The Hundred Names of Darkness

by Nilanjana Roy

  The low roofs and the lack of sky oppressed him; the house stank of the Bigfeet’s trails. But as his eyes grew gradually accustomed to the gloom, the tom found his fear of the Bigfeet subsiding, replaced with a creeping sense of urgency. He lifted his whiskers and sniffed at the air. If it had been Hulo on the other side of the wire mesh, they might have been able to link through their whiskers, but Southpaw was drowsing, caught in the fever haze. Cautiously, listening for the Bigfeet, Katar crawled out from under the kitchen island and padded over to the door, which had swung shut behind him.

  Katar raised a paw and batted at the wire mesh experimentally, but it was firm wire, the kind that would cut through his paw pads if he tried too hard. He nosed at the edge of the door, willing it to swing open; but it stayed firmly shut.

  He smelled fresh air, coming in from another part of the kitchen, and turned to see where the window was. He located it—right above the sink, an easy jump away. It was covered with wire mesh, too, but perhaps he could nose it open, Katar thought.

  He had leapt up onto the drying board, and balanced awkwardly, his paws splayed between a pretty china bowl and a set of plastic plates. Then the tom felt the fur on the back of his paws start to erect. His tail went up, switching back and forth in unease. Before he caught its scent, he knew.

  The Bigfoot stood just inside the kitchen doorway, watching him with interest. Katar scrabbled frantically, trying to get down, but his paws slipped on the stainless steel of the sink. The tomcat yowled, partly out of fright, partly as a warning to the Bigfoot.

  The Bigfoot walked towards the grey tom, slowly, with his hands spread out. He was saying something, but then Katar’s paws slipped, and he found himself scrabbling to get out of the sink. His claws scraped helplessly, sliding against the shiny, smooth sides, and as the Bigfoot reached a hand out in his direction, Katar growled, ready to defend himself if necessary.

  The Bigfoot’s hand hovered above his head, though, not descending beyond a certain point. The grey tom shivered. Then the hand came down, avoiding Katar’s snarling teeth. The Bigfoot was making soothing noises, and dimly, the tomcat sensed that its smell was not unfriendly.

  He had intended to attack, to defend himself as fiercely as possible, but he had never been this close to a Bigfoot. Two instincts warred in the tomcat’s head. All his experience with Bigfeet told him to get away, to use his teeth and claws as weapons. Bigfeet had thrown stones at him and Hulo; Bigfeet had tormented some of his litter mates; Bigfeet set the stray dogs to yelping; Bigfeet had built their homes across their old hunting grounds, and chased his clan out of the backyards and garbage heaps where they had once reigned supreme.

  But Katar had a keen nose, perhaps the keenest of all the clan’s hunters. And as the Bigfoot came closer and closer, the scent told the tomcat that he would come to no harm at the hands of this one. The hands broadcast kindness, and gentle inquiry; all those smells swirled around with two other scents, the scent of another cat, probably the Sender, and the scent of sadness.

  The Bigfoot was trying to talk to him, Katar realized, and instinctively, the cat raised his whiskers, forgetting that the Bigfeet had their limitations. Their eyes met, and the tomcat read nothing but concern in the Bigfoot’s gaze.

  When the Bigfoot touched the cat, Katar shivered and backed against the sink, but he did not scratch. The tom cowered as the Bigfoot gently scratched his ears and then his forehead, too scared to enjoy the touch, but aware that it didn’t hurt.

  When the Bigfoot picked him up, Katar froze into a rigid circle, his paws and whiskers stiff with his fear, but though he made a few warning calls, he kept his claws retracted. He felt the Bigfoot’s arms around him, and he closed his eyes. He felt himself being carried out of the kitchen. The smells changed. They were moving through the house, down the corridor, past the bedroom. He kept himself curled into a small ball, and he kept his ears flat, his paws ready to ward off a blow should the Bigfoot decide to hit him after all.

  The Sender’s scent was growing stronger and stronger, though the tomcat’s experienced nose reckoned it was not fresh—at least a few hours old, possibly even half a day old. He felt the hand come down again on his fur, petting him, and though he shivered again, he registered that the touch was meant to be reassuring.

  He opened his eyes as he was carried into the Sender’s room, and the tomcat’s heart gave a great lurch. There was another Bigfoot sitting on the bed.

  He yowled, and twisted until he had worked himself free. Two Bigfeet were too much for Katar to handle; he fled under the bed, and crouched there, growling. The sides of his jaws were dabbled with froth—he had bared his teeth at the second Bigfoot, and the terror had made him slaver.

  He saw a pair of legs settle firmly at the edge of the bed, joining the other Bigfoot. They were sitting side by side, talking, their voices low and incomprehensible to him. For a while, Katar could do no more than crouch, grimacing, his lips curling in flehmen. From time to time, he issued growls, to warn the Bigfeet off.

  The Bigfeet made no move to come towards him, and gradually, the tomcat stopped fluffing his fur, letting it come back to normal. The sounds above his head faded into a murmur that was almost comforting. Katar let his ears flick forwards as he listened, and let his whiskers roam the room. This was where the Sender lived, he thought. He could smell her basket, and the toys scattered around the room—assorted feathers, balls, what looked like a battered stuffed monkey—carried both her scent and a trace of Southpaw’s scent, too. The meaty smell of food from her food bowl made his nose twitch, his belly rumble.

  As his fear ebbed and he grew calmer, Katar’s sharpness returned. There were soft cushions, blankets, even a scratching post etched with the Sender’s claw marks. The room smelled of contentment, and it came to the tomcat that the Bigfeet had taken as much care over the Sender’s surroundings as a mother cat would for her litters. He began to wash himself, slowly, as best as he could crouched under the bed, letting his tongue rove over his fur as he considered the Sender’s life. His days as an outside cat were full, and after Miao’s death in the battle of the ferals, survival and the needs of the clan had occupied his thoughts. He had not raised his whiskers much in Mara’s direction, disliking the way she had held herself apart from the clan. He had thought often of the Sender’s skills; but he had never wondered about her life with her Bigfeet. When Beraal or Southpaw had spoken of the Bigfeet and their love for the Sender, those mews had gone in through one whisker and out the other. Beyond learning how to avoid Bigfeet he had no interest in their habits.

  But the Bigfeet left complex scent trails, and as he washed his tail, holding it with both of his paws to groom it more thoroughly, Katar’s nose prickled into life. He smelled their sadness in the air, as strongly etched as though he was receiving it on his whiskers. He smelled their criss-crossing paths, the way they had walked up and down through the house—and gone outside, if he was any judge—radiating thick waves of concern that still lingered in the air.

  Cautiously, he put his nose out from under the bed, staying well away from the Bigfeet’s legs.

  He smelled the sorrow of the Bigfeet, their fears for Mara, their grief and concern. He smelled the emptiness that she had left behind, just the way the death of a kitten who had survived its first nine moons diminished the clan. He smelled their Bigfeet tears, which had as strong a scent as sadness on a cat’s fur.

  Katar came out from under the bed, warily, prepared to go back to his shelter if the Bigfeet attempted to harm him. They stopped talking, and he could tell that they were watching, so he stood stiff-legged for a while, his tail flicking in warning. The Bigfeet stayed where they were, though, and tentatively, he began exploring the room, keeping his whiskers up so that he could bolt back if required. He sniffed at the cushions, and they spoke of Mara and Southpaw, sleeping with their paws and whiskers entwined. He sniffed at the toys, and they spoke to the tomcat of hunting and chasing games; he could not smell mice or rats, so he assumed that the Sender h
ad to make do with these feathers and bits of string. Then he approached the food bowl, turning once to see if the Bigfeet would smack him. But they sat on the bed, talking to one another in their incomprehensible tongue.

  Cautiously, Katar sniffed at the rim of the bowl, and then he tried to shove his head into it, because the aroma was too tantalizing to bear. It smelled of the choicest of meat, like fresh mouse haunches on a rainy day and the fattest part of fish-belly combined, like ripe bulbul eggs just-cracked from the nest, like the crunchiest and plumpest of pigeons. The hunger that had gnawed at his stomach for so long took over. Katar forgot the watching Bigfeet, forgot Southpaw, forgot his mission: his flanks shook as he gobbled the few pellets left in the bowl. They were stale and old, but after a diet scavenged from trash heaps, they tasted like the finest of viands to him. He was shaking like a kitten at its first solid meal, making guttural noises at the back of his throat, scrabbling at the empty bowl with his paws, his tongue pistoning in and out as he tried to get to every last scrap of goodness.

  He felt their shadows before he saw them. The hands came down lightly on his flanks, holding him gently but firmly in place. For the second time that day, the Bigfeet had him.

  Katar flattened his ears and yowled, trying to break free. The grip tightened; he struggled, trying to get away. “Let me go, I’ll bite if I have to,” he warned the Bigfoot, but she continued crooning to him, and he realized she didn’t understand his mews. The other Bigfoot was crouched next to him, too. Katar flinched as he felt the gentle pats and strokes, pressing his ears down in an attempt to protect his head against the blows he was sure would follow.

  But the two Bigfeet made no other attempts to hurt him. They sat next to him, one on either side, chattering away in the language that sounded to him like chirrups, and their hands steadily groomed him. Katar’s flanks began to relax. Their touch felt reassuring, even pleasant. Warily, battling his apprehension, he sniffed at the Bigfoot’s hand. The fingers combed through his fur, and stretched out to scratch his neck and chin. He felt waves of pleasure ripple through his body, and heard a familiar sound. It took him a few moments to recognize that the low rumble he could hear was his own purring.

  The Bigfoot rose and left the room. Katar watched him go, his whiskers uncertain, but when the man came back to pour more food into his bowl, the tomcat needed no invitation. He ate his fill, his whiskers spread out to scent trouble, and he did not stop the other Bigfoot when she scratched behind his ears.

  They sat next to him as he washed, and he watched them as he stretched out his hind paws to perform his ablutions. The two looked steadily back, meeting his gaze with wide, interested eyes. Katar finished washing and then he sniffed at the Bigfoot. He smelled of exhaustion, as though he had been up all night. Both the Bigfeet smelled the way the toms sometimes did when they had kept vigil over a lost kitten: anxious, forlorn, grieving. Katar thought of the many years when he had received nothing but harshness from Bigfeet. And Southpaw’s words came back to him: “Not all Bigfeet are bad, Katar, or why would there be inside cats at all?”

  Tentatively, the tomcat reached out and butted the Bigfoot’s hand gently, nerving himself up to run if she screamed or tried to harm him. But he heard a laugh instead, and then he felt their hands reach out towards him. He sniffed both hands, registering the friendliness. Awkwardly, his whiskers shaking out of his nervousness, he put his rough tongue out and licked the Bigfeet. He heard them exclaim, and then he was being lovingly cuddled and stroked, the Bigfeet taking care not to alarm him.

  Katar felt warmth and wellbeing spread through his fur. His purrs became louder until they filled the room, and he smelled the sadness of the Bigfeet ebb just a little. The tomcat’s tail swished slowly back and forth as he came to a decision. He nudged their hands, and mewed till he was sure he had their attention.

  Then he padded towards the door of the room. He sat down in front of it, turning once to look at them questioningly. The Bigfeet murmured at each other again; then the door swung open.

  They followed him to the kitchen, and when he sat down next to the wire mesh door, he sensed their sadness. The Bigfeet crouched down beside him. He listened to what they were saying, his ears straining to catch anything that made sense. But then he gave up, and let his sense of smell and his whiskers take over.

  When the Bigfoot gently stroked his head, scratching the line of fur all the way from his whiskers down to his forelimbs, he understood. They thought he wanted to leave because he’d eaten enough. And they would let him, he realized, watching the Bigfoot rise to open the door.

  Katar brushed his head against their legs, winding back and forth, hoping they would understand how grateful he was. He had never expected kindness from Bigfeet. The most he had hoped for was that the Sender’s Bigfeet would not kick him or throw things at him, the way normal Bigfeet did.

  Then he stepped carefully into the gap between the door and the staircase. But instead of leaving, he stood there, mewing, pointing his nose and whiskers towards the line of pots where Southpaw lay concealed.

  The Bigfeet seemed puzzled. One of them poured more food into a bowl and held it out towards Katar. The tomcat gave him a quick head bump as a thank you, but padded out a little further and mewed harder, turning and fluttering his whiskers out in appeal.

  The Bigfeet stared at him. Katar raised the filaments on his forehead to explain, forgetting the Bigfeet’s limitations for a moment. The tomcat wondered how Bigfeet managed, without Junglee, without whiskers, with only as much sense of scent as a three-week kitten with a cold. They were a strange species.

  He caught Southpaw’s scent, and mewed in real distress this time. The scent of sickness and fever filled the cold air, sending an ominous warning through Katar’s mind. Forgetting about the door, the tomcat went over to the line of flower pots.

  Southpaw lay there, silent, his eyes closed, his teeth bared in a grimace of pain. But the thin flanks rose and fell with his breathing. Katar stood over him, licking the orphan’s fur where it had been ruffled by his journey. He washed the brown tom, and then he turned and mewed again. If the Bigfeet did nothing, he would wait by Southpaw’s side, until the tom’s scents changed enough to tell him that his watch was over.

  But the Bigfeet were coming out. They exclaimed, and Katar, his ears keen, alert, picked up on their concern. They pushed the flower pots back, to see Southpaw better. Katar backed when one of them came closer, but he bared his teeth in warning when she dropped to her knees, reaching out to touch the young tom. Then he relaxed his vigil, marking the gentleness with which both the Bigfeet handled his friend.

  There was a difference in their touch with Southpaw and with him, thought Katar. They were more sure with Southpaw, handling him just as gently, but with greater familiarity. It came to the tomcat, slowly, that the Bigfeet were fond of the Sender’s friend. He wondered if perhaps they had petted or fed him, given Southpaw some of the love they had given Mara.

  He watched the care with which they treated Southpaw, but couldn’t help shivering a little when they brought out the cage, not wanting to imagine what it would feel like to be shut up in such a small box, to have the roof to your world close in so tightly around you. When they lined it with newspaper and sheets, he understood that they were making a nest for Southpaw. They picked up the sleeping tom, and placed him in the cage.

  Before they shut the wire door and took his friend away, the Bigfeet squatted down and talked to Katar. The tomcat stretched out his whiskers, wanting to understand, unable to make head or tail of what they were saying; their talk was as meaningless as the sound of water rushing from an open tap over the cobbled stones of the alleys inside Nizamuddin.

  But as they bore Southpaw off, taking charge of the cat who had tumbled in and out of trouble ever since Hulo had found the tiny orphan blundering around on his own, the tomcat felt relief steal over his fur. These Bigfeet had smelled of caring and concern, and he understood, without understanding their language, what they had tried so h
ard to tell him. They would take care of his friend; he was not to worry.

  As he padded down the stairs, his belly full, his tail up again at a happier angle than it had been for days, Katar thought that despite their lack of whiskers and their other obvious limitations, the Bigfeet were not so bad.

  Awhile later, curled up in between Beraal and the older kitten, Ruff, Mara raised her sleepy head. The kitten made a tiny glowing dot of warmth on her belly; Beraal’s comforting length warmed her back. To their right, Hulo dozed, while the second kitten, Tumble, slept on his shoulder, her tiny paws hooked possessively into his fur.

  The ground was cold and harder than anything Mara was accustomed to, but that wasn’t what woke her. She had stirred in her sleep, still purring with happiness at being with Beraal, and at having Ruff and Tumble fall all over her in vocal welcome; and then she had thought of the Bigfeet at home. It felt wrong not to be able to pad over to their beds, to greet them with the gift of one of her most precious toys. She would wait patiently until one or the other of her Bigfeet turned over in their sleep, and then push the toy gently into either their ears or their mouth, whichever was more convenient. This gift, offered with such love, always woke up the Bigfeet, who conveyed their delight with loud cries of what Mara chose to interpret as joyous acceptance.

  She wondered when she would see them again, but this was dangerous territory; if she closed her eyes, she could imagine them beside her, imagine the softness of the sheets, the pleasure of being stroked by their gentle hands, the murmur of their voices over her furry ears. She thought of Southpaw, ill, in need of help, and hoped that she was right about her Bigfeet, that they would look after him. She wished she could be there to purr him back to health herself.