by S. F. Said
He followed it into the shadows, further from the lights.
‘Come back here!’ shouted Holly.
His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. Deep down the alleyway he glimpsed a soggy mound of paper and boxes. He could smell food: salty, fishy, oily. But that wasn't what had drawn him. His Awareness started to tingle. There was something else…
It was as if he was being watched – not just by Holly and Tam, but by some part of the darkness, with eyes as black as shadow. He let his Awareness flow out. What he sensed was odd and cold: something not quite alive, but not quite dead either. He frowned. It felt wrong.
‘Varjak Paw! It's dangerous down there! Come back right now!’ It was Holly. He turned, hushed her, and turned back, the tension rising within him. But that strange sensation was gone, leaving no trace. Had he just imagined it? All this talk of Vanishings was getting to him…
Puzzled, he probed the shadows again with his whiskers. Motion. This time he felt motion, out there in the dark. What was it? Hidden behind the rubbish, something small and sleek was moving—
A mouse. It was only a mouse.
He let out the tension, and grinned. That must have been it all along. Nothing more than a real, live, and very breakfast-sized mouse.
So this is it, he told himself. Your big moment. Your first prey. This is not a toy. This is not a dream. It's real, and it's happening now.
Don't move, not till it's in range. Don't even breathe. Here… here it comes. It thinks it's safe.
Hunting, the Third Skill: When you stalk your prey, you become your prey.
Varjak's senses went out to it, tracing its tiniest movements, merging with it in his mind. The mouse came closer… closer…
CRACK! His paws shot out, slapped the mouse's head, hard. Stunned it. Held it down. Jaws closed around its neck. Teeth sank in: the lethal bite.
Varjak gasped. He had killed for real. And it was like killing a part of himself.
I'm sorry, he thought, beginning to shake. I'm sorry. But I have to eat.
Enough and no more. That is the way the world is made.
He stooped and gently picked up the body. His first kill. He gave silent thanks, and crunched into his breakfast.
It was strange. On the outside, it looked and even smelled like that toy mouse back in the Contessa's house. But as soon as he bit into it, he knew this was something new. It tasted so different to anything he'd eaten before. Real food, fresh and warm. It satisfied him completely.
‘Did you see that?’ said Tam. ‘Did you see the way he did it, Holly? Bam! It never had a chance!’
‘I saw it,’ said Holly.
‘Wasn't it something?’ beamed Tam. ‘Where did you learn to do that, Varjak? Will you teach me?’
‘Actually,’ he admitted, ‘that was the first time.’
Holly nodded. ‘I thought it might be. Still, I've seen worse. A lot worse.’ She winked. ‘Maybe you're not as useless as you look, Mr Paw.’
Varjak smiled. He'd never have to rely on people again. He was a hunter now. He had the Third Skill.
Tam's nostrils twitched. ‘What's that smell?’ she said. Varjak and Holly sniffed the air. The alley curved away into complete darkness, and that salty, fishy tang was coming from a place they couldn't see, further down. The scent reminded Varjak of the Gentleman's caviare – another thing he'd never have to eat.
‘It smells great,’ said Tam. ‘I'm going after it.’
‘I wouldn't,’ warned Holly. ‘We're too near Ginger's turf. You don't want to risk it. Wait for the park.’
Tam licked her chops. ‘At least it's not her territory. And it smells so good, Holly. There's no one else around, it'll be OK. Come on, Varjak, let's eat!’
‘You really like that smell?’ he said.
‘It's already dangerous here,’ said Holly. ‘I'm not going any further.’
‘You killjoy,’ muttered Tam. ‘Holly knows best. Holly always knows best.’
‘It's true. I do.’
‘Well, I bet there's nothing to eat in the park,’ said Tam. ‘So there.’
She was right. The park had been picked clean already. They could find no food at all. They came away hungry – except for Varjak Paw.
Chapter Seventeen
In his dreams that night, Varjak was back in Mesopotamia. The date palms swayed in the warm breeze, and the cinnamon smell of cooking filled the air. He looked down at the river, where the moon and stars glimmered, so big and bright he could almost bite them.
‘This river is called the Tigris,’ said Jalal. ‘One day I will show you more of the Tigris, for it can teach you much. But tonight, we must practise the Fourth Skill: Slow-Time.’
The old cat seemed to shimmer for a moment.
Varjak blinked, and the shimmering stopped. ‘What was that?’
‘Slow-Time,’ said Jalal. ‘I can move faster than you can see.’
Varjak's eyes widened. Slow-Time was a skill the Elder Paw had talked of. Slow-Time, Moving Circles, Shadow-Walking. ‘Teach me, Jalal.’
‘Slow-Time begins with breathing,’ explained his ancestor. ‘So first of all, you must learn to breathe. Count your breaths. In, out, in, out. You see? You breathe fast and shallow, like most cats. Breathe more deeply. Yes. Use the whole of your lungs. Good. Now count. In–two–three, out–two–three. In–two– three, out–two–three.’
They sat by the rippling Tigris, breathing slower and slower.
‘Slower,’ said Jalal. ‘In–two–three–four, out– two–three–four. Very good. Slow the stream of your thoughts. Once you are in Slow-Time, everything will seem to slow down around you. But you will be fast. You will be faster than anything.’
Varjak looked up at the Mesopotamian sky. He could see the starlight bending across vast distances of space and time. A strange energy pulsed through him. His body felt light, light like light itself.
‘The slower you go, the faster you are,’ said Jalal. ‘You feel it? You s-l-o-w yourself down.’ The energy throbbed in Varjak's belly. Jalal's voice sounded like it was stretching, melting, radiating in every direction. ‘Do not be alarmed. This is Slow-Time. Now practise the Skill!’
Chapter Eighteen
‘I'm starving,’ grumbled Tam, late the next night, back in their alleys. The three of them sat on a high brick wall together, thinking about food. ‘My belly's shrinking. I can feel it.’
‘Me too,’ said Varjak. ‘That mouse was good, but it was only a mouse.’
‘You're right,’ said Holly. ‘This is getting serious. It's time for drastic action, and I've got a plan.’ She looked Varjak up and down. ‘First of all, though, you've got to look normal. Tell me, Mr Paw, are you ever planning to clean yourself?’
Varjak shook his head. He was Outside; he didn't have to wash. ‘At home, Mother was always washing me. I hated it.’
‘You're not at home now.’
‘Here she goes,’ sighed Tam.
‘I don't have to do anything I don't like,’ said Varjak.
‘You can do what you want,’ agreed Holly, ‘but look at you! The people will notice. They'll think you're wild and they'll take you away.’
Varjak inspected his coat. She was right: he was filthy. The fine silver-blue fur was completely caked with grime.
‘I like it,’ he said, rather pleased with himself.
‘Plus,’ she added, ‘you stink.’ He didn't respond. ‘I'm sorry, but you really do.’ Varjak looked to Tam, but even she was silent this time.
‘OK, OK,’ he grumbled, reluctantly licking his paws. ‘You sound just like Mother sometimes.’ He stopped after a few licks. ‘Is that better?’
Holly looked him calmly in the eye. ‘I'm not saying this to annoy you. I'm saying it because it's dangerous to look so dirty. You'll draw attention to us all, and you'll ruin my plan. Now do it properly or I'm off.’ Varjak snorted, but resumed his cleaning. ‘If you're a Blue whatever-it-is, you should be proud of how you look,’ she coaxed.
‘We are the noblest of cats,’ h
e muttered through a mouthful of mud. But the old boast rang hollow in the city. Would any of his family rescue a stranger? The Elder Paw, perhaps; not the rest. So who was more noble: the Blue, or this spiky street cat who'd saved his life?
The question bothered him. It turned everything he believed on its head. So he pushed it out of his mind and concentrated on his cleaning.
‘All right,’ said Holly at last. ‘That'll do.’ Varjak's fur was a dull grey colour. It looked very ordinary. It didn't look like the coat of a Mesopotamian Blue any more – and he liked it that way.
‘Now the collar,’ she said. ‘You can't be a street cat with a collar. Come here.’
This was more like it. He'd always hated that thing around his neck. Holly gnawed at the collar. He was vulnerable, balanced on top of a wall, with her sharp teeth just a bite away from his throat. But he trusted Holly. She'd rescued him. She was his friend.
‘There.’ She moved back. Varjak wiggled his shoulders, and the hated collar fluttered down. It fell through the bars of a metal grille, and disappeared into the sewers beneath the city. Now he was just another street cat with no ties, no family, and no home.
‘Good,’ said Holly. ‘You're one of us. If we run into them, that's what you say.’
‘Run into who?’ said Varjak, though he knew the answer already. He grinned. ‘Not that big, bad, Sal—’
‘Please!’ cried Tam. ‘You don't know what you're saying!’
‘This isn't a joke,’ said Holly. She sounded serious. Varjak stopped grinning. ‘We have to pass near her territory to get where we're going. Remember what Ginger did to you? These cats are worse. Much worse.’
They set off silently, each in their own thoughts. Holly led them through the back streets, always taking the ways that were quiet and hidden. But the light and noise grew stronger the further they went. The rumbling of the city was louder, harsher. Soon they couldn't avoid the dirty orange glare of street lights. They were in the open now, coming up to a crossroads.
Holly's fur prickled up fast. ‘Hide!’ she hissed.
They pressed themselves back into the alley, just in time to see a column of cats patrolling the other side of the crossroads. Varjak's insides knotted as he saw them, and his cheek burned where Ginger had slashed him. Holly was right. They looked much worse than the cat who'd nearly killed him.
There were seven of them. They swaggered and strutted on the sidewalk as if they owned the whole world. Other cats got out of their way, scurrying aside as they approached. At the head of the column was a brawny tom with stripy fur. Varjak caught a glimpse of his face. It was covered in scars.
‘That's Razor,’ whispered Tam. ‘One of her lieutenants.’
The three of them crouched silently in their hiding place, watching, waiting, until the patrol had passed.
‘OK,’ said Holly at last. ‘It's clear now. Let's move before they come back.’
‘This crossroads is the boundary,’ Tam told Varjak as they left the safety of the alley. ‘Don't ever cross it.’
‘I won't,’ he said.
There were no shadowy alleys where Holly took them. Instead, there were tall, white buildings arranged in a square. In its centre was a water fountain, and a huge stone column pointing up at the sky.
Around the column's base there were four statues, one at each corner. They were statues of lions, made of gleaming bronze. They were giants. Each paw was the size of a man. They had shaggy, wild manes around their heads; proud, free, fearless faces.
They were so powerful, so magnificent, so sure of themselves.
‘That's what we should be,’ whispered Tam.
‘What we could be,’ said Varjak. ‘They're great.’
They sat there for a while, just looking at the statues.
‘We can only come here late at night,’ said Holly. ‘During the day it's too crowded: people, cars, dogs. But at least it's neutral ground; the gangs leave it alone. Which means they also leave those birds alone.’
Varjak looked again. He was so thrilled by the statues, he'd hardly noticed that the square was swarming with pigeons. Dozens of them strutted about beneath the moonlight, and more were coming in all the time. The air pulsed with their trilling and cooing.
‘So tell me, Mr Paw,’ said Holly. ‘How exactly would you hunt one?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Varjak, suddenly suspicious. Was she making fun of him again? He'd never tried to hunt a bird; it seemed too difficult.
‘I mean, go and get one of those pigeons.’
It sounded like a challenge. He searched her mustard eyes. She didn't look like she was making fun of him. She meant it.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will.’
‘Holly!’ said Tam. ‘That's not fair. Don't take any notice of her, Varjak. She's being mean again.’
‘I want to do it,’ he said, still looking into Holly's eyes. She smiled.
Varjak slunk into the square. He selected a bird and turned all his Awareness onto it. He observed it with his eyes, ears, whiskers. Nothing it did could surprise him now: he and it were one.
He crept towards the pigeon, stealthy as Jalal himself. In the whole world, there was nothing but him and his prey. Varjak sprang –
– and a hundred wings came at him; a hundred claws curved out; a hundred beaks cawed in chaos.
Panic! Varjak fled from the flock. He hadn't expected anything so fierce. His fur ruffled and his tail trembled. He hid behind Holly and Tam, and watched the birds settle down from a safe distance.
‘Varjak!’ cried Tam. ‘Are you OK?’ He shook his head. ‘I told you, Holly, no one could do that!’
‘Exactly,’ said Holly. ‘That's exactly what happens to me every time. That's why even the gangs don't bother with this place. But I always think, if we could just work out how to catch the birds, we'd never go hungry again.’
‘It's impossible,’ panted Varjak. His pulse was still pounding. ‘Impossible!’
‘For one cat, yes,’ said Holly. ‘And yes, we usually hunt alone. But imagine three of us –’
‘– hunting together –’ ‘
– it could just work. Well, that's the plan. What do you think?’
‘Yes,’ said Varjak Paw.
‘I don't like the sound of this,’ said Tam. She buried her head in her paws, and curled up to sleep. ‘Wake me up when it's time to go home.’
Chapter Nineteen
Varjak and Holly talked through the night by the giant bronze lions. There was nothing to distract them but the fountain's trickle and the birds' trilling.
It was strange at first. No one else had ever wanted to talk about hunting before. Varjak could still barely believe that someone his own age was interested in it, and not senseless kitten games like Jay, Jethro and Jerome. But it was true. Holly was easy to talk to because she was like him. She liked the same things. Her mind worked in the same way.
Sometimes it was hard to keep up with her. Whenever he thought he had the answer to something, she asked another difficult question: why like this, not like that? And she had ideas he would never have thought up. But he had a few of his own, too; and together they worked out their plan.
That night, Varjak felt something he'd never felt before. Or rather, he didn't feel something. He didn't feel alone any more.
They woke Tam just before dawn and explained the plan to her. Her eyes grew round with fear.
‘Me?’ she said. ‘You want me to do that? Why me?’
‘Can you do my part of the plan?’ said Holly. ‘Or Varjak's?’
‘Well, no – but—’
‘You've got to do it, Tam,’ said Varjak. ‘It's impossible without you.’
‘It is?’ she said.
‘Of course it is,’ said Holly. ‘And if you do it, I promise I won't say her name any more.’
‘Well then,’ said Tam cheerfully, ‘what are we waiting for?’
They took up their positions as the first rays of sunshine splashed onto the white buildings, filling the square wi
th light. Everything began to glow: the ground, the sky, even the water in the fountain. Varjak crept up on the pigeons from one corner of the square. Holly crept up from another. Tam stood in front of them, on the far side of the flock.
At Holly's signal, Tam sprang at the pigeons. A hundred birds beat their wings, fierce and dangerous in their flock. Tam kept going, never slowing, just aiming for the other side in a blur of speed they couldn't stop – and Varjak and Holly flew out of the morning sun behind them.
It should have been easy. The birds were distracted by Tam and didn't see them coming in the haze of brilliant light. That was the plan.
But even as Varjak dived in, the thrill of the hunt in his veins, it started to go wrong. Tam was clear through, but there were still too many pigeons in a mass. He and Holly were on the edge of the flock, but couldn't get close enough to any single bird to strike.
The birds turned on Holly, wings flapping savagely, claws curving out. She didn't run. She stood there bravely, trying hard, but now they were surrounding her, pecking at her with shrill, sharp beaks.
Holly was in trouble. She was trapped and she couldn't get out. They were tearing, scratching, ripping at her. Varjak could see panic mounting in her face. Tam was helpless on the other side. Quick – he had to do something quick!
Slow-Time, the Fourth Skill: everything will seem to slow down around you. But you will be fast. You will be faster than anything.
Would it work in the real world? He breathed in–two–three–four. Out–two–three–four.
And the wings… slowed… down.
Varjak could see each beat, each claw, as if in slow motion. He dived after Holly into the mass of birds, moving smoothly through the chaos, making them fly apart for just a moment.
‘Holly!’ he called. She looked up. It was enough to break the rising terror in her eyes. She darted through the gap he'd made, away from the flock and towards Tam, to safety.
