Tooth and Claw

by Stephen Moore

  “What is he blithering on about?” said Dart, her bewilderment boiling over into anger. “Who is this he? What kind of a tom cat can do all that?”

  “Don’t you see at all?” said Treacle, desperate for them to understand. He stared beseechingly at Ki-ya, almost begging him to explain.

  “Not a tom cat, sister,” Ki-ya said slowly. “A man.”

  “A man!” Dart leapt into the air as if a man had suddenly grown up right there in front of her. “Stupid cat. There are no men, not any more. Only the Booga who stands upright on a man’s legs, trying to trick us.”

  “No,” cried Treacle. “No, not a trick. A-a real man.” Didn’t they see yet? For a moment there was complete silence. “They can come back for us . . . they can.” Treacle mouthed to himself.

  “Then where is he – this real man?” said Dart, her eyes still burning. “Did you see him?” she spat at her brother.

  “H-h-he—” Treacle could not find his voice now.

  “He is dead,” said Ki-ya.

  Treacle nodded, sadly.

  At last Bryna began to understand. She could almost see the man at Treacle’s side, could see him diving into the flood waters to pull Treacle out. Saw him huddled against the gravestones, wet and scared, his clothes sodden to the skin as he tried to keep Treacle warm through the night. She saw his body cold and stiff in the morning. And she saw his scattered remains left to rot among the grass where Ki-ya had surely come across them. There were other men dead in that place of stones, she understood that too. But, somehow, she was sure they were meant to be there. He – this other man – he had not meant to die. Not there. Not yet.

  The four cats stayed close together that night, did not venture out even to find food.

  As Dart fell asleep, safe and warm against her brother’s flank, she thought again about the body of Treacle’s strange man.

  He was dead. But he was something more than dead . . . he was safe too. He was very safe. And then, in his place she saw the Booga, and slowly an idea began to form in her mind . . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Dart’s Idea

  The following morning started with sunshine, dazzling bright in a clear blue sky. The cats found themselves coaxed to the edges of the wood by the lure of its warmth. One after another they carelessly stretched out, bathing themselves in the luxury of its heat. There wouldn’t be a better time for Dart to explain her idea.

  “I think . . . I think it’s up to us to kill the Booga,” she said quietly.

  “What?”

  “We must kill Dread Booga. It’s the only way.”

  Cats’ tails began to flick uneasily.

  “But that’s madness!” said Bryna, sitting up, pulling Treacle up with her. “With a twist of its fingers it pulls fire from the sky and hurls death at us, and, and . . .”

  “And?” said Dart.

  “And we are only cats,” said Treacle. “Surely it’s an enemy too large and powerful to fight? Best left to itself, best avoided?”

  “Avoided! Avoided!” stormed Dart. “There’ll be plenty of time to avoid it when we’re all dead. Who’s been killing who?” She turned to her brother. “Eh, Ki-ya? Whose bodies are lying rotting on the streets?”

  Ki-ya lay still and stayed silent, unwilling to be drawn into their argument.

  “Does it hunger like us? No. Is it starving? No. Oh yes, it kills to sate its appetite, but then it kills some more. It brings us death simply because it can bring us death.

  “Well, Dread Booga is not my master. I will not lie down and die just because it tells me to.” Dart paced moodily to and fro searching for a bigger insult to throw at the house-cats. “I am not its pet. I am not its plaything. And if you only knew it – neither are you. Neither are you.”

  The cats turned their backs on each other and sulked. Bryna’s tail flicked with confusion. Treacle washed his fur frantically, as if he could clean away the whole rotten business. But somehow Dart’s idea would not go away. It felt wrong, it felt bad, and worse, it felt impossible beyond imagining. But the idea wouldn’t go away.

  Kill the Booga.

  Kill Dread Booga and survive.

  Survival? . . . Surely survival was theirs by right of nature. But . . . but . . .

  “How could this be done?” said Ki-ya, breaking his silence at last, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. As if the impossible was something he did every day. Bryna stared at him in disbelief. Where had her Ki-ya gone? Had he caught his sister’s madness? But what was worse, she found herself listening eagerly for an answer to his question.

  Dart began to purr triumphantly. What better ally could she have than her own brother? “We can rid ourselves of this evil thing for good, if, if there are enough of us. If we take it by surprise. The streets and fields are full of cats, scared for their lives, hiding out in ones and twos. But bring them all together—”

  “No, Dart.” Ki-ya shook his head. “No, my sister.”

  Dart scowled, and for an instant Bryna brightened. Perhaps he’d come to his senses after all? But there was something strange about that no. It was a no that really meant yes.

  “No. Cats alone cannot do this thing. No matter how great their number.”

  “Then how, brother? How?”

  Ki-ya stood up, and turned his head towards the distant river. Sunlight played upon its surface. Bryna followed his gaze out across the town and before he could say anything more she suddenly understood what was in his mind. “The dogs,” she said. “You mean the dogs, don’t you?”

  Treacle couldn’t hide his agitation and ran and hid in the shadows of the trees. Dart shrieked with anger, and then began to laugh scathingly. “Well, pussy-cat. If my idea was a madness, what is this?”

  Bryna turned to look at Ki-ya. He was still looking out across the river. “I’ve heard it told before now that dogs have attacked men. Killed them even.”

  “Empty-headed dog boasts and stupid legends,” said Dart. “And Dread Booga is no man!”

  “Together,” said Ki-ya. “Together – dogs and cats. One body. One strength. It might just be enough.”

  “Aye, might. Might! But dogs and cats?” Dart spat angrily. “What dog would ever kill for a cat? Or cat for a dog come to that? We’ll be doing the Booga’s work for it if we try that game.”

  “Don’t you see? The Booga kills dogs just as quickly as it kills cats. They wouldn’t be helping us. They’d be helping themselves. The Booga is too powerful an enemy for either cats or dogs on their own. And if we do nothing, then slowly, one by one, we will all surely die. This way—”

  “This way death comes to us for certain,” Dart spat, “but just that little bit quicker.”

  “This way there is at least a chance,” said Ki-ya.

  It was Dart’s turn to lick at old wounds thoughtfully. “All right, supposing it might work . . . who could possibly make an alliance between a dog and a cat in the first place?”

  For a long time they all fell silent, and then Bryna said quietly, “I could try.”

  Surely it had been a joke? Dart’s idea was just a silly piece of summer madness. Well, now it had become very real, and deadly serious, and there they were on the road, on their way to . . . to make an alliance with a pack of dogs. Just thinking about it sent a shiver through Bryna’s body, made her tail twist and turn in the air. And had she really volunteered to do it? Even asked to go alone? One death was better than four – that’s how old Lodger would have put it. Luckily for her, Ki-ya had insisted they all went with her. “At least as far as the river . . . From there Treacle and Dart can begin to round up whatever cats they can find—” There he’d paused, just as surely as if he’d added: whatever cats are crazy enough to join in such a mad scheme. Then he continued, “I’ll go on with Bryna to meet with the dogs.”

  So, there they all were.

  The riverside streets were empty and quiet. The early morning sun had failed to live up to its promise and had got lost behind clouds, leaving an odd steel-greyness about everything, ma
king the cool summer day seem colder still. Ahead of them, lying flat and unhurried, the river cut the greyness in two with a darker, nameless colour all of its own.

  Suddenly a pair of blackbirds squawked in mock fight somewhere high above them. The cats stanced low, and waited. The birds, still squawking noisily at each other, clattered their way along the gutter of a rooftop and launched themselves into the sky.

  “We’ll be jumping at our own shadows next,” spat Dart, with an awkward mixture of anger and embarrassment.

  “Do you really think this is a good idea?” squeaked Treacle.

  “Of course it isn’t a good idea,” said Dart, happy to find a target for her anger. “But what’s that got to do with it?”

  “C’mon,” said Ki-ya, “we have to keep moving. We don’t want to be caught out in the open when the Booga decides to take its next walk.”

  At the river’s edge the cats split up, without even a goodbye.

  The water was low and sluggishly slow-moving. Was this really the same river that had washed away a bridge and swallowed a rubbish tip whole? Bryna stood silently on its banks. The broken image that stared back at her out of the water should have been her own. And yet, for the blink of an eye, it was old Lodger. “It’s safe now,” he seemed to be telling her. “It’s safe now.”

  And so it was. Bryna and Ki-ya made the crossing easily. The broken stones from the storm-damaged bridge sat high above the waterline, and made a perfect causeway. They didn’t even get their paws wet.

  Up until that point Ki-ya had always been out in front urging them on. But now, all of a sudden, it was Bryna who was leading the way and Ki-ya who followed behind, his close presence her only reassurance. He did not question the ways she took, more confident in her ability than she was herself.

  And would any dog even listen to her – let alone accept their crazy idea – rather than kill her on the spot? Kill them both!

  The air, heavy with the scent of cats on the north side of the river began to change. Old dog scent. New dog scent. Fewer and fewer cats. All the time, fewer and fewer cats.

  They stopped once, suddenly agitated, as the reek of the Booga began to hurt their noses. There were carcasses too, left to rot in the middle of the road; three small dogs together, their broken bodies heaped in a pile like bags of rubbish. But this was an old kill. Days old, probably.

  The heavy bank of cloud above them broke open for a moment and the sun’s warmth spilled down upon their backs. Bryna pushed on, striding confidently, up and away from the river. She knew, at last, where she was going and she did not need to think her way. Bryna was on her way home . . . to The Lonnen.

  Soon only the smell of dogs reached their noses.

  “Where are they?” Ki-ya asked. “I can smell them, but I can’t see them.”

  “Here somewhere,” said Bryna. “I’ll bet my claws on it.”

  To Ki-ya the door they stopped in front of looked no different to any other door, in a street that looked no different to any other street. He watched as Bryna became strangely fidgety. She was not scared, this was something quite different. The downstairs window of the house had been broken out at some time. The broken glass was all but gone now, and the empty framework was criss-crossed, rutted and scored, where leaping paws had clawed their marks in passing. Many, many dogs had come and gone that way. Their stench was overpowering.

  Bryna sat down in front of the window as if she was waiting for something. Ki-ya’s fur bristled, his body and tail became puffed and bloated as the mixture of dog scents filled his head, turned his stomach. He sat himself at her side, as best he could.

  The longer they sat there, the more ridiculous the whole adventure seemed to be. And if the cats sensed it, maybe the dogs did too. The streets began to close in around them. Fresh scents began to betray the presence of the dogs. There were eyes and ears too, noses, tongues and teeth, all taking them in, all seeing them in their own way. And there was no way out for a cat. No way back.

  Then came the heavy pad-padding of paws and the scuffing of claws against the pavement. Not a pack though. One dog. Just one dog. Ki-ya began to turn his head.

  “No, be still,” Bryna said under her breath. “Wait a little longer.”

  The scratching of paws stopped close behind them, and a laboured dog’s breath ruffled the fur at the back of their necks. For a very long time the dog stood silently behind them, studying them carefully. Bemused, astounded perhaps, curious most certainly. It was the dog’s curiosity that saved them then.

  “Why, I ask myself?” the dog said, at last breaking his silence. “Why?” The cats decided this was not really a question for them and stayed quiet. They were right. “A three-legged vagabond and his she-cat. Why would they walk calmly into the heart of a dog pack? Tell me, why would they do that?”

  “We must speak with you,” began Bryna. “We must—”

  “Must!” growled the dog. “Must speak with us! My brothers – do you hear this cat?” He was suddenly howling with laughter. At the end of the street, answering yelps and howls parodied his, like a distant echo. “Why?” He asked again, as if this was the best part of the joke. “Why must you speak with us?”

  “Oh bother why!” Ki-ya spat, finally losing his patience. “Why, why, why—” He turned on the dog, his tail lifted, his fur bristling with hate.

  The dog’s laughter became an instant warning growl, and the echoes at the end of the street growled with him.

  As dog and cat stanced, faced each other down, Bryna moved between them, and as she did she saw for the first time who this dog was.

  “Kim? Kim. Don’t you know me? Don’t you know who I am? It’s Bryna – see?” She pushed her face into his, so close she could taste the wash of his sour breath. The old dog strained his eyes to see her more clearly. His nose, dry and white with age, sniffed at her.

  “We must talk to you,” she repeated.

  Kim turned his head away from her. He was laughing again, but quietly now, deep in his throat. “You have some nerve, cat, you and your friend here . . .” He paused. Almost unnoticed, a group of dogs had gathered at Kim’s side. Bryna recognised the terrier, Yip-yap, among them. More dogs were closing in. The smell of excitement was lifting their ears, lifting their tails; it shone coldly in their eyes. Desire was filling them up inside. The desire to hunt. The desire to kill.

  Kim was an old dog, half-blinded, his senses dull. And yet the pack did not attack. They held back behind him, as if waiting for a signal. “This was a foolishness, Bryna,” he said. “There’s a scar on my belly that tells me you saved my life once. But that debt is paid.”

  “Please . . . you must listen to what I have to say.”

  “Why do you waste your breath on them?” cried Yip-yap, snarling at Bryna as he spoke. “I too know these cats. And I’ve got my own belly wound to remind me of their claws!”

  The sound of yowls and growls grew louder. Ki-ya moved closer to Bryna. If they were going to die, they would die together, give as good as they got. Death would not be one-sided. There would be no running away this time, no flight.

  Bryna’s hackles should have lifted then. She should have bared her teeth, opened her claws. Attacked before they were attacked. But she did not. Fighting to the death would simply have given the Booga what it desired most. She had to make the dogs understand. She just had to.

  Without thinking, she lay down, turned deliberately on to her back, belly up, defenceless. Like she was playing a silly game of begging-kitten with Mrs Ida Tupps.

  Ki-ya stared at her in disbelief. And yet, beyond all reason, he found himself copying her. He too lay down, turned belly up, shut his eyes, and waited for his death.

  “Kill us then,” cried Bryna. “We’ll not fight back. We’ll not struggle. Kill us. And let’s see what that achieves!”

  “Two fewer bloody cats for a start,” Yip-yap laughed.

  “And when other cats come after us to avenge our deaths?”

  “Well, we’ll bloody well kill them too!
”

  “Or they you,” said Bryna.

  “Aye well – that won’t be any concern of yours, will it?” said Yip-yap.

  “No, I suppose not . . . but tell me, who will protect your puppies from the Booga then?”

  Yip-yap began to laugh again, but his laugh dissolved in his throat. A strange, puzzled silence had fallen over the dog pack.

  “Go on then – take your vengeance out on us. If that’s all it takes to make you feel better?” Bryna goaded them. “We’re making it easy for you . . . Or . . . or dare you turn your anger against your real enemy?”

  Unsure growls and murmured threats grew up again.

  “What are you saying, cat? Would you set us against Dread Booga, now?” Kim said, his body shaking with rage. But something in Bryna’s words stopped him from attacking her.

  “Do you think we’re that stupid, cat?” snarled Yip-yap. “There isn’t a dog who can run up against its power. Khan’s death taught us that much. Let’s finish this now!”

  “No dog,” Kim growled. “The foolish cat wanted to talk. Let her talk.”

  “There is not one dog,” said Bryna. “Not one, not five together even—”

  “Not twenty-five!” barked Yip-yap. “We’ve all seen this creature’s work.”

  “No, not twenty-five dogs,” Bryna agreed. Not twenty-five dogs, not twenty-five cats, either.” She hesitated a moment. “Alone we are weak and small, but dogs and cats together . . .” There were more murmurs, growls and nervous laughs.

  “But dogs and cats,” repeated Bryna, “fighting together as one . . .”

  “Together, against Dread Booga?” The idea was madness. As loony as the pair of daft cats who had walked into The Lonnen and presented themselves at Kim’s feet for execution.

  “Together,” said Ki-ya.

  “Together . . .” said Kim, thoughtfully. He was getting tired, had had enough excitement for one afternoon, and his insides were grumbling with wind again. “Well, cat . . . Bryna-not-so-foolish, go home. Spread your message, gather together your cats – if you can – and I will gather the dogs. When it’s done we’ll talk again. I will call you to a Council. Now, go home . . .”