Southpaw’s head was buzzing with the barrage of instructions. “Where are we going?” he said, confused.
“To the Shuttered House,” said Miao. Katar and she touched muzzles, and then the cream-coloured Siamese and the tom led the way through the lantana bushes, as the kitten scrambled behind them as fast as he could.
THE ROOTS OF THE BANYAN TREE had grown in thick tangles, and getting through them was a fight, even for the cats. Southpaw watched in admiration as Miao flattened herself, seeming to flow past the thick creepers; Katar hacked his way through, using his shoulders to push, his tail flicking back and forth in unease.
It seemed to the kitten that they had left Nizamuddin behind. The banyan towered above this abandoned plot of land. The ground was dark, cool and clammy under his paws. He felt his claws come out involuntarily, and had to retract them so that they wouldn’t catch on stray roots. He followed Miao’s example, staying flat to the ground, but he almost mewed in terror when a spider dropped down onto his ear, scurrying off rapidly when he twitched it loose. Southpaw could feel thick cobwebs on his fur, and as they moved further into the grounds, he had to duck and weave past the banyan roots.
He was so intent on keeping up with the two elder cats that it took a while before the kitten realized what had been bothering him ever since they crossed over the broken stone wall into the grounds of the Shuttered House. The sounds of Nizamuddin, the cacophony of the Bigfeet’s cars and their voices, the barking of dogs, the clutter and bustle of a busy neighbourhood—all of these were muffled by the undergrowth, and by the banyan tree whose offshoots shrouded the place.
Instead, the quiet clicking of beetles built up in his mind, making his whiskers twitch with their steady, unbearably regular beat. Every now and then, the clicking would stop, and Southpaw found his fur tingling as he waited for it to start again.
They were advancing through a tangle of undergrowth and scrub now, Miao cautiously scanning the ground for predators. “Watch out for snakes,” she linked quietly, using her whiskers to transmit rather than risking a mew. Southpaw felt his paws freeze in place. He had seen a cobra take a crow’s eggs once, and had watched its black hood with mixed fear and bloodlust, unsure whether he wanted to kill it, or run until his paws would carry him no further.
Katar turned his head. “We can go back if you’re afraid,” the tom signalled. Southpaw twitched his whiskers in the negative, hoping neither cat would sense just how scared he was. The kitten had prowled along the perimeter of the Shuttered House before, unable to stay away, but being inside its grounds, with the sound of the beetles and the dread that rose up in his small stomach, was different.
They were still in the thick of the scrub, manouevring carefully through the prickly acacia bushes, when Southpaw smelled it. His teeth bared and his lips drew back
“That dry scent, like the heart of a rotting tree branch, is woodworm,” said Katar. It was a dusty, insidious stink that made Southpaw’s nostrils curl, but far worse was what was beyond it: a sour stench, heavy as a cloud. “This is a Bigfoot smell, Southpaw,” said Miao’s gentle voice. “Mark it well: it’s the smell of age, and decay, and sadness.”
By now the kitten’s teeth were fully bared, his hackles up. He growled, a low, warning sound, as they approached the crumbling, ramshackle house.
Behind the festering woodworm and sadness, Southpaw could smell something else, and he flinched as they crept closer, hunter-fashion, bellies to the ground. There were tendrils of damp unfurling from the Shuttered House, and they carried in their wake a combined, rotting smell of unkempt cat fur, sickness, stale food, and dried blood many, many moons old. The kitten shivered as the breeze changed direction, amplifying the sweet stink of madness coming from the house. It felt like being swatted by a gangrenous paw.
Katar pressed his flank to the kitten’s shivering sides, and Southpaw felt the warmth of the tom, and took heart. The rasping of the beetles was much louder now, but behind that, he heard something else. It was indistinct, and it took a while for him to place it: the faint clicking of claws across the floor.
Miao watched him with curiosity, the Siamese’s smoky tail twitching at the tip. The pilgrimage to the Shuttered House was a rite of passage for the Nizamuddin cats, who learned its dark history in their first year, but Southpaw was the youngest kitten in her memory to make the trip. “I think he’s old enough for this,” she said quietly to Katar, knowing that Southpaw wouldn’t catch the whisker transmission easily—he had just started his linking lessons, and wasn’t very good at receiving yet.
“Better he come with us than stray in here on his own,” Katar responded.
The clatter of Bigfeet rose up from the lane at the back of the House. The tom used his whiskers to signal to the other two that they should take cover, and by the time the Bigfoot—a clumsy, shambling fellow—rounded the corner, the three cats were shadows in the undergrowth, Southpaw to the right near the Shuttered House, the other two further to the left. The Bigfeet usually avoided the area, though they would have been hard pressed to explain what kept them away—something in the atmosphere made most of them take an instinctive detour around it. Though birds nested in the tangled hedges and made their homes in the trees, they were quieter here. The bulbul songbirds and sparrows called out occasionally, but the stillness was unbroken by the raucous squabbles of the babblers or the endless chatter of the mynahs.
This Bigfoot seemed in a hurry, and was probably taking a shortcut. He passed within a foot of Southpaw, who looked up at his white pajamas, marvelling for the umpteenth time at the remarkable obliviousness of Bigfeet. The kitten thought it must be the lack of whiskers, or perhaps they just couldn’t smell very well.
Miao made them wait until she was certain that the Bigfoot wouldn’t return. She and Katar rested, cat-fashion, the tom letting his whiskers stay outstretched and alert, but allowing his eyes to close and his chin to drop as he drowsed for a few moments.
The kitten, at a slight distance from the two adults, was restless, far too excited to catnap, and from under her eyelids, Miao watched him, pleased that he managed to stay still. His pink nose twitched every few seconds, trying to make sense of the tangle of smells coming his way from the Shuttered House.
Far above their heads, a cheel shrieked, its cry breaking the silence. Southpaw looked up, wondering whether it was the same bird that had attacked him. The sound had made them all jump; but that was followed by another sound, an ominous rustling in the bushes on the other side of the house.
The attack came so swiftly it took them all by surprise. Miao’s whiskers crackled a warning: “Watch out! Dog!” and then the Siamese was springing up a tree, hissing as a massive black dog barked at her heels. Katar saw that the kitten was frozen in position, and began to run towards him; but the tomcat had to swerve when the dog abandoned Miao’s tree and bounded in his direction, growling and baring its teeth.
To Southpaw, the dog seemed as large as a cow—he had never seen one of the beasts at such close quarters, and as it snapped at Katar’s tail, the kitten closed his eyes and shivered. But he had to look, and to his relief, Katar was in control.
The tom streaked away at a fast clip, but when the dog followed, Katar braked at the edge of a clump of acacia, turned, arched his back and hissed. Alarmed, the dog fell back, barking; the tomcat had fluffed his fur to twice his size, and Miao was joining in from her high perch, issuing blood-curdling screeches into the air.
The dog laid its ears flat, looking from one cat to another. Katar continued hissing, though Southpaw could see that the tomcat had an escape route in mind: at need, he could do a quick about-turn and climb up into the friendly branches of a large magnolia tree. It seemed as though they would be safe after all. The dog turned. It ignored Katar’s hisses and Miao’s fighting yowls, and Southpaw found himself looking into its menacing red eyes, at the flecks of foam on its glossy black jowls.
The dog lolloped towards him.
“Run, Southpaw!” he heard Katar say fro
m what seemed like a great distance away. “Towards the trees—at the back, Southpaw!” Miao said. The kitten was unable to move his paws. He watched in horror as the dog came steadily closer and closer. Its teeth were bared, and Southpaw could imagine what it would feel like when those large fangs tore through his skin.
And then, from deep inside the Shuttered House, the kitten heard a mocking voice whisper, as though its owner was sitting right beside him, “Stupid, foolish piece of meat. You’ll be dead soon if you don’t get your paws moving, not that it’s any of my business.” It was an insidious, cold voice, with not a touch of warmth in it, but for some reason it helped Southpaw break through his terror.
The dog was inches away from the kitten now. Southpaw let out his best high-pitched warrior’s yell, put his ears back, turned and ran for it.
Behind him, he heard the dog bark. From the tree, Miao’s voice said frantically, “Southpaw! Not there! You’ll be trapped!” He could sense Katar coming down from the tree, streaking across the grounds to battle the dog. And he could tell that as fast as he was running, the dog would catch up soon. Its stink was in his nostrils, the smell of damp fur, adrenaline and a predator’s sweat. Southpaw’s ears were flat to the side of his head; two predators in one day was a bit much for a kitten who hadn’t even been on his first hunt yet.
Katar’s urgent warnings were now so sharp that they made his whiskers crackle: “You have no room to turn, get away from the veranda: look up, Southpaw.” Too late—the kitten was heading straight towards the Shuttered House, and with the dog so close behind, he had no time to try and streak down the side. But though the verandah was a dusty place that radiated forlorn abandonment, the kitten’s heart beat faster when he saw the two or three bits of broken furniture that sat on the porch.
Miao was still howling defiance at the dog, trying to attract its attention, and Southpaw sensed that the old Siamese had come down from her tree. But the dog was barking, joyously, bounding up the stone stairs of the veranda behind him, its muzzle dangerously close.
Southpaw knew exactly where he was headed, though, and feinting to the right, he shot sharply to the left instead, leaving the dog skidding behind him, its paws clacking on the slippery stone. On the veranda, pressed up against the peeling front door of the Shuttered House, was a low cane bed, and the kitten had just enough space to squeeze himself under it. His whiskers crackled, and he knew Miao was calling in all other cats in the area to help with this emergency.
“Good thinking,” Katar said, “Hang on in there until we can lure the dog away—just stay under the bed no matter what happens, Southpaw.”
The dog barked again, and through the cane slats, Southpaw could see its black eyes, keen, hungry for a kill, frustrated. There was a scrabbling above his head, and the kitten scrabbled backwards as a large, heavy paw slammed through the cane. Splinters and dust rained down on Southpaw’s head, making him sneeze. The cane was rotten, worn through by years and years of monsoons, warped by the heat of many summers. It would yield soon enough. The paw slammed down again, perilously close to his nose, and the kitten whimpered. He was trapped.
Katar growled, trying to get the dog to turn, but the beast swivelled once, snarled in warning at the tomcat and barked defiance at him. “My kill!” said the dog in Junglee, the language of the hedges; all animals knew it, even though most could communicate only the most basic warnings and requests in that tongue.
In response, the tomcat bit his tail; the dog whirled, howling in anger, shaking the cat off with such force that Katar was thrown a considerable distance. Dazed, he lay on the grass, and Miao slipped over to his side, standing guard so that the dog wouldn’t attack him while he was down.
Intent on its original target, the dog nosed the dry wood where it had cracked, then jerked its head up, splintering the cane further. Southpaw backed away as far as he could, trembling.
From behind the door, a cold whisper reached him. “Poor helpless kitty,” said the voice. “Look at the way the beast crunches the cane. It has such powerful, strong jaws, doesn’t it? Look at its teeth: they’re such sharp, yellow teeth, aren’t they? It’ll hurt a lot when those reach you, meat, but it won’t hurt for very long, will it?” There was a rusty, prickling tug at his whiskers that sounded like dark laughter, and the kitten shuddered.
The dog slammed its paw into the cane, and the bed sighed and broke. Southpaw yelped as the cane dropped in front of his face, grazing his whiskers; now he was caught firmly like a rat in a trap. The kitten scrambled backwards, feeling the door behind him, and then he heard a ripping sound, and felt one of the old, sodden planks of the door begin to give way.
At the edge of the veranda, Miao had crept up, and she slashed twice, viciously, at the dog’s leg. It howled as her claws raked its side, but when it spun around, Miao had melted away into the shadows. The dog padded a few paces away from the bed, head cocked as it tried to scent the Siamese. Then it lost interest, and turned back to the kitten.
It shoved a paw right through the part of the cane that was over Southpaw’s head, and the kitten cringed, looking up into air, his gaze locking with the dog’s victorious eyes. The next blow, or the one after that, would get him, and he saw the gleam of saliva on the dog’s teeth as the animal contemplated its next move.
Miao had climbed up to the roof of the veranda, and now she dropped down, landing on the dog’s back. She sank her teeth into its flank, screaming a battle cry at the big beast. It whirled, growling ferociously, and for a time it looked as though the cat was riding a bucking horse rather than a dog. “Get off or you’ll be killed!” Katar called, getting unsteadily to his feet. The Siamese narrowed her eyes, preparing to leap clear. Cats rarely attacked dogs, and when they did, the best chance of a clean attack was to make a fast, dirty assault and then a quick getaway.
“Move one: she’ll lose her balance, fall off, but land on her feet,” said the cold voice in Southpaw’s ear. “Move two: she’s a fast runner, so she’ll get away before the dog realizes she’s off its back. Move three: back to where we started. You’re dead meat. It’s a sad little story, but it’s just not your lucky day.”
The Siamese was shaken so hard that it looked as though she was flying off the dog’s back. She hit the ground running, and the beast’s massive jaws snapped shut on empty air. The dog howled its anger and defiance, but Miao, moving so fast she’d looked as though she was floating across the grass, was already halfway up a tree. The dog wasted no further time on her; it was back at the veranda in two paces, and it was in a killing mood.
“Or,” said the cold, bored voice, “you could take your chances with us. We’ll kill you as well, but at least we’re your own kind. I’ll give you a sporting chance, how about that?” From inside the house, a paw flicked at the rotten planks, creating a hole in the door.
Southpaw stared at the dog. The animal was poised above him; its tongue was hanging out, and in a few seconds, its paw would slam down, perhaps for the last time.
From where he was, standing but wobbly in the undergrowth, Katar guessed the kitten’s thoughts. “Not the Shuttered House, Southpaw! It’s too dangerous!”
The stench of the Shuttered House was strong in the kitten’s nostrils, the scent of death, decay, blood and madness. The house held the promise of death, but perhaps, thought Southpaw, he might escape from whatever was in there. But there was no escape from the dog, who was leaning in for the killing bite.
“Oh, do come in, meat,” said the insidious voice. “It”ll be so much fun.”
The dog’s paw came crashing down just as Southpaw threw himself backwards, breaking through the soft wood of the plank, tumbling into the Shuttered House as Miao and Katar watched helplessly.
“For us, that is,” added the chilly voice, as Southpaw disappeared from view.
The fall was longer than Southpaw had expected; the floor of the house was sunken, lower than the verandah, and the kitten twisted in the air, trying to make sure that he would land on his paws and not his ba
ck.
He was ready to fight for his life, spitting for all that he was worth. But he landed into silence and a deep, pervasive gloom. Outside, the dog barked and hurled itself against the door, but the rotten panel aside, the frame and the wood were solid and they held fast.
The kitten could smell cats, though he could see none. The odour was sharp, and close, as though the space had only been recently vacated, and he felt the fur on his face, the whiskers on his forehead, stand up as he sensed the presence of others. Southpaw kept his back to the splintered door, and tried to make sense of his surroundings. The only light in the room came from a single grimy, dim lightbulb; it was like looking through a winter fog. The kitten’s nose and his whiskers gave him a better feel of the place.
The Shuttered House was quiet, but besides the clicking of the beetles—much louder in his ears than he would have liked—Southpaw could hear the rustles and scurries of many animals. Overhead, a set of claws clicked across the floor; and then another, and then more. To his right, the darkness yielded to give him a glimpse of a long room, and to his disgust, the kitten realized that the ground beneath his paws was filthy, the floor matted with a thick film of what appeared to be old newspapers and long-rotted food. At the far end of the hallway he stood in were lines and lines of bowls, the smell of stale food rising sour and thick into the air.
The curtains were drawn and tattered, and where they had fallen into shreds, the glass of the windows was thickly layered with grime. Dead flies clustered on the sills. The kitten knew without being told that the doors and windows hadn’t been opened for a long, long while. The rank vapours of unclean litter from the back of the room offended his nostrils. It added to the soaring, unpleasantly high scent he had smelled from outside. Southpaw had a sudden flash of intuition. “This is a place,” he said to himself, “where cats have forgotten what it is to feel the sunlight on their whiskers.”
The Wildings Page 7