Monkey Wars

by Richard Kurti

  “The langur troop aren’t like other monkeys. We were chosen,” Trumble replied solemnly. “Chosen to fight for peace. The langur keep the streets safe from the hordes of wild monkeys out there. If we questioned every decision Lord Gospodar made”—Trumble broke off to look around the cemetery—“we wouldn’t have all this.”

  Mico looked up at the trees, where swarms of midges were darting back and forth in a frenzied dance. The cemetery certainly was a perfect place to live, but still, no matter how hard he tried, Mico couldn’t shake off the memory of the monkey corpse.

  Sensing his son’s doubts, Trumble put a firm hand on Mico’s shoulders. “The city needs us. And it needs us to be strong.”

  Papina lay trembling in the cold dawn light. It wasn’t the damp that made her shiver; it was the fear.

  She had urged her mother not to rest here, but everyone was so exhausted they were beyond reason. All night they had been roaming the streets searching for a place to sleep, and all night they had been chased away. Rival monkey troops, packs of street dogs and scurrying rat colonies had all spurned them; once they had even been hustled along by a family of wild pigs.

  So Willow, Cappa, Fig and Rowna had led Papina and the others, zigzagging across the city until they were too exhausted to carry on. They had stopped here, in a sprawling garbage dump on the edge of the slums, and when they found to their relief that no one had pounced to move them along, they all slept.

  All except Papina.

  She had a dreadful sense that there was a compelling reason why no one else wanted this spot, and she lay awake the rest of the night trying to work out what it was.

  They were in a small hollow in the middle of the dump where three open sewers met, so the smell was appalling. But out here in the city there were all manner of offensive smells; that alone would not stop animals moving in.

  Papina gazed at the multicolored piles of garbage that formed a rolling mountain range—it might not be pretty, but it offered rich pickings. Rats should have been thriving here—they had no scruples about where they lived—but even they had abandoned this place.

  Then a murmur.

  Papina sat bolt upright. She held her breath, muscles tensed, then glimpsed movement out of the corner of her eye. She spun round—a solitary tin can rolled lazily down a garbage hill.

  Everything was still again, but Papina knew in her bones that something was very wrong.

  She stood on her hind legs, ears straining to unravel the medley of sounds bobbing in the air: the bark of dogs marauding for their breakfast, the wail of slum babies, the bubbling gurgle of the sewers. The sinister rustle of something sliding through the trash.

  Papina’s heart raced as she craned her neck, tracking the sound. Another tin can tumbled down a slope, this time triggering a mini-avalanche of ripped packaging. As she gazed across the winding valleys of debris, Papina had an awful hunch that something was moving underneath the mounds.

  She reached a hand out toward her mother, but Willow was so exhausted she just turned over, brushing her daughter away.

  Papina was torn—if there was danger out there, it was her duty to raise the alarm; but if it was nothing but the wind and her own fearful imagination, she’d be in big trouble for waking everyone so early.

  As silently as she could, Papina picked her way across the dump, following the slow, undulating movement of the trash, through a valley, under a hill.

  Suddenly the movement stopped.

  Whatever was down there had sensed her presence. Papina peered into the dark cracks between the garbage and saw a strange texture inching its way along.

  Snake.

  As she staggered backward, the monster started to surface, effortlessly shrugging off its shroud of trash to reveal a body of enormous proportions, a massive, rippling tube of muscle. The python’s head, grotesquely small compared to its body, twisted round to inspect its prey.

  Mesmerized, Papina looked at the cold black eyes that promised nothing but death; she saw the snake’s neck muscles flex and knew the strike was only a heartbeat away.

  Adrenaline surged through her body. She turned and leaped just as the python’s head lunged past her and smashed into the debris like an explosion. Papina dodged in the opposite direction, scarcely able to believe that it had missed its first strike.

  “SNAKE!!!” she howled.

  The word was like a bolt of lightning flashing through the monkeys’ brains, galvanizing their bodies. Rowna led a terrified scramble up some pipes running along a crumbling wall; Fig, hysterical with fear, dragged her sleepy infants toward the pipes, but in their panic one of them tripped and tumbled, screeching down an escarpment of trash.

  Fig froze, for a terrible moment torn between saving the youngster in her arms and turning back to save the other.

  Cappa saw what was happening and sprang down from the wall yelling, “I’ve got him!” as she grabbed the baby monkey and hurled it back up to Fig. But the impact of her landing triggered a landslide of trash that made it impossible for Cappa to find a foothold, and she was washed away from the wall.

  Papina saw the landslide tumbling toward her. Hoping to outrun it, she turned, tried to wade through the trash, but was so blinded by panic she didn’t concentrate on her footing, and found herself sinking into the debris.

  She opened her mouth to scream for help when suddenly a hand grabbed her arm and hauled her back to the surface.

  “It’s all right! I’ve got you!” It was her mother. Paying no heed to her own safety, Willow had bounded across the dump to rescue Papina, her darting eyes picking out firm footings with incredible speed.

  “Follow my feet!”

  Willow started to charge back toward the wall, when suddenly a mound of trash rose up in front of them as a huge length of python body broke the surface. Papina and Willow spun round to scramble the other way only to see another section of python slither into view—it had encircled them, cutting off their escape route in one calculated sweep.

  “The head! Where’s its head?!” Willow yelled.

  Papina looked left and right but couldn’t see it. How could they know which way to run if they didn’t know where the head was?

  Too late. The loop of the python’s body was already tightening on them.

  “Do exactly as I do!” shouted Willow; then she ran straight at the loop of muscle surrounding them, reached out and put one hand on the python’s hideous body just long enough to use it as a springboard to leap clean over.

  Papina gritted her teeth and ran, stretched out her hands, shuddering as she felt the dry, rough skin; then her legs pushed hard and she sprang over the beast.

  Just in time—a split second later the python’s ugly head drove up from below at the exact spot where they had been standing.

  The python hesitated. If it went for another strike too quickly it risked tying itself in a knot. The momentary pause was all Willow and Papina needed to dive across the dump and scramble up the wall to where the other monkeys were waiting.

  Willow hugged her daughter tightly as her eyes scanned the faces, checking that everyone was safe.

  And then she realized. “Where’s Cappa?!”

  The monkeys spun round and peered down, but all they could see were disjointed bits of the python’s body as it slithered, half submerged, through the garbage. Suddenly, with an enormous clatter, a pile of tin cans exploded as a great length of the snake emerged—and trapped in its coils was Cappa.

  “He–help…meeee….”

  She was already gasping for breath as the snake tightened its relentless grip.

  The monkeys on the wall started shrieking, hysterical with fear, as with majestic elegance the snake’s head emerged from the trash and inspected Cappa with a cold gaze.

  Irritated by the noise of the spectators, it turned its black eyes on the howling monkeys, who immediately fell silent. The python’s head rocked from side to side, taking its time, enjoying its total power.

  The monkeys could only look on helpl
essly as Cappa wrestled with death—but the more she struggled, the more she gasped, and each time she exhaled the python tightened its grip around her body. Terror engulfed her as she looked into its eyes, knowing that death was imminent and inevitable.

  Cappa’s last utterance was not a word, but a dreadful howl that cut through the morning air.

  Then a strange creaking sound echoed across the dump—the snake distended its mouth, the skin stretching to disgusting proportions as it dislocated its jaw and engulfed Cappa’s head.

  “NO!” Willow screamed, as horror flared into fury. She picked up a rock and hurled it at the python.

  “NO!!!”

  Her defiance ignited Rowna, who took up the angry protest, throwing anything that came to hand.

  “NO! NO! NO!!!”

  Stunned by the fight-back, the python stopped swallowing and stared at the monkeys, Cappa’s legs still protruding from its mouth in a grotesquely comic fashion. For a few moments the rhesus believed that somehow they could defeat this gargantuan snake.

  As the python hesitated, it loosened its viselike grip on Cappa. She was able to draw in just enough air to keep her alive a little longer, and her legs started writhing in a desperate attempt to escape. The snake leaned toward the wall, almost gloating, then with a final suck of its muscles drew the remainder of the monkey into its gullet.

  Willow and the others staggered back, dropping their missiles, stunned and appalled by the thought that Cappa may still be alive inside the snake.

  The python swayed left, then right, then slipped its huge, dark body back under the piles of trash.

  The monkeys crouched in shocked silence on top of the narrow wall; Papina clung to her mother; Fig whimpered, trying to console her young. None of them dared move.

  And then a voice called out, “Well, there’s nothing you can do for her now.”

  The monkeys huddled together. Only Willow and Papina had the courage to peer down to see who had spoken as a male rhesus monkey clambered out of a hidden niche in the brickwork below them.

  “It’s all right. I won’t harm you.” His voice was sympathetic, gentle. He scrambled up the pipes and perched next to them. Willow and the others edged away, but he extended his hands in a gesture of friendship.

  “Perhaps it’s best you follow me.”

  The monkeys looked at him suspiciously. As he smiled, the stranger twitched his ears—a quirky mannerism that gave him an endearing appeal.

  “Let’s face it,” he said, looking down at the mountains of trash that now hid the python, “I can’t be any worse than him, can I?”

  Mico woke early, his nostrils twitching. The sweet smell of mangoes and banyan leaf had bowled into the room in the night, and he lay there for a few moments savoring the damp scents. It was all so different to life outside the cemetery; there you awoke to a cacophony of smells all wrestling with one another—drains and cooking and people and smoke and the pungent oil of engines.

  He swung down from his stone perch—none of his family were stirring, but it was out of the question that he should go back to sleep on such a beautiful morning, so he scampered out of the doorway and climbed up onto the roof to discover that the whole troop seemed to have been lulled into a deep slumber.

  The solitude was so enticing; it was as if Mico was the only monkey in the world and laid out all around him was his own personal playground. He just had to explore.

  He clambered and swung his way from tomb to tomb, examining everything closely, studying the strange engravings. On some tombs he found pictures, a pointed star or a cross; on others there were solid shapes—a marble peacock, frozen mid-strut, an upturned stone hat that collected rainwater and now served as a bird bath.

  But most common of all were the marble depictions of human babies with wings on their backs that seemed to smile down at him from all directions. Mico wondered why he had never seen these flying babies darting around the skies above the city; they looked so mischievous and full of energy he couldn’t imagine why they kept themselves hidden.

  And it was just as he was running his fingers over the delicate features of one of these cherubs that he heard the footsteps.

  Swiftly he scurried inside a hollow tomb and peered out through the ventilation holes, just as some elites appeared. Mico held his breath, fearful that the soldiers were on another brutal mission.

  Two columns of soldiers marched on either side of the central pathway, and between them strode the leaders of the langur troop—General Pogo, Deputies Tyrell and Hani, and, most important of all, Lord Gospodar.

  They processed with great solemnity toward the huge cemetery gates, but something about the way the elites’ eyes constantly scanned the shadows gave the whole thing a clandestine air. Mico felt certain that if they knew he was watching he would be in big trouble, but now it was too risky to make a dash for home; he’d never make it without being spotted. So instead he made himself as comfortable as he could and watched in silence.

  —

  The elites formed a ceremonial line on either side of the path as General Pogo slid the heavy bolt back and swung the gates open. Then Lord Gospodar strode out of the cemetery, followed at a respectful distance by Tyrell and Hani.

  The lord ruler paused and gazed out proudly across the city. He had led his monkeys out of the desperate scramble for survival on Kolkata’s streets below up to this, the fortress of their cemetery. How many monkeys could look back on their lives and say they had made such a difference? Gospodar knew in his heart that he had done well.

  And then, irritatingly, Tyrell stepped forward and punctured the moment. “Sometimes I worry that the humans take us for granted.”

  Gospodar sighed. Tyrell was small for a langur, but he had a sharp, agile mind that never missed a trick, and this, rather than martial prowess, had won him influence. His habit of over-analyzing could be annoying, but Tyrell was a vital part of the langur success story, so Gospodar was patient and smiled indulgently.

  “Your worrying is what makes you a good deputy, but it’s turning your fur white.”

  Tyrell was not going to let the point drop. “We must remember”—he peered down the dusty road—“the humans will betray us in the end.”

  “Why the bleak mood?” asked Gospodar. “It’s a beautiful morning. We have a wonderful new home. Can’t you just relax?”

  Tyrell smiled politely. “I feel most relaxed, my lord, but the pleasantness of the morning cannot change the fact that everyone betrays you in the end.”

  “Not the humans.” Gospodar smiled, and as if timed to perfection, a group of people appeared at the bottom of the hill. “As you can see for yourself.”

  All eyes focused on the colorful procession of humans making its way up the street. Two monks dressed in flowing orange robes led a column of women adorned with ceremonial jewelry; on their head, each woman carried a large wooden platter piled high with the most succulent fruits, and accompanying the whole group were two boys who tapped out some enchanting rhythms with finger cymbals.

  With every step the procession took toward the cemetery gates, Gospodar felt his authority grow. He loved to see the rewards for his achievements delivered with such reverence.

  —

  From his hiding place, Mico watched, wide-eyed, as the humans paid tribute to the monkeys. One by one, each placed their platter before Lord Gospodar and bowed respectfully, until a sea of fruit surrounded the monkeys.

  The holy men paused to chant a prayer; then, as they turned and led the procession back down to the city, the elites started ferrying the fruit inside the cemetery walls and back to the Great Vault.

  So that was the secret of the banquets, thought Mico, astonished. There was a long-standing tradition in the langur troop of Fruit Feasts, hosted by the leadership. Everyone was told that Lord Gospodar and his deputies spent all night gathering the fruit as a tribute to the rank and file, but now Mico had stumbled on the truth: the fruit was a gift from the humans. This must be what his father was talking about w
hen he said the langur were chosen.

  But why the deception?

  Mico came to his senses. With the sun climbing higher, the heat was starting to build, which meant his family would be waking up soon, and if he wasn’t there they’d start asking questions.

  The quickest way home was straight down the central pathway, but that was the route the soldiers were using, so instead Mico took a path that led the long way round, in the shadow of the cemetery wall.

  Too late did Mico realize that this took him right past the fateful spot where he’d seen the dead monkey being dragged away.

  As he drew closer, he looked the other way and tried to just keep running, but his legs had other ideas. Moments later, he found himself standing silently by the wall, staring at the stones.

  At one stone in particular…

  There at the base of the wall was a single bloody handprint, confronting Mico with the stark question: who was the poor rhesus that had left this terrible mark?

  The question plagued him all through the magnificent Fruit Feast that morning. While the other monkeys laughed and chatted as they stuffed themselves, Mico sat quietly, his mind bombarded with doubts.

  He looked over to Gospodar, the general and the deputies, desperately wanting them to stand up and make a speech explaining that this lavish banquet had all been provided by humans. But they didn’t.

  First the dead monkey, now the feast. How many more secrets were there?

  The recent horrors had left the rhesus survivors utterly exhausted. Despite the agreement that there would be no leaders, they all looked to Willow for a decision about whether to go with Twitcher (his distinctive ear movements had apparently earned him the nickname many seasons ago).

  Willow agreed to follow him mainly because she liked his easy charm; it soothed her jangled nerves. But underneath the nonchalance, she sensed Twitcher was razor-sharp—he obviously knew the city streets intimately, and darted through shortcuts with urbane ease.

  He also understood that although the monkeys were numb with shock, there was no point dwelling on what had happened; a lot of wailing and hysteria helped no one.