The Hundred Names of Darkness

by Nilanjana Roy

  Katar raised his tail in greeting as Tooth flew up to the branch above his head.

  “Cold night,” he said cheerfully. “That flight must have warmed you up nicely.”

  “It did,” said Tooth, realizing that his feathers had lost the damp that clung to them from the winter fog. No matter how hard the winter bit, the thermals always dried his wings out—except in the monsoons.

  “I see your daughter up there often,” said Katar. “She is a born rider of the winds, that one.”

  “Thank you,” said the cheel, grateful that the tomcat hadn’t mentioned his hopping, earthbound son. His keen eyes took in the tomcat’s thin flanks, the way in which the grey cat’s ribs were showing. “It has been some time since we’ve met, Katar. The winter has been hard for your kind?”

  “The Bigfeet,” Katar said briefly. “We’ve lost many of our old feeding grounds. In fact, that’s what got young Southpaw into trouble. You know him, I think?”

  Tooth raised his beak, his wings fluffing out in remembrance. “Everyone in Nizamuddin knows him!” he said with affection. “He tumbled in and out of trouble as a kitten—wasn’t he the one who fell into the Shuttered House? And then he climbed the Cobra’s Tree; I remember how Hulo and you dusted his backside for him! But if I am not mistaken, he has grown into a fine cat, has he not? One of your best hunters—yes, I saw him sneak a few rats right before the slavering jaws of the stray dogs, they hadn’t expected a cat to be that fast, that daring. And he is the Sender’s friend, too?”

  “It’s the hunting that’s got him into trouble,” said Katar. He told Tooth the story of Southpaw, the fish, and the young tom’s injuries.

  “Hulo feels in his whiskers that Southpaw might have broken his paw,” he said in conclusion. “It didn’t look so bad last night, but it has swollen up this morning, and we fear the Sweet Sickness.”

  Tooth shivered, his wings closing around him involuntarily. There was nothing more pathetic than a cheel with a broken wing—or a cat with a broken paw. They would be at the mercy of predators, unable to defend themselves, out of their chosen element; he had seen many animals die of the Sweet Sickness, and it was a miserable path to the lair of the greatest hunter of them all.

  “My beak is sharp,” he said, “but if you wish me to administer a killing bite, I will have to ask another cheel to do it. It is hard to stab at a cat I’ve watched growing up, and it would not be good if my aim is untrue. But if it must be done, I will see if Slash will do it.”

  Katar licked his whiskers, trying to conceal how deeply moved he was. It was an honour for a cheel—or any raptor—to offer to put one of another species out of his misery, and Tooth could not have found another way to express how close he felt to the cats. His liking for them had been cautious, starting with a wary truce between him and Miao; but the battle with the ferals had brought them all closer.

  “Truly, Tooth,” he said, “Miao said you cared about our clan, but I had not expected such kindness from you. We are honoured, though if we can get Southpaw help, his paw may heal well. The injury is bad, and festers. But he is young, and as Hulo says, that cat could fall from the roof of a six-storeyed building, and all he would do is bounce off into the bushes.”

  “What kind of help?” said Tooth, puzzled. Gashes could be treated, sometimes with spittle, sometimes with good clean mud, if it was available. But a broken wing or paw, especially one that had swelled, was beyond his ken.

  “Beraal and I feel he should go to the Bigfeet,” said Katar.

  “The Bigfeet!” Tooth let out a sharp keek. Except for a few of the butchers in the old lanes of the dargah, who sometimes left pieces of gristle and leftover scraps out for the cheels, he had no love for the Bigfeet. The paper kites they sent up every so often, like poisonous letters sailing into the sky, had deadly tails made of string and glass that could slice a cheel’s wing into tiny pieces; the young Bigfeet threw stones at the cheels if they swooped too close. Tooth would no more go near a Bigfoot, under normal circumstances when his mind wasn’t so unsettled, than he would place his head between the jaws of a dog.

  The wind changed direction and the fog rolled in across the river, making both of them shiver.

  “The Sender’s Bigfeet,” said Katar, settling himself more comfortably on the rim of the concrete pipe. “They know Southpaw and sometimes put extra food out for him. He says they’re kind to the Sender, and they have never harmed him or Beraal. Besides, you remember the times they’ve taken the Sender out in a cage?”

  Tooth shuddered, fluffing up his feathers. He remembered very well. No creature in Nizamuddin was likely to forget the first time the Sender had been carried out of her house, yelling her head off all the way down the stairs and all the way out of the colony in her car. She had reverted, on each of these visits, to her old habits, broadcasting her distress at unbelievable volume.

  “I remember,” he said. “So does every creature between here and the Yamuna river, Katar, she was that loud!”

  “Well,” said Katar, “Mara’s impressive at high volume. But never mind that. Southpaw says as far as he can make out, the Bigfeet took her to a healer each time. And we thought we might get the Sender to explain to her Bigfeet that Southpaw needs the healer.”

  Tooth thought about it. The idea of any of them having anything to do with the Bigfeet made the tiny feathers on his neck stand up, but then again, the Sender and her Bigfeet were different.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Though tell him not to yell the neighbourhood down when they put him into that cage thing.”

  Katar washed his paws, glad that the cheel hadn’t flown off at the mere mention of the Bigfeet. It made his whiskers twitch to think of going so close to the Bigfeet’s house, but once they had the Sender’s attention, she could take over and do the explaining.

  “The thing is,” he said, “we’ve brought young Southpaw this far, but he’s in terrible pain, and he can’t limp along any more. He’s back there, resting in the shadows, and Hulo’s standing guard over him. The Bigfeet house is in the next park.”

  He waited, the whiskers over his eyes beseeching. He didn’t want to have to ask the cheel for something Tooth might not want to do, or might not be able to do. But it had been heartbreaking, watching the brown tom crawl these last few yards, and Southpaw was pretty much done for. He wouldn’t be able to fight off a limp sock from a Bigfoot washing line, forget about a pack of dogs. Nor could he and Hulo do much more for the younger tom, beyond making sure that Southpaw wasn’t attacked. By now the swelling had begun to smell. Predators in the area would pick up the scent of the sick tom very soon, and Katar feared that as the night deepened, Southpaw would be marked down as prey.

  “That was what I smelled,” said Tooth. “Not the Sweet Sickness, but sickness, yes, and pain. I thought it must have been a dying bandicoot. He does not yet smell of great weakness, but he will soon. Over there, you said?”

  The cheel took off from his perch so smoothly that Katar found himself admiring the bird’s flight, despite his fears for Southpaw. Tooth was a beautiful short-distance aviator. He threaded through the bushes and the trees deftly, his wings now unfurled, now held close to his body so that he wouldn’t tangle with the leaves.

  Hulo’s matted head shot out of the oleander bushes in a snarl, but he retracted his claws the moment he realized it was Tooth.

  “Ha! It’s you, Tooth—the young one’s sleeping,” he said to Katar, not bothering with the formalities of greeting. “He won’t be going anywhere tonight.”

  Hulo padded out of the bushes, using his bulk to hold the branches back so that Katar and Tooth could see.

  Southpaw was curled into a listless heap, his coat grubby with mud and tree bark, his whiskers drooping. The paw was badly swollen, and Hulo growled at a line of ants who had marched up to it to investigate. The ants swerved off, waving their mandibles at him.

  “Not.for.long,” they said. “We.will.be.back.soon.His.fur.is.warm. When. it.​turns.​cold.​we.​will.​be.​bac
k.”

  Hulo sat down, holding the bushes away from Southpaw’s sleeping face by the simple expedient of placing his rump on them.

  “I ate an ant’s nest once,” he called out to the retreating column. “Delicious! Peppery but crunchy.”

  The ants maintained a dignified silence.

  Tooth drew closer to the tomcat, his beak hovering close to Southpaw’s whiskers.

  “The ants are right,” he said to Hulo. “The fever has him in her claws, he has gone far beyond the healing you could provide with grooming or licking his paw. You say the Bigfeet can help him?”

  Katar raised his whiskers in appeal. “If we could get him to the Sender’s house,” he said. “But the fever lets him move only in fits and starts.”

  The cheel said, “The Bigfeet…faugh! They make such a racket, and they build their houses into our sky, and send up their planes like lumbering fat birds, so that even there we are not undisturbed. But once, some years ago, Claw tangled with a kite in the sky, cutting her talons badly on the glass and the string. I did not see it myself, the squadron and I were elsewhere, but she told me that she fell to the rooftops and lay there, dazed, in pain, until some Bigfeet found her. She thought it was the end of her—Bigfeet kill as easily as they breathe, you know. Instead, they raised her up and took her to a place far away, where many birds fluttered around her, telling her she was safe, she would be well. When she vanished, we thought we would never see her again; but two moons later, she had flown back to us. Her wounds were healed, and she said it was the Bigfeet’s magic. Perhaps they can heal the kitten, perhaps not. But I’ll get him there for you.”

  The cheel said to Hulo, “You go ahead to the Bigfeet’s house and wait for us on the stairs. Katar, wake him up, there’s a good fellow. Wait—let me test the grip.”

  Tooth sunk his talons, with delicate care, into the ruff of fur on the back of Southpaw’s neck.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Wiry and rough, enough pile to sink my claws into, and, yes, as I had guessed, the weight’s fine.”

  Hulo didn’t know whether to bare his teeth in warning at the cheel or not.

  “It’s absolutely fine, Hulo, don’t worry,” said Katar, and Hulo smelled the sudden relief on the grey tom’s fur and whiskers. “You go ahead and take the route across the park. We’ll give you a bit of a start. It might take a while to wake Southpaw up, anyway, but we’ll join you once he’s come around. Wait for me, because I won’t start until they do. Meet you at the Sender’s house, then?”

  “The Sender’s house?” said Hulo, his tail swishing uncertainly.

  “Yes,” said Katar, stretching his paws and padding over to Southpaw. “You take the highway; I’ll follow soon enough. They’re going by air.”

  Once again, Tooth sank his talons into Southpaw’s fur.

  “See you there, Hulo,” he said. “Short haul flight, with hand luggage. It’s a breeze.”

  Doginder leapt the railings, his tail waving in the air like a brown, furry banner. A pink bougainvillea flower waved along, stuck to his tail’s feathery plumes, but he didn’t notice; he had his paws full trying to avoid landing on assorted members of the Nizamuddin laughing yoga society.

  “Haha​hahahaha​hahahah​ahahah​aHAHAHA​HAHA!” they said to him in accusation.

  “Haha! Haha! Haha! Haha!” said their leader, a man whose wizened face radiated gloom, pessimism and unrelieved despair when he wasn’t leading the laughing yoga club in their rounds. He eyed the dog, who had disentangled his paws from one hapless member’s cotton checked lungi and was trying to back out of their gathering. “Ha? Ha?” he said to Doginder.

  “I do apologize,” said Doginder in a meek bark, backing into the lap of another seated laughing yoga enthusiast.

  “Hahaohohohohohoho!” the seated man said.

  The leader stopped his hahas. “Excuse me,” he said stiffly. “Ohohoh or hohoho are not being part of the laughing yoga technique. It is only hahahahahahaha. Or Haha! Haha! Haha! as you please, but please understand, no ohohohohohoho.”

  The seated man felt he had to explain. “The ohohohoho was because of the dog, sir,” he said, equally stiffly.

  “The dog,” said the leader with immense dignity, “is not a member of the laughing yoga group. Therefore, you will please not address any ohohohos to dogs, especially if they are non-member dogs. Kindly oblige. Only hahahahahahaha! No ohohohohoho!”

  “Haha!” said the seated man, glaring at the leader.

  “Hahahahahahahahaha!” said the leader, restoring the group to its normal levels of activity.

  “Where’s that cat gone?” said Doginder. “Oh no. Please tell me she isn’t…but of course she is.”

  Mara had skittered away from the laughing yoga group, frightened by the seriousness with which they emitted their explosive hahas! But her eyes brightened when she saw a Bigfoot family playing badminton on the other side of the park.

  “Hello!” she mewed, and before Doginder could stop her, she had sprinted across the park, forgetting her scare on the road.

  “Uh-oh,” said Doginder sadly. “This isn’t going to end well.”

  He trotted after her, feeling that a Rescue Dog’s job was inordinately demanding on some days.

  Mara ran towards the family, mewing for all she was worth. “Greetings, Bigfeet!” she said. “I’m so glad to see you! Do you know my Bigfeet? Can you take me back to them?”

  “Come back, cat,” said Doginder, his tail drooping. But Mara, who had almost reached the badminton courts, wasn’t listening. Her green eyes were bright with hope, her tail was up, and as she went up to the Bigfeet, she purred.

  “Get that filthy animal off the court!” one of the Bigfeet yelled to his teammate. “She’s ruining my serve!”

  He scowled, waving his racket menacingly at Mara.

  “Hello there!” the cat said, glad that the Bigfoot had stopped running around the court and was looking in her direction. “I suppose I should introduce myself?”

  “Oh no!” said Doginder, from the edge of the court.

  Purring, Mara went up to the Bigfoot.

  “Ugh!” said the Bigfoot in shock. “Get it away from me! Shoo! No! Stop it!”

  Mara wound her way around his legs, rubbing her head against his sneakers in joyous greeting. “All hail, Bigfoot!” she said. “Could you take me home, please?”

  The Bigfoot stamped his foot and glared at her. Puzzled, the little cat looked up at him, her tail curving into a question mark. “You know my Bigfeet, don’t you? They’re really nice to me. I miss my house a lot, it’s somewhere…hey! No! Don’t do that!”

  The Bigfoot swished his racket through the air, but when the cat continued her mewing, he lost his temper. “Animals shouldn’t be allowed in the parks!” he snapped, and viciously, he kicked out.

  He caught her in the ribs, and the pain flared through Mara’s body, taking the cat by surprise. Her big eyes stared at the Bigfoot in disbelief. She had never been hit, beyond a few light finger-taps on her bottom, and more than the pain, the shock of it kept her immobile.

  “Little one,” said Doginder quietly, “get off the court. He’s going to do it again.”

  As if in a dream, Mara watched the man step back and take aim, his foot ready to deliver the second kick. The pain was a burning fire under her ribs, and she could feel it radiating along her spine, all the way down to her back paws. She didn’t wait; she turned and ran, putting her ears back, making for the shelter of the hedges.

  The Bigfoot had kicked her.

  She had done nothing, only tried to talk to him. It didn’t make any sense.

  The Bigfoot had hurt her.

  She hadn’t attacked him or bitten him, and he had hurt her.

  The Bigfoot had been ready to hurt her again.

  Her Bigfeet had never hit her. This Bigfoot had kicked her.

  The thoughts whirling around in Mara’s head were as painful as the injury. The little cat trembled as she squeezed herself as far back as possible, between
the friendly roots of the hedges. In the distance, she heard the blare of trumpets—out of tune—start up as the Tarzan Tribes Band began their practice. A large doggy snout poked its way into the branches of the hedge, and two worried brown eyes surveyed her.

  “Are you all right, cat?” Doginder asked.

  Mara said nothing for a while. She hadn’t really checked to see how bad the injury was, but then she took a few cautious breaths and tested her ribs. They would be all right; nothing had broken. The bruises would probably be as bad as the time she had tumbled off the bookshelf chasing the house lizard—possibly worse—but she would heal in time.

  “Yes,” she said, her mew numb. “The Bigfoot kicked me.”

  “Yes,” he said, “they do that to us strays, you know. You have to be very careful around Bigfeet. You can’t just go rushing up to them, they’re cruel. I’m Doginder Singh, by the way. Now that we’ve gone running together, we might as well introduce ourselves.”

  “But Bigfeet aren’t cruel!” Mara said indignantly. “Mine are lovely! They cuddle me, and they put out extra food for Southpaw, and they wouldn’t harm anyone, ever! I’m Mara, since you asked. Pleased to meet you.”

  Doginder sat down near Mara, backing carefully into the hedge so that he wouldn’t have Bigfeet stumbling over his paws as they did their rounds of the park.

  “I lived with Bigfeet when I was a pup,” he said. His brown Alsatian eyes stared off into the distance, as though the Tarzan Tribes Band and the Bigfeet joggers had melted away.

  “So you understand,” said Mara. “What’s wrong with that Bigfoot? He isn’t at all like the rest of them. None of my Bigfeet would ever hit us.”

  “Mine did,” said Doginder sadly.

  Mara stared at him, her tail twitching under the lantana leaves.