The Wildings

by Nilanjana Roy

  The rain carried the gathering’s uncertainty to Miao’s flared nostrils, but the Siamese showed no emotion in her eyes.

  “I ask again,” said Qawwali patiently, the old cat’s gentle twitch on the link silencing the murmurs, “how this is a matter for the cats of the dargah? Katar and I are old friends, and I have every respect for Miao; but aside from volunteering a warrior or two from our ranks, should you need help, how does this affect us?”

  Hulo growled in disgust, but before he could speak, Beraal dropped down from the branches of the tree where she had been listening to the conclave. Like him, she ignored the rain, letting her fur stick to her sides.

  “From what we know of the ferals,” she said, “they do not respect boundaries or scent markings, or territory lines. Most of them have grown up in the Shuttered House; they do not follow our rules. What we fear, Qawwali, is that there are so many of them—they will need a lot of space. And recall that the house is on the edge of your territory. It’s closer to the dargah than it is to the Nizamuddin park where the Sender lives.”

  “Perhaps we can offer them settling grounds, then,” Qawwali said. “Some could come to the dargah, some could stay in the colony. There’s enough space for a few strays.”

  Hulo’s back arched and the tom spat. Qawwali stared at him and then narrowed his eyes, growling in unmistakeable challenge.

  Katar moved forward to stand next to Hulo. “No offence, friend,” he said, his whiskers signalling them both to stand down. “What Hulo means is that it may not be possible to negotiate with the Shuttered House ferals. They are not like us, or indeed, like normal cats, though I think we should try to talk to Datura.”

  Qawwali glanced up at Miao, who sat impassively, like a statue of a cat. The Siamese didn’t seem to have noticed the rain, and when a thunderclap startled them all, she stayed still, her deep eyes looking out into the distance.

  “For years, we too have avoided the Shuttered House,” said Qawwali. “None of the dargah cats will go there—the smell is more foul than the middens the Bigfeet pilgrims leave behind after their festivals, and we eat well enough in our lanes. But my memory goes back a long way, as must yours, Miao. Attacking strangers whose fur does not share our smell is one thing. But the ferals are not strangers, are they? Do we not owe them hospitality?”

  Miao stirred, but instead of answering Qawwali directly, she washed a splash of mud off her paw. “Who here has been an inside cat?” she asked the wildings.

  The clan stirred uneasily, but then one or two mewed softly. A marmalade cat had joined Qawwali’s crew after his Bigfeet had moved out of Nizamuddin. Another, a smudged tortoiseshell queen, had been found by the market cats wandering disconsolately near the traffic, trying to hunt cars that looked as though they belonged to the Bigfeet who had moved house without her.

  “I once spent time as an inside cat, when my mother was expecting a second litter and we were sheltered by Bigfeet,” Miao said. “When they left, kind as they had been, they put us out at the edge of the dargah. We had been fed for so long that we had forgotten how to hunt. It was your mother, Ghazal, who found us and gave us shelter, Qawwali. So you are right; we might fear the Shuttered House ferals, but we owe them hospitality.”

  Qawwali’s tail rose in relief. “My mother used to tell me how ancient and unbroken the tradition of hospitality was in Nizamuddin,” he said. “My whiskers are glad that we will not have to break it.”

  Katar turned to the Siamese. “So you believe they will settle among us, Miao? Then why call this council at all?”

  The Siamese met his eyes gravely. “I do not believe they will settle peacefully,” she said. “You and I have seen the house. Hulo is right when he says this might be war.”

  Hulo relaxed his arched back a trifle. “My nose tells me that it will come to war,” he said, his truculence yielding to worry. “Beraal thinks so too, and she has a fine nose for trouble.”

  The Siamese stretched her whiskers out, turning to Qawwali as she did so. “My friend,” she said gently. “We meet most often at the fakir’s shrine, and on the canal road. Will you walk down towards the Shuttered House and tell us what your nose tells you? Beraal will take you there.”

  The young queen and the old dargah cat left the baoli, Beraal leading the way over the slippery stones and through the slush. They made faint shadows in the dark, and soon they disappeared from sight.

  Sitting behind Hulo, Southpaw watched the wildings with fascination. Except for brawls and the occasional gathering of cats when the Bigfeet had a large feast, he had never seen so many members of the various clans of Nizamuddin wildings in one place. From the restlessness on their whiskers, the way their ears were flicking back and forth uneasily, he picked up on the tension in the atmosphere.

  The kitten was too scared to offer his mews in front of the rest of the wildings, but when he thought of Datura, Aconite and Ratsbane, it was hard for him to imagine the ferals settling down quietly, like old tabbies in the sun. The darkness seemed to press down on all of them. In the silence that had followed Qawwali’s departure, they could hear the low wails from the Shuttered House, the warning cries of nightjars and barbets.

  “Hulo,” said Southpaw, patting the tom’s large black paw to get his attention, “what will a war be like? Will Katar or you have to fight Datura and will we have to watch?”

  The black tom’s whiskers were unusually grim, and his worry came through in his low mew. “It won’t be like a brawl in the baoli,” he said. “If we have to fight the ferals, it’ll be every wilding dragged in, Southpaw.”

  He saw the kitten’s puzzled eyes, and tried to explain. “When you were in the Shuttered House, did only one or two of the ferals attack you, or did they all draw around?”

  Southpaw shivered as he remembered the ring of menacing, bristling whiskers. “All of them were ready to attack,” he said, his mew tiny and scared. Involuntarily, his tongue went to the sore spot where his whisker had been pulled out. It had healed, and the black bristle of a new whisker was beginning to come out, but he remembered the pain of it all too well.

  “When we go hunting, we go on our own, or in pairs,” said Hulo. “The ferals hunt in packs, because their territory is so much more cramped—and being inside cats for so long twists them, Southpaw. So if there’s a war, we’ll have to fight together.”

  Southpaw tried to imagine a war and failed. Except for the time Miao and Katar had tried to fight the dog who had chased him, he’d never seen wildings fighting side by side.

  Miao sat up, her sharp ears alert. They heard the sound of cat’s paws padding fast, back to the baoli.

  Qawwali came in with heaving mud-splattered flanks, his whiskers exuding distress. He went straight up to Hulo, and touched his scruffy nose in apology.

  “I hadn’t realized,” he said, turning to Miao and Katar. “The link tells one only so much. The ferals—they stink of blood and madness! I tried to send a greeting asking if we might approach, and Datura sent such a harsh message back that my whiskers are still tingling.”

  The rain fell softly on the wildings, washing the stone steps clean. The last of the night breezes stirred their fur. Dawn would soon be here, and the Bigfeet would be stirring.

  “What did Datura say?” asked Miao softly, and it was Beraal who answered.

  “Come closer, meat, and I’ll kill you,” she said, mimicking Datura’s cold mews perfectly.

  Miao turned to Hulo and Katar.

  “We may not attack first,” she said. “Much as you might want to, tell me what your paws think of going into their territory and setting about them with tooth and claw.”

  Reluctantly, Hulo acknowledged the truth of this. He had thought often of killing Datura, wanting to get his claws into the feral’s throat ever since Southpaw came back with his tiny face bleeding. But they had skirted the house of the ferals for many summers and winters and it would be hard to break that convention.

  “No,” he said, his tail flicking to one side. “We cann
ot invade, but perhaps we must be ready for an invasion. Qawwali, where do you and the dargah cats stand?”

  The old tom was staring at the path, his clouded eyes still gazing back at the Shuttered House, though he couldn’t see anything in the darkness.

  “With you,” he said. “Call on us at need, and we’ll be there.”

  Miao let her breath out silently. With the wildings of the dargah pledging their paws in battle, with the talons of Tooth and the cheels on their side, perhaps they had a fighting chance.

  “Katar,” she called to the grey tom, “how shall we prepare?”

  Qawwali looked up at the sky, where the first fingers of dawn were lightening its indigo ink. “I will stay with one or two warriors to lend our whiskers to your battle plans, but may the rest of the dargah cats go? Dawn breaks, and once the Bigfeet open their homes and their shops, it will be difficult for such a large clowder of us wildings to go back without being noticed.”

  When the dargah cats had left, there were about a dozen of the wildings on the baoli steps, including Miao, Katar, Hulo, Beraal, Qawwali and Southpaw. There were also a handful of the market cats, but none of them were fighters.

  “How much time do you think we have?” Miao asked Beraal.

  The young queen hesitated. It was difficult to guess whether the ferals would come out one by one or in a pack, or whether they would only leave the Shuttered House once the Bigfeet stopped feeding them. But her sensitive nose hadn’t smelled the unmistakeable signals cat colonies emitted when hunger had overtaken them, and she said as much to the group.

  “The Bigfeet are still clumping around,” said Hulo. “The ferals aren’t likely to come out while they’re there.”

  The sky rumbled, and in the breaking dawn, the rain came down in hard bursts. The intertwined branches of the trees that grew wild over the baoli protected the wildings from the worst of the storm, and they watched idly as the path disappeared under water.

  Katar paced along the stone steps, his grey tail flicking the raindrops off his fur. “We may not have much time,” he said, his fur standing up against the cold. “The Bigfeet will be there for a while, and Datura didn’t seem to be the kind of cat who would tolerate their presence for long. Miao, we should call Abol and Tabol back as soon as possible—I think Datura and his ferals will come out in a few days, no more than that.”

  Qawwali’s rheumy eyes looked into the distance, and his tail slumped to the ground. “Should we even try talking to Datura?”

  “Yes,” said Katar. Miao’s ears flicked once in agreement. “It may not help,” said the Siamese, “but we have to give the ferals the chance to live like us, perhaps some of them want peace even if Datura doesn’t.”

  “We should go when the rain stops,” said Katar. “Qawwali, will you join Miao and me?”

  “And if they refuse?” said Hulo. “What then?”

  “Then we fight,” said Katar. “Our best chance is to keep them pinned inside the grounds of the Shuttered House—once they get out, we’ll lose the battle.”

  Qawwali’s ears went back at what seemed like unnecessary caution from Katar. “Even if a few ferals get out, what of it?” he said. “They can join our clans if they want, can’t they?”

  Hulo jumped down from his step to the ground, leaning over a puddle to lap water. “If the ferals start sneaking into Bigfeet houses, or attacking Bigfeet pets, you think the Bigfeet will see the difference between them and us? Katar’s right, we have to keep them pinned here. To start with we should organize regular patrols. Abol can take the side nearest the Bigfeet houses when he comes back, and if your gang at the dargah can handle the baoli side, that would work well. We’ll always have a pair of whiskers trained in this direction, so at the first sign of—”

  In the distance, rising high above the drumming of the rain, they heard the scream of a bandicoot. It was a terrible sound, panicked and fearful, and then it cut off abruptly.

  “That came from the Shuttered House,” said Miao.

  “I’ll go and see what that was,” said Hulo, padding towards the muddy lane.

  “Wait,” said Katar. “Don’t go alone—I’ll come with you.”

  The two toms had only just stepped into the lane when the birds began screaming. First the mynahs called out, their intelligent voices filled with fear. “Danger! Danger! Keek-keek!” they called. Then the barbets started up, hammering out a rising alarm, and next the crows began cawing in terrible shrieks. “Beware! Take to the skies! Every bird for himself!” The wildings watched as the morning sky filled with great clouds of birds, flocks of sparrows and bulbuls taking to the air in desperation, their feathers still ruffled with sleep.

  “Get behind me, Southpaw,” said Hulo, padding back to the steps before the kitten could run away. “Stay with me and Katar no matter what happens.”

  The rain was falling heavily, and the wind changed direction, blowing in great gusts from the side of the Shuttered House towards the baoli. Every one of the wildings caught the scent, but it was Katar who said it, his hackles slowly rising. “Blood,” he mewed. “From fresh kills. The ferals are out, Miao.”

  Someone was suffocating Mara, smothering her. She struggled frantically, spitting in her sleep, feeling her claws rip through something that made a silky tearing noise. The kitten sat up, her fur ruffled, and saw that she was locked in mortal combat with a torn quilt. “No more than that,” Mara said to herself, but when she padded out for her morning bowl of fish, the unease from the dream stayed with her. She cuddled closer to her Bigfeet than usual, demanding that they pet her and soothe her, but even as they smoothed her fur down again and again, it stood up in spikes.

  It was the rain, Mara thought, eyeing the greyness of the day from the window near the kitchen sink. It was something in the air, stirred up by the storm, brought here by the winds that were gusting against the kitchen door. Her fur remained fluffed, no matter how much she washed it with her rough pink tongue. Her Bigfoot ruffled the top of her head affectionately and opened the window.

  The Sender’s growl started at the back of her throat and deepened into a warning. “What’s wrong,” she heard her Bigfoot say. “What do you see?”

  It wasn’t what she could see—the birds seeking shelter, the rain beating down on the flame tree, darkening its vivid green leaves. The kitten’s fur was standing on end and her nostrils were flared, her teeth chattering as she stared at the window. The rain drummed heavily, changing direction, and Mara growled again at the scent it brought to her: the unmistakeable stink of blood, and behind it, the darker scent of fear.

  She leapt towards the window, just as her Bigfoot closed it. “No!” she said, trying to explain as her Bigfoot picked her up, making soothing noises, attempting to calm her down. Mara struggled as she was borne away in the Bigfoot’s arms. “Let me go! Danger! Death! Woe!” But when she caught the puzzled look in her Bigfoot’s eyes, the kitten stopped squirming and allowed herself to be carried off. She had no way of explaining to her Bigfoot that something was terribly wrong, that the messages carried by the rain and the wind had raised her hackles with a fear she couldn’t name.

  Mara meekly suffered the indignity of being fed a cod liver oil pill, and accepted a catnip mouse as a palliative. She even played with it, willing her Bigfeet to leave; they watched her with concern, but after she had batted the toy around for a few minutes, they seemed to think she was all right.

  The moment they were out of the room, Mara abandoned her toy. She leapt up to the windowsill, and closing her green eyes, she dropped her head to her paws. The rain still whispered songs of blood and horror into her ears, but she shut down her fears. “Beraal?” she sent hesitantly, but though she waited for a long time, there was no response.

  Mara washed a fat paw, and thought of Southpaw. The brown kitten’s face shimmered in her mind. She thought of the times they had played chase in the drawing room. She thought of the way he bullied her but also cleaned the dustballs out of her fur when she’d spent too much time explo
ring under the bed. Now all of her instincts told her there was something badly wrong, that he and Beraal were in trouble.

  The kitten spread her whiskers out, wondering whether Beraal would respond. Beraal had often tried to get her to stay in touch after their lessons had ended; it was Mara who had refused, because she hadn’t wanted to risk hearing the exasperation in the mews of the other wildings when they spoke of the Sender.

  The rain and the thunder rumbled ominously. The skies boiled over with dark clouds, and every time the wind drove against the windows of the Sender’s house, they brought the stink of blood and death with them. Mara had never wondered much about Beraal’s life outside, but some of the things Southpaw had told her about predators and Bigfeet came back to her. The blood on the rain spoke to her eloquently of the risks that all the outside cats took—including Beraal.

  The kitten unfurled her whiskers and sniffed at the air. Perhaps she should go into Nizamuddin, she thought, and the idea took her by surprise. Hesitantly, Mara let her whiskers rise. Sending came so easily to her now; her green eyes blinked and closed as she focused, stepping out into the park, feeling the familiar shift in her small gut as she hovered over the rain-darkened branches of the trees. The thunder rumbled close by, and Mara watched the squirrels shiver and run for cover. But neither the thunder nor the rain worried her.

  Her whiskers radiated uncertainty. There was the familiar, well-known route to the zoo; the other way was a clear path between the rooftops that would probably lead her to the wildings. The Sender wished Beraal was here to tell her what to do. The rain beat down on the trees in the park as Mara tried to make up her mind. Out in the open, the smell of blood was even stronger, but it came in gusts as the wind eddied back and forth. Perhaps she should go and see if Beraal was all right, Mara thought. But what if she was, and the blood on the rain was just some sort of residue from one of the outside cat’s endless hunts? What if she met Southpaw and he laughed at her, or thought she was even more of a freak, once he saw her hovering in mid-air?