Monkey Wars

by Richard Kurti

“The bonnets…they’re insane,” Breri whispered. “We’ve taken their land…they’ve nothing left to fight for…still they fight.”

  “But General Pogo will have a plan?” said Mico, hoping for reassurance.

  Breri looked around uneasily, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear, then whispered, “The general’s never met an enemy like this before.”

  It was the first time Mico had heard Breri express anything other than admiration for the leadership, and it frightened him.

  Suddenly the whole langur world was threatened. Everything Mico had ever known was hanging in the balance—the security of his friends and family, the familiarity of the cadets, the reassuring beat of langur ways and habits. He tried to imagine what life would be like if all that vanished, if the troop was defeated and scattered. Twitcher’s ominous warning still rang in Mico’s ears: when the langur fall, their enemies will be waiting to pounce.

  He couldn’t let that happen. Whatever doubts Mico had about the langur, they were still his monkeys, and he had a duty to protect them.

  As he dressed Breri’s wounds, he found out about the geography of the siege and understood why General Pogo was so worried. Using conventional langur tactics it would be a long, bloody seige, but Mico’s unconventional mind could see another way.

  He hurried out of the signal box to try and find a senior military commander—they were all huddled round a very grave Deputy Tyrell, briefing him about the scale of the casualties. Already the bodyguards were making preparations to escort Tyrell forward to the front line. Mico had to make his move now.

  “Excuse me, sir. We spoke at the Warrior Day Feast.”

  Tyrell spun round and glared at Mico, his mind so preoccupied it took a few moments for him to register who this cadet was. “Not now,” he snapped.

  “Not all monkeys fight in the same way!”

  The deputy’s bodyguards had just lunged forward to bundle the troublesome cadet away when Tyrell raised his hand.

  “Wait.”

  The bodyguards stopped in their tracks as Tyrell scrutinized Mico.

  “What did you say?”

  “You once told me the only way to win is by remembering that not all monkeys fight in the same way.”

  “Well, well…,” muttered Tyrell. He drew Mico to one side, taking him into his confidence. “So tell me, how does that help us now?”

  “A siege is no good, sir. Our troops are just going to get wounded, or worse. Instead we need to make the bonnets’ fortress their prison.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Tyrell curiously.

  “If we throw a bees’ nest into the summer house, they’ll either get stung to death or they’ll be forced out into the open.”

  Tyrell nodded indulgently. “It’s a good idea. Not a new idea, of course. We’ve tried bees in previous campaigns, but the problem is that all monkeys look the same to bees—they sting us just as readily as they sting our enemies.”

  And with a patronizing smile he turned and started to walk away.

  “That wasn’t the idea, sir,” Mico persisted, chasing after him. “There’s a place in the city where men live with the bees. They use nets so that they can get close without getting stung.”

  Tyrell glared at Mico. “Where is this place?”

  Mico ignored the question. “If we steal the nets and wrap them round the hives, we would control when they fly, where they swarm, who they sting.”

  Tyrell’s eyes narrowed; he liked the way Mico had sidestepped the question, but most of all he liked the idea.

  He glanced sideways, checking that no one had overheard their conversation. Then, with a dark smile, he whispered to Mico, “Wait here. Say nothing.”

  —

  Even though he was secretly brimming with confidence, Tyrell kept a grim countenance as General Pogo showed him round the battlefield and explained the complexities of the siege.

  “Any attempt to storm the building leaves us open to attack from above,” Pogo lowered his voice to avoid alarming his own troops. “And even if we accept the high casualty rate there’s only one way up the tower. Our forces could go in no more than two at a time—they’d be picked off before they reached the first level.”

  Tyrell frowned and rubbed his chin; it was important to give the impression that he was thinking on his feet. Then after a credible pause, he smiled as if an idea had just occurred to him.

  “Forgive my simplicity, General, but it seems to me that getting the bonnets out is the only solution?”

  “If we had them in the open, we could deal with them easily,” growled Pogo impatiently.

  “And if I gave you a swarm of bees, could you get it into the main building?”

  General Pogo stared at Tyrell blankly. “But bees—”

  “Could you get them inside?”

  The general looked over to the summer house, his mind testing out the various options. “Yes. We could get them inside.”

  Tyrell smiled at the thought of the massacre that would follow. “Just the answer I was looking for.”

  —

  The moon was up by the time the raid on the beekeeper’s yard swung into action. Tyrell took personal command of the mission as it was of the utmost importance that everyone should see this was all his idea.

  Mico went along in an ostensibly minor capacity, but in fact he was the only one who knew the location of the beehives. Tyrell had demanded to be told everything, but Mico explained that he couldn’t actually describe the location; he could only find it again by smell, by literally nosing his way from one street to the next.

  Tyrell didn’t believe him for an instant, but he played along. Mico obviously had secrets, and powerful ones at that, which made him a monkey to keep at his side.

  —

  “There…,” Mico whispered as they emerged into the scrub ground dotted with hives. “The ones hanging from the trees.” He pointed to a large banyan tree that wove between the sheds—from its lowest branches hung a cluster of clay beehives.

  “And the nets?” Tyrell demanded.

  “On the side of the sheds. The humans put them on their heads, but we can wrap them round the hives.”

  “Remind me,” asked Tyrell innocently. “How did you come by these again?”

  Mico hesitated. His mind flashed back to the night he had come here with Papina….

  And the thought of her name suddenly reminded Mico of all the suffering the langur had inflicted on the rhesus. For one terrible moment he felt doubt pulling at his fur. Could he really trust Tyrell with a weapon as deadly as the bees?

  Mico gripped his fists, forcing the nails into his palm, reminding himself that he was doing this to save lives…his own brother’s life.

  Looking up at Tyrell, he shrugged. “I got lost one day. Sense of direction was never my strong point.”

  Tyrell scoffed. “I don’t believe that for a moment.”

  But Mico was not going to be drawn any further.

  Tyrell watched as the troops unhooked the beekeeper’s veils then cautiously approached the banyan tree. The hives were silent; nothing stirred. Stealthily the monkeys climbed the tree; then, very slowly, working in pairs, they stretched the veils around the clay hives, gently tightening them, trying not to cause any vibrations.

  The monkeys paused, checking that each hive was secure; Tyrell gave the signal, and in one sweeping move the monkeys dropped from the branch, yanking the hives as they fell.

  They crashed to the ground in a chaotic flurry, the terrifying jolt sending thousands of bees into a frenzy, But the monkeys held tight, gripping the nets in place, so that when the bees tried to swarm from the hive, they slammed straight into the nets. Trapped.

  Tyrell crouched down and listened to the enraged buzzing of the bees, now rendered powerless by his cunning. Such a simple trick and the deadly insects were utterly at his mercy.

  It was a strange thing, but in the midst of all the death, Soames had never felt more alive.

  The langur attack, swift and savage, had
torn through his troop with devastating cruelty. He had seen families executed, old friends cut down…

  And yet…

  In the darkness of the carnage, a rush of adrenaline had surged through Soames, galvanizing him, and that had brought a strange thrill, the kind of thrill you never got sucking juniper berries on the lawn.

  From his perch high up in the summer house tower, he gazed out across the moonlit lawns with grim satisfaction—he’d shown those arrogant langurs what true strength was. They’d attacked with such conceit, and now they were cowering behind the trees.

  Soames knew the bonnets had the mettle to withstand this siege; their grief had hardened into anger, and they had enough ammunition to turn anger into bloody vengeance. They could cut down an entire army if it came to it, but Soames knew it wouldn’t. In war, morale was everything, and once the bodies started piling up outside the tower, the langur leaders would be forced to retreat.

  It was true the bonnets didn’t have that much in the way of food, but they could all do with losing a bit of weight. As for water, the skies looked heavy with rain, which would come straight into the tower now that it had lost its roof tiles; all the bonnets had to do was sit under the leaks with their mouths open.

  Soames rolled backward off his perch and started to make his way down the tower, offering a reassuring nod here and a friendly word there. The spear monkeys were poised and ready with their sharp sticks, the flint monkeys were surrounded by piles of cutting stones, and two younger monkeys were busy ferrying fresh ammunition up from the basement.

  When he got to the bottom of the tower, Soames swung into the main body of the summer house, where the large monkeys wielding fighting sticks were ranged. As he looked at them, Soames felt a swell of pride. Just yesterday these monkeys had been lazing on the lawns; today everything about them declared “warrior.” It would be a brave langur who would take on these bonnets. Brave, or foolish.

  Even though the langur attacks had ceased as the sun set, Soames kept his forces on high alert, just in case. But it had been quiet for a while now, and as the strong moon made it impossible for anything to move on the lawns without being spotted, Soames gave the order to rest. The lookouts could work in shifts; everyone else was to sleep by their weapons.

  Confident that the momentum of the battle had swung the bonnets’ way, Soames snuggled down between two wooden pillars and dozed off.

  —

  The langurs spent the night perfecting their plan. They had left the beehives, still wrapped in netting, in a quiet corner of the gardens, trying to calm the swarms down, while General Pogo worked with his troops on a method of levering open the shutters of the summer house.

  There was no room for mistakes—if the langur were beaten here, it would send a signal to monkey troops right across the city, advertising their weakness. The bonnets didn’t just need to be defeated; they needed to be annihilated for daring to resist.

  As the rising sun stained the gray sky with ominous red streaks, General Pogo put everyone on high alert; he was waiting for the perfect moment, when it was light enough for the bees to navigate, yet dark enough for the bonnets to still be asleep.

  All eyes were on the general.

  All thoughts on the imminent carnage.

  All hopes pinned on the beehives.

  Until finally Pogo gave the order.

  “Go.”

  Immediately a dozen langur elites scurried across the lawns, hugging the damp shadows. When they got near the summer house they split into three groups, each taking a beehive. They scurried to the windows and, in a carefully synchronized move, jammed their sticks into the shutters and heaved.

  The shutters split open and the elites hurled the beehives into the building, ripping away the netting, then raced back across the lawns to the waiting lines of langur troops.

  —

  A drone in the darkness, that was all it was. Not angry; if anything, rather soothing, almost hypnotic. But different enough to wake Soames, who sat up, peering into the gloom.

  It was beginning to get light but there was a shadow swirling like a fast-moving black mist. It didn’t make sense to him.

  Soames shook his head, trying to cast off fatigue, trying to understand….

  And with a shock he realized. The drone. The cloud. Bees!

  Soames leaped up, senses jangling, when the first one hit him, like a hard berry, bouncing off his face. He lashed out with his arms, turned away…and saw the cloud swarming toward him.

  “BEEES!!!”

  It was the only warning he had time to scream before the insects engulfed him, followed by a storm of searing stings.

  Desperately Soames clawed at his eyes, trying to protect them, but it was no use—the bees crawled over his hands, between his fingers. No matter how furiously he shook, still they overwhelmed him.

  Suddenly a new sound of terror echoed through the summer house as the bees found other sleeping monkeys. Screams of agony and confusion as the bonnets cannoned into one another, trying to escape the swirling cloud of death.

  Even as he stumbled to the door, Soames knew the massed ranks of langurs were waiting to pounce, but in here death was inevitable. Maybe out there he could still fight.

  With a desperate lunge, Soames hurled himself at the door, bursting it open, and started dragging his comrades out into the open.

  “Weapons ready!”

  He heard the cry echo up and down the langur ranks, but it was too late to turn back now. Following his lead, other bonnets were tumbling out of the shutters, desperate to escape the bees.

  A bloodthirsty war cry erupted in the morning gloom as the langurs charged, falling on their victims in a frenzy. They attacked with primal savagery, biting off fingers and ears as if trying to devour the bonnets.

  Soames had gone beyond agony. As he hauled himself to his knees, numb to the stings that still lashed his body, he could only look on, helpless, as the langurs carved a bloody swathe across the lawns. It was like watching a ruthless killing machine, pitilessly cutting down everything in its path, sparing no one.

  Round and round the langurs swirled, destroying everything Soames had ever known or cared about. He had fought with every last drop of courage, but still it was not enough. He had failed his troop. On his watch, the proud and ancient bonnet macaques had fallen.

  There was a sharp jolt in his back—Soames looked down and saw his stomach distend as a fighting stick punctured his fur and burst out through his gut. He stood there, swaying gently, looking down at the spear that impaled him.

  Finally, death was coming, relief from the torment of his catastrophic failure.

  A force welled up inside Soames like a huge bubble trying to escape as the old leader opened his mouth and let out one last primal scream.

  It wasn’t a scream of pain or fear or even sorrow; it was a scream of shame.

  Then silence.

  As the strength ebbed from his body Soames felt dizzy. Gently he toppled forward, and the Great Lawn caught his fall.

  The grass felt soft on his cheek, which he found strangely comforting. The magnificent expanse of the lawns had so long been a symbol of the bonnets’ status that, even now, the fact that it was lush and green gave Soames a melancholy twinge of pride.

  He watched as green turned dark red with his own blood until, with relief, Soames closed his eyes and died.

  —

  The clean-up squads had their work cut out for them. Their orders were to remove the dead bodies, bonnet and langur alike, drag them out of the walled gardens and dump them in storm gullies, where wild dogs and other scavengers would finish the unpleasant task of disposal. Because of the scale of the task, all the cadets had been seconded to help.

  As he stared at the brutal aftermath of the battle, Mico discovered with dread that it was one thing to talk about victory, quite another to see the reality of torn flesh and spilled entrails. There was no heroism here, no glory.

  He felt numb with guilt as he wandered across the body-strewn
lawns. His handprints were all over this horror. But what else could he have done?

  Faced with a stark choice—help the langur or watch them die in battle—Mico had tried to do the right thing. But there was nothing right about this gruesome vista.

  He closed his eyes, but the darkness only intensified the smell of blood.

  “Cadet Mico, what’s come over you?”

  Mico opened his eyes to find Deputy Tyrell standing in front of him.

  “I–I…my squad has been ordered…,” Mico stuttered, but Tyrell just reached out and started to lead him away from the carnage.

  “These degrading duties are not for monkeys of your caliber. You should be proud; this is a great day, and I appreciate your contribution to its success.” Tyrell turned and looked at Mico; strangely, one eye seemed to be smiling, the other warning. “Although it was my idea that won the day, your role as an advisor was most appreciated. You’ll be handsomely rewarded.”

  Despite himself, Mico felt a swell of gratitude—it was as if Tyrell was taking the whole burden onto his own shoulders. All the guilt in Mico’s heart could vanish under Tyrell’s guiding hand; it could all be so easy.

  Too easy.

  There was a part of Mico that refused to walk away, because there was one question that needed to be answered. A question that had been forgotten in the heat of battle and the rush to avoid defeat, but which refused to go away.

  “Where’s the human baby?” Mico asked with disarming frankness.

  Tyrell looked at him and blinked, momentarily lost for words.

  “Where is the baby the bonnet macaques kidnapped?” Mico repeated. “The baby we went to war for?”

  Tyrell nodded silently as his slippery mind wound its way around an answer. “Whatever the bonnets did with it, they won’t get a chance to repeat their crimes,” he said gravely.

  Not good enough.

  “I’ve asked some of the troops who were on the front line—”

  “It really doesn’t matter now,” scoffed Tyrell.

  “And none of them have seen anything—”

  “Mico, enough!” The sharp tone silenced him. “War is an ugly thing, a shocking thing. The reasons for it are complex, the truth too difficult for ordinary monkeys to understand. They need the comfort of simple solutions.”