The Wildings

by Nilanjana Roy

  He woke with his fur standing on end in premonition, but Jethro didn’t know why. His minuscule paws curled around the bark. In the hedges, a bandicoot sat up, twitching its grey nose, its eyes wide and startled. The rodents made eye contact, but neither could tell what had woken them. The mouse felt his fur tingle unpleasantly, and he looked nervously at the Shuttered House.

  The quiet trill of cycle bells and the sounds of Bigfeet hawkers pushing their handcarts down the canal road restored some sense of normalcy. The rain had let up a little, and the steady patter of the drops on the leaves calmed the mouse down. Up on the roof where the mouse had first seen him, the cheel seemed to be testing his pinions, fluttering his feathers like large sails that furled and unfurled in the wind.

  Jethro never saw the cats come out, they moved so fast and so silently. It was only when the bandicoot shrieked that the mouse peered in its direction. He squeaked in horror as the bandicoot—a young one, just a baby—twisted in the air, its rump held fast in the jaws of a white cat, its back legs scrabbling to get free. Then a black cat snapped at its neck, and the poor creature’s cry turned into a gurgle as the blood spilled. “The black should deliver the killing bite,” thought the mouse. “His kill, since he’s closer than the white.”

  But to Jethro’s shock, neither cat made any attempt to kill the bandicoot cleanly. Instead, the animal continued to shriek and gurgle as the two cats played with it. “Oh, don’t!” said the mouse. He froze when the white cat turned. Datura’s yellow eye blazed at him, the pupil narrow, black and vindictive. “The meat speaks,” said the cat. “All the meat speaks here, Ratsbane.”

  “They’ll shut up when we bite their beaks and snouts off, Datura,” said the black cat, toying with the bandicoot, which lay limply on the hedge between the two cats. “Shall I get the mouse?”

  “Later,” said Datura. “First the hedges, then the trees. Does everybody understand? If you find any cats, don’t stop to talk. Kill them. Play with the rest.”

  The mouse felt his fur tingle again and raised his eyes from the awful sight of the bandicoot to see a sea of cats fan outwards from the Shuttered House. They were silent as they eddied out, a wave of ferals creeping into the hedges and the gardens: they carried malevolence on their whiskers.

  The mouse hesitated, weighing the risks. This was not his battle, and he was too small to take on the ferals. But then he looked again at the limp corpse of the bandicoot, and at the baby squirrels that were poking their alarmed heads out of a hole in the tree, and the mouse made his decision. He stretched his shoelace of a tail around him, his black eyes wary as he called in the loudest squeak he could manage: “The ferals are out! Run for your lives! Defend yourselves! The Shuttered House is open! The ferals are out!” At the very top of the tree, a cuckoo heard him, stared in disbelief at the ferals, and took up his call. The bulbuls picked up the cuckoo’s alarm, and soon the mynah birds and the sparrows had joined in. Whatever advantage the ferals had hoped to gain by padding out from the Shuttered House in silence had been neutralized by the shrill chorus rising from the trees.

  Datura climbed a tree, shaking the squirrels out of the branches to be slaughtered by the cats below. “You have no idea,” he said to the mouse down below, “how good it feels to hunt little, soft, squealing things. It’ll be your turn soon.” The white cat watched Ratsbane go after a nest of screaming bulbuls.

  The cats were moving in tight clusters of three or four, quartering the grounds, killing anything they found. The cries of the hedge creatures were piteous, and as if he had read Jethro’s mind, Datura said, “It’ll be even better once we’ve warmed up, meat.” The cat’s tongue hung out of his mouth, as he padded up and down, watching his troops.

  The ferals were crazed with blood-fever. The mouse had seen this happen once before, with a clutch of white mice who had been kept as pets. A boy running through the crowded alleys of the dargah had sent their cage crashing down, and the mice had escaped into the maze of perfume shops and biryani sellers. Unused to hunting for their prey, once they had started, they hadn’t been able to stop. They had marauded up and down until one bit the cheek of a Bigfoot baby, and then the Bigfeet had turned on the mice, trapping and slaughtering them. Blood always seemed to draw more blood towards itself.

  Ratsbane and three cats had circled an old squirrel who stood his ground, trapped in the roots of a tree. He couldn’t go back up, because a cat sat in the branches, watching him; he couldn’t go forward, where the big black cat lay in wait. The mouse expected him to beg, but instead, the squirrel raised his tail over his head and waited for the cats, his striped face defiant.

  Ratsbane was disappointed. He had expected the squirrel to run, or to chitter in fear. The cat closed in, his claws out. “Beg for your life, meat,” he said conversationally.

  “Cat,” said the squirrel, “do you know something really astonishing? If you turn around—like that, yes—and look behind you—very good!—you can catch hold of your tail if you’re really fast and kiss it goodbye. Because I’ll get my teeth into that piece of string you call a tail with my dying breath, or my name isn’t Jao.”

  Ratsbane slammed a claw into the side of the bark, right near Jao’s nose. The squirrel didn’t flinch, but then his mate ran out from his hiding place and began to chitter angrily at the cat. “Get back, Ao!” he called, holding his paws together anxiously. “I don’t care what happens to me, but I can’t stand it if they—no! Don’t touch her!”

  Ratsbane sprang, but before he could reach Ao, a black-and-white blur shot out from under the acacia tree and cannoned into him. “Shall we even the odds a little?” said Beraal, breathing hard but rolling back onto her paws. “Shall we start by seeing how brave you are when you’re facing something your size?” Before Ratsbane could react, Beraal spat a fierce battle yell at him, slammed her paw across his nose and bit savagely at his throat.

  The black cat screamed and stumbled back, trying to get away from Beraal. The other two cats with him leapt at her, but the hunter queen was already whirling around. They saw her mouth widen into a deadly red yell, and then her jaws had crunched through one cat’s leg. Before the other one could react, her paw swung out, raking five deep scratches across his face. She curled her claw, hooking it viciously into his pink nostril, lacerating it from the inside. The cat screamed and scrabbled to get away.

  Beraal turned to the squirrels. “Ao, get Jao out of here! Up to the top of the trees with you. Get the rest of the little ones to safety—spread the word where you can.”

  Datura was loping across to help Ratsbane when the hackles on his back paws rose. He felt something watching him. The cat turned.

  Standing on the road near the baoli was an old Siamese cat with stern blue eyes. Datura glanced at the line of roofs—if the Nizamuddin cats were ready for battle, it would be best if he and the ferals went over the roofs towards the Bigfeet. They would have to give up some slaughter here, but his eyes gleamed at the thought of the rich pickings they could find once they had spread out. They would have to move out of the Shuttered House’s wild garden sooner than he had imagined, unless there was more than this one paltry Siamese and that fierce hunter to deal with, he thought.

  Miao’s eyes sharpened when she saw Katar and Hulo on the wall. Following her gaze, Datura assessed the two toms—the big black with the ramshackle swagger would be dangerous, but might also be a risk-taker, the other one was less obviously a warrior but had a keen air about him. A third tom came up behind them, more slowly; this one was old, judging by his rheumy eyes, and would be no threat. A cluster of wildings stood in a tight knot near the hedges, looking to Katar and Hulo for instructions. They were plump and well-muscled, but they looked too young to be good fighters.

  Datura signalled to the ferals with his whiskers to tighten formation; they would have to wait to see how many more cats might join the fray.

  The mouse was the first to realize that no more cats would join in, and his black eyes were worried. Beraal had dispatched three
ferals with celerity and speed, but this small band of cats was no match for the dozens and dozens of blood-maddened ferals who had poured out of the Shuttered House.

  Surveying the tangled garden from her position at the top of the path, the Siamese felt a shiver run through her fur that had nothing to do with the rain. It was horrific to see how many little ones the ferals had slaughtered in such a short time. She sensed Beraal’s whiskers quiver in rage as the black-and-white saw the pathetic pile of dead birds under the hedges, and she felt Katar’s anger and grief as he stared at the corpses of mice and rats scattered all across the gardens. And then Miao saw the bulbuls—the overturned nest, the motionless bodies of the young birds, the blood on the beak of the mother who had tried to defend them—and sadness welled up inside her.

  When she saw Datura, she was reminded of a dog she had once known, a beast that had turned rabid. Miao had thought then that the problem with the dog was not the madness brought on by the rabies—but that he had always been a vicious killer, happiest when he could torment smaller creatures. Datura had not killed to eat, which Miao would have understood, and he had not killed out of simple bloodlust; he had killed because he could. She could not let him and the other cats fan out into the rest of Nizamuddin, no matter what happened.

  The rooftops seemed all too close. “Head them back towards the Shuttered House,” she linked as quietly as she could to Katar and Hulo.

  “Is it just us, then?” Hulo linked back.

  “Yes,” linked Beraal. “Until the dargah wildings get here.”

  The tomcat’s whiskers rose. His eyes flashed as he stared down at the tiny corpses, into the feverish eyes of the ferals. “For Nizamuddin, for Nizamuddin and the wildings!” he cried. Katar joined Hulo, the two toms never flinching as they leapt into battle.

  The mouse watched, his whiskers trembling. He had never seen such an unequal battle. He could tell that the four cats were fine warriors, as Miao slashed neatly at the whiskers of the clowder that surrounded her, as Beraal whirled and growled and leapt, as Katar and Hulo waded into an army of cats. They were the best warriors he had ever seen, even if he included the mongoose clans and the fiercest of the rats and stray dogs.

  But, he thought, as Miao went down under an onslaught of bodies, as Datura and eight other cats nipped savagely at Hulo’s tail and back paws, as Beraal turned, trying to shake off the mass of cats tearing at her fur, even their ferocity, courage and skill were no match for the legions arrayed against them.

  Katar called out to his tiny band, his mews urging the cats to hold fast and stay strong, and the mouse felt his whiskers rise in hope. From the branches of a silk cotton tree, more of the Shuttered House’s ferals dropped down, joining the battle, slashing at Katar. The grey tom slashed back, but then he disappeared in the press of bodies, lost to the mouse’s view.

  Just before he closed with the ferals, Katar thought sadly that no matter what the outcome of the battle was things would never be the same again. For years, the wildings had lived quietly, slipping in and out of the lives of the Bigfeet, not drawing attention to themselves. The ferals had changed that in just one bloody morning. There would be consequences, he thought with a shudder, and then his thoughts were swept aside as he heard Hulo cry “For Nizamuddin and the wildings!” He echoed the tom’s call and made straight for the feral closest to him—a grey cat with golden eyes.

  Startled, she lost her footing and dropped down from the wall. Then he had no time to think as he crouched on the wall, using his paws as gauntlets to bat away the advancing cats.

  “Back to the ground!” called Hulo, and Katar saw what he meant. The wall was slippery with rain. The two toms were sliding around, and while they were more sure-footed than the ferals, sooner or later they would lose their footing on the mossy stones. Besides, silhouetted on the wall, they were targets for any enemy who wanted to creep up on them.

  The tom caught the eye of one of the smaller wildings, an eager fellow from the market. “We’re coming down,” he called, “fight your way through to us, and we’ll fight in a pack.” Katar wished there’d been time for him and Hulo to discuss tactics; they were so unused to fighting side by side.

  The two warriors landed on the ground at the same time; Katar had to roll hurriedly aside to avoid a wicked slash by the grey cat. “They’re yours, Aconite,” he heard Datura say. “Kill the grey first, he fancies himself as a leader.”

  Katar felt his hackles go up. He slammed his full body weight into Aconite, bringing her down on the ground. “Nice going,” grunted Hulo, and then the black tom growled in pain as two ferals attacked him, one biting his paw and drawing blood. Katar’s back jerked as he was tackled by Aconite and two others; he spat and rolled, throwing them off, and killed two with savage bites before he sprang up, backing off warily.

  Katar risked a glance towards the baoli, hoping to see the dargah cats, but there was nothing. “Hold on,” called Qawwali. “They’ll be here soon.” The old cat had sensibly stayed away from the thick of the fighting, but he was helping the young wildings from the market, calling encouragement to them as they battled. Katar growled in his chest as he fought another pair of ferals, even though deep down he knew they were up against hopeless odds—there were so many of them! How on earth was their small band of fighters going to contain them? It gave him a small sliver of hope to think that the ferals seemed to want only to attack and kill the wildings head on, and hadn’t seemed to have given any thought to getting out of the grounds. Even as he thought this, he heard Aconite saying: “Datura? Should we try to get over the walls? There might be more prey that side, and we wouldn’t have these annoying wildings attacking us if we went into more open terrain.”

  The white cat eyed the wall and Katar almost mewed out loud as he saw Datura carefully scan the perimeter of the wild garden. If Datura ordered the ferals to break out, the tom feared they wouldn’t be able to hold them back.

  “Let’s kill them first, Aconite,” said Datura. “Then we can take over their terrain in peace, and you can kill all the bulbuls you want to as slowly as you like, without any interruptions at all.”

  Katar turned on the ferals with renewed intensity. His target was Aconite, but the grey cat was very good at staying out of the way, sending waves of ferals at him instead of engaging in battle herself. “Katar, my friend,” said Hulo from behind him, “I don’t know how long I can keep this going.”

  Katar risked a look at Hulo, and his whiskers dropped. The black tom was bleeding badly; his flank had been ripped, and while it was a flesh wound, the blood was pouring out, weakening him. Katar grimly beat back another wave of ferals, then told the young wildings who fought by his side to hold the line for a moment. He crouched down beside Hulo, washing his wound as rapidly as he could with his red tongue. The saliva would stop the bleeding. Hulo stood stoically, but his yellow eyes showed the first tinge of fear as he stared at the advancing ferals.

  “We had better hope the dargah cats get here soon,” said Katar as he turned back to the fight.

  Hulo grunted. “We had better hope for a miracle,” he said. “There are too many of them, Katar. You cunning little rat, think I didn’t see you coming at my left flank? I’ll rip your ears into shreds! Yes, that’s better, run away howling.”

  As he fought on, aware that the two of them and their small, brave band of wildings was being pushed back towards the wall, Katar wondered how Beraal and Miao were holding up. He hoped the two queens were safe.

  THE PRESS OF PAWS on her chest hurt, but not as much as the sun in her eyes. It was a watery, weak light, but it made Miao blink and her eyes flicker. Lying on her back, pressed into the mud by her attackers, the Siamese cursed the slippery mud—once she had lost her footing, there was little she could do. She couldn’t see her assailants any more—she was fighting by their scent. It seemed to her that one of them, a small orange kitten, brushed by her ear and said, “I’ll be back with reinforcements” in what struck the Siamese as an oddly kind, familiar voice,
but she hadn’t time to dwell on the incident.

  She heard Qawwali send an urgent message to all the wildings. “The dargah cats will be here soon—hold on! There’s a Bigfoot festival on, so they have to come over the roofs of the dargah, not the alleys. Hang on, all of you!”

  The Siamese used her claws to swat two ferals away from her throat. She dug her tail and back deeper into the mud, anchoring herself firmly. At least, she thought grimly, we’ve kept them here. They aren’t out in the rest of Nizamuddin yet. There may be—her thoughts cut off abruptly as a fighting tom, striped about the face, yelled and launched himself at her.

  Miao waited on her back until he was within reach, his mouth open, saliva dribbling out and falling on her fur. Then she used her left paw in a lazy hook, curving one claw into his mouth, puncturing the vulnerable inside of his gum and raking down until blood was gushing from his throat. He gurgled and died, flopping onto her stomach. The Siamese scrabbled with her back paws, trying to find the traction to rise from the mud, but her blue eyes narrowed when she saw three cats sneaking up from the side. There were too many attackers, she thought, despair beginning to rake its cold claws across her whiskers.

  From behind the white glare of the sun, a black speck emerged, and then another, and a third. They moved in formation, growing bigger and bigger. Miao parried another two attacks easily, but cried out when a feral, cleverer than the rest, bit her lower paw. She couldn’t reach him, but she kicked as best as she could manage, dislodging his jaws from her fur.

  The three specks were growing larger. To Miao it seemed as though the pariah cheels fell out of the sky—they moved so fast! Tooth and his companions were black blurs in the rain. “Not her!” she heard Tooth call. “Not the Siamese, or the black-and-white, or those two and the small band around them! Kill the rest. The ones with the feral scent!”