deepened her growls, allowing them to rise from the back of her throat and swell outwards until they filled the arena with menace. Her hackles were up, her whiskers taut; her tail flicked like a whip from side to side. They moved like dancers who knew the steps, following a rhythm audible only to the two of them.
Hulo slid into attack first, raising his voice to an ear-splitting shriek, gathering his haunches and launching himself into the air. He should have come down with his forepaws on Beraal’s back, forcing her to either drop to the ground or risk her neck if she tried to bite him. But Beraal had seen the muscles in his neck bunch up, and she scrabbled out of reach just in time, moving fluidly to the right and turning sharply so that she was within striking distance of his flanks. She unsheathed her claws, raked his tail, and scored the tip of it cruelly.
Hulo howled and turned, faster than Beraal expected. He pushed himself upwards, arching his back, erecting his fur, and despite herself, Beraal flattened her belly to the ground at the menacing figure he made. Hulo screamed his anger into her whiskers, and circled to the right; Beraal skipped back and feinted to the left, moving her paws nimbly to avoid being cornered by him.
They moved in that fashion for a while, the big black tom and the sleek black-and-white queen, each looking for a weakness in the other’s guard. Beraal changed it up, shifting from a growl to a menacing yell that made Hulo shake his grizzled head.
From the back of his throat, he growled, and before Beraal could react, he lunged to her left. She moved swiftly, but not fast enough. Hulo barrelled into her, his great head down as he knocked the smaller cat tail over whiskers.
Katar’s tail twitched as he watched. “Well played,” said Tabol beside him, the canal cat’s ample flanks rolling as he shifted for a better view.
“First blood went to Beraal, but now Hulo knocks the little fighter flat,” Miao called for the benefit of a few stragglers from the dargah, who had just entered the baoli.
On the ground, Beraal rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding Hulo as he turned to sink his teeth into her neck. He got a fold of skin from her flank, instead, and she turned, aiming at his face. The tip of one claw caught his ear and he shrieked, slashing back at her fl
ank; she felt the blood flow freely.
The two fighters separated briefly, their sides heaving. Blood matted Beraal’s fur now, and in the clean morning light, the blood on Hulo’s fur seemed ominously thick. For a moment, they stared into each other’s faces, and she smelled the acrid sweat coming off him.
Hulo’s eyes were yellow and he was watching her carefully. He and Beraal got on well in the normal course of things, and she had known him since her kittenhood. He had often taken her side when she’d meeped defiance at her older brothers, insisting on climbing trees that were too high for her small paws to scale.
When she’d had her first season, he had lined up with the other toms, hoping to win her favours, but Katar had wanted so badly to mate with her that he had fought all of them with keen ferocity.
Despite his fondness for her, Beraal could tell that Hulo meant to win this fight, but even as his claws had ripped through her flanks, he had retracted them slightly; and when she had slashed at his face, she had used only the tips, not driving the punch home, not hooking her claw in to rip out more flesh. Neither of them wanted to inflict more damage than was necessary to win the fight, but both would push the limits as far as they could.
Beraal raised her voice again, cutting through the baoli, issuing a second round of challenges. Before Hulo had gathered his thoughts, she pounced, in mid-yell, taking him off guard. She landed just before him, perfectly balanced on all four paws, reaching up with gleaming teeth towards his throat. The old fighter felt her breath on his face and knew he would have to move fast.
He swung his front paw like a massive gauntlet, batting Beraal’s face so hard she heard her mandible click as she was knocked off her feet. She lay there on the ground, stunned, the breath knocked out of her. Hulo circled her warily, wondering whether the helplessness was faked. Once she had won a fight against a much larger tom by faking a limp so cleverly that the tom moved in for the kill, leaving himself unguarded. Hulo had been lounging against the walls of the bridge, watching the fur fly, and had marked her down as a cunning warrior, not just a skilled one. But though Beraal tried to get up, her paws scrabbled feebly and her breath came in short bursts—she was thoroughly winded. All Hulo had to do was get over his caution and sink his teeth into her throat, and the fight would be over.
The Wildings Page 4
