Monkey Wars

by Richard Kurti

Hister shook her head, not sure what he was driving at.

  Tyrell put a hand on Mico’s shoulder and shook him. “Mico. It’s me. Speak to me.”

  No reply, just the steady rhythm of breathing.

  The inexplicable worried Tyrell; it turned his mind to dark thoughts and made uneasy connections. Now he was starting to wonder if it was coincidence that Mico had fallen ill just after being told secret truths about the langur.

  Deciding that he needed to keep a close eye on the situation, Tyrell arranged for Mico to be taken to a special room in the Great Vault. Overlooking the long pool, it echoed peacefully to the sound of gently running water. Here Hister sat with him day and night, patiently dripping milk and honey into his mouth, lovingly placing clean palm leaves under him.

  And there Mico lay, silent, still, oblivious to the world. It was as if some inner power had taken hold, forcing Mico to surrender, so that it could heal him.

  But it would take time.

  —

  On the other side of the city, another monkey’s patience was running out; and as it did, her heart cracked.

  Papina perched on top of the Hanuman statue, looking out across the bustling streets. She had sat here so many times with Mico. This was where they’d laughed and teased, argued and loved. Now all that seemed a lifetime ago.

  Mico had sworn he would avenge Willow’s murder, but that was a full moon ago, and nothing had been heard of him since. He’d vanished.

  It made Papina feel cursed; sooner or later everything she loved was snatched away—her childhood home, her parents, and now Mico. She had waited so patiently for him, but the silence could only mean bad news: either he had abandoned her, or he was dead.

  She looked down at the rhesus thronging in the square. There was no shortage of eligible males who had an eye for her, but she couldn’t face the pain of entanglement. She had to close her heart, let no monkey, no home, no friendship get so close that it made her vulnerable.

  From now on her solitude would be her strength.

  —

  Tyrell sat brooding in the summer house tower. He had trusted Mico like a son, shared all the deepest secrets of power with him, yet now he had withdrawn to a strange, unreachable place.

  With each passing day that Mico remained unconscious, the lord ruler became more anxious, and whenever Tyrell felt anxious, he tightened his control; it was a reflex reaction.

  So he set to work.

  Attacks by the “resistance” intensified, whipping up the climate of fear, and kidnappings became so commonplace that civilian monkeys were no longer allowed out into the city. Gone were the days of innocent raiding parties hitting the markets; now only military patrols ventured beyond the safety of langur walls.

  To avoid malnourishment, Tyrell ordered the elites to bring back enough food for the whole troop; this was then handed out through official centers. The entire business of gathering and distributing food now came directly under Tyrell’s command.

  Most were grateful that action was being taken by the leadership to keep everyone safe, and although some older monkeys resented the curtailment of their freedom to roam, no one objected too vehemently. After all, who was going to speak out against a regime that provided all the food?

  And with everyone but the military now confined inside the walls, the langur became totally reliant on official reports for news. Which meant Tyrell controlled the flow of information as well.

  —

  Hidden away in the middle of the Great Vault, Mico’s body patiently carried on the painstaking task of healing itself, until finally his mind started to reemerge.

  At first it was just for a few moments, long enough to hear snatches of conversation…someone asking questions. Was he feeling better? Did he need anything?

  Still too weak to respond, Mico grasped on to whatever words he could before lapsing back into oblivion, like a drowning monkey being sucked down by the currents.

  Gradually his periods of awareness grew longer, a sense of the continuity of time returned, and as he started to regain the ability to talk, friends and family felt bold enough to visit.

  The first to come were his parents who were unflagging in their care: Kima brought food and healing herbs, while Trumble helped Mico regain his coordination by playing “Catch the Orange.” Mico was humbled by their patient tenderness.

  The biggest revelation, though, was Hister. Mico had always taken her for granted, thinking of her as a trophy, but coping with illness had brought out hidden qualities in her.

  When he thought of all she had done for him, Mico’s heart filled with a turbulent mix of emotions—gratitude, guilt, and perhaps even love.

  Desperate to avoid facing the lie at the center of his life, Mico focused his mind entirely on healing. Helped by his family, he pushed his frail body to reclaim a little more with each passing day.

  There was one visitor, however, who was determined to punch through to the heart of the matter.

  —

  “They told me you were on the mend,” Tyrell said as he strode into Mico’s room one morning. “But I didn’t want to be too hasty.”

  He placed two ripe kiwis on the floor as a gift.

  “I’m honored to see you,” Mico replied politely, trying to hide his unease.

  “Good to have you back with us. You gave me quite a fright.”

  “I’m sorry….I don’t know what happened,” Mico ventured, but the words sounded hollow in his mouth.

  “The pressures of leadership are not for everyone,” Tyrell said, looking at Mico intently.

  “You think I’m weak.”

  Tyrell shrugged. “I wonder if there’s something about the langur stock that is inherently weak.”

  Mico couldn’t believe what he was hearing. In public Tyrell had always spoken eloquently about langur supremacy; yet here he was talking about weakness.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Tyrell added sharply. “I love the langur. But no one can see the faults of a troop more clearly than its leader.” He paused as a smile played across his lips.

  “The Barbaries, on the other hand, they have a strength deep in their hearts. A brutal strength. And their only need is to unleash that. Don’t you agree, Mico? The Barbaries are everything we should aspire to be.”

  Tyrell let the question sit like a heavy presence in the room.

  This was the moment when Mico should offer his unequivocal support, but he remained silent, because the claws of guilt were tearing at his throat; silent because his heart had already decided that he could no longer be complicit in all the lies.

  “Do you understand what I’m asking, Mico?” said Tyrell darkly.

  Mico turned away. “Forgive me, Lord Tyrell, but I feel so tired. I need to sleep.”

  Tyrell looked at him in silence, unblinking, as if seeing Mico for the first time. “I’m sorry to hear that. Truly sorry.”

  Then he turned and was gone.

  —

  The encounter left Tyrell feeling deeply uneasy.

  As he strode out of the Great Vault, his bodyguards fell into place around him, ushering him toward the cemetery gates.

  There could be no excuses. Mico was well enough to understand what he was saying, so why hadn’t he voiced his support?

  Much as Tyrell admired Mico’s intelligence, it was clear that for the time being he couldn’t be relied on.

  Maybe Tyrell just needed to be patient; maybe in time things would get back to normal.

  Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  Either way, to protect his own position, Tyrell needed to take bold action.

  Trumble and Kima had to wait longer in the ration queue than usual, but it was worth it. A generous portion of figs had been added to the regular staple of soft fruits, so everyone was in good spirits.

  Then, just as they started to make their way home, a murmur of excitement ran through the crowd. Heads turned and they saw Breri approaching, clearing a path; he was leading a small group of elites and in their midst was
Lord Tyrell.

  The supreme leader exchanged pleasantries and patted young monkeys on the head. It all looked casual and impromptu, but nothing Tyrell did was ever truly spontaneous. The elites made a space by the food distribution platform and the leader climbed up to address the crowd.

  “I trust we’re keeping you well fed,” Tyrell said with a smile, which earned an enthusiastic cheer.

  “However, I’d like us to pause for a moment to pay tribute to our fighters who make all this possible. They are the ones who brave the dangers of the streets to collect this food.”

  The crowd thumped the ground solemnly in a show of support.

  “Most of you have loved ones serving, and I know you worry about their safety. But let me tell you, each and every one of them is a son to me too. Which is why I understand that there are only so many sacrifices we can ask our brave young monkeys to make. So it is to keep them safe that I have forged a new alliance.”

  Anticipation crackled through the crowd. What alliance? Had Tyrell made peace with the rhesus? Was this the end of the war?

  “The Barbary apes have come to serve and protect the langur troop,” Tyrell announced calmly.

  There was a moment of confusion. Kima looked at Trumble, her brow furrowed. “Did he say Barbaries?”

  Trumble shook his head. “It’s impossible—”

  But all speculation was abruptly cut short as the huge metal gates creaked open and a column of Barbary warriors strode into the cemetery.

  Stunned disbelief gripped the langur. This couldn’t be happening.

  “It’s all right, my monkeys,” Tyrell reassured them as the Barbaries lined up before him. “Stay calm.”

  He studied the crowd, saw fear and incomprehension; that was good, it kept them off balance. What he didn’t want was panic, so he jumped down, walked up to the lead Barbary and embraced him like an old comrade.

  The crowd could hardly believe their eyes.

  “Those terrifying stories you’ve heard about the Barbaries,” Tyrell smiled, “they’re all true. But now they are on our side!” He paced down the Barbary line. “They’ve sworn to help us fight the resistance!”

  Members of the Intelligence Division strategically placed in the crowd started to voice their approval.

  “Under their leader, Hummingbird, the Barbaries will spearhead the next phase of our expansion,” Tyrell went on. “And as they’re risking their lives for us, it’s up to us to extend our best hospitality. The Barbary fighters will live among us as privileged guests.”

  The carefully placed monkeys thumped the ground in appreciation, and gradually acceptance started to spread through the crowd; after all, if there was one thing the langur understood it was how to honor courage.

  The practicalities, however, were more far-reaching than anyone had imagined.

  The best living quarters were immediately requisitioned for the Barbaries, and a generous food allowance was created for them by skimming portions off every langur’s meal.

  Two days later, Tyrell changed the composition of his personal guard. Traditionally, a handful of select elites served as the lord ruler’s bodyguards, but suddenly Tyrell was striding out surrounded by a shield of Barbary apes, advertising to the world that they were now the most trusted faction.

  Castro and Rani, who had been loyal henchmen for so long, foolishly dared to object. Waylaying Tyrell as he entered the summer house tower, they warned him that this would stir up resentment in langur ranks.

  Tyrell listened and nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you for your advice. I’ll consider it,” he replied politely.

  That evening, Castro and Rani were transferred from Intelligence and put on front-line duties, patrolling the most dangerous areas of the city. A few days later news filtered back that they were missing in action, presumed kidnapped.

  It was a blunt lesson to any monkey who was thinking of objecting, because in Tyrell’s mind, dissent was weakness. He didn’t want inquisitive monkeys; he wanted an obedient mass.

  With this in mind, Tyrell created the idea of “swarm activities.” He ordained that every morning the entire troop had to gather for a communal workout. Ostensibly this was to improve levels of fitness, and to get the whole population living up to the ideal of physical perfection epitomized by the army. But its real purpose was to get everyone moving and thinking in unison.

  Likewise with “drumming days,” where all civilian monkeys had to form a line around the perimeter wall of the cemetery. Tyrell would stand by the gates next to a large empty barrel and, with great ceremony, pound a single note on the drum. Immediately the next monkey in line had to thump the ground and grunt, followed by the next monkey, and the next, so that the sound rippled around the cemetery. When it returned to Tyrell, he would bang the drum again to keep the wave going.

  Each monkey, totally absorbed in the hypnotic rhythm, had to look to his neighbor for his cue; the longer it went on, the more their individuality was smothered, as they became just a tiny part of the bigger, swirling movement.

  And at the center of it all stood Tyrell, towering above every aspect of langur life.

  It was the middle of the night when they came for Trumble.

  An iron grip around his throat forced his eyes to snap open. He saw three menacing figures looming over him. Instinctively Trumble’s arms flailed up, trying to grab his attackers, but he was no match for the Barbaries, who hauled him to his feet and yanked his hands behind his back.

  “What is this?!” Trumble yelled.

  Kima woke with a start, but before she could even sit up, the Barbaries grabbed her and slammed her against the wall. “Go back to sleep,” hissed a voice.

  “Leave us alone!” Kima begged, but Trumble caught her eye.

  “Do as he says,” he urged; then, turning to his attackers, demanded, “Who ordered this?”

  The Barbaries didn’t even bother to answer, and before he could say another word Trumble was bundled out into the muggy night.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked, trying to sound more conciliatory. “Please, at least tell me that.”

  Silence.

  As the brutish arms pushed him down the path toward the main gates, Trumble glimpsed other furtive groups moving through the shadows. Then a sack was pulled over his head, plunging him into darkness. But he had seen enough to know that he wasn’t the only monkey arrested that night.

  Far from it.

  All across the cemetery and the Eastern Province, Barbary hit squads were bursting into monkeys’ homes, hauling away anyone that might pose a threat. Retired elites who questioned military strategy, mothers who complained about the size of food rations, infants who were cheeky in class: all gone.

  The sack was yanked off Trumble’s head and he found he was in a gloomy, damp room that smelled of old rope. He tried to spin round but was immediately kicked in the back and slammed to the floor, his face grinding into the dirt.

  Even so, Trumble recognized the place—it was the labyrinth of derelict buildings that had been used for street combat training. As he strained his ears he could hear the sounds of other prisoners.

  Some shouted, some sobbed, some screamed in pain. As for the ones who remained silent, Trumble hoped it was because, like him, they had nothing to fear since they’d done nothing wrong. He didn’t realize it was because they were already lying dead in pools of their own blood.

  He heard a familiar rattle; then suddenly his counting stones were scattered across the floor. Angry at seeing his precious stones treated with such disrespect, Trumble tried to move, but the hands holding him tightened their grip.

  And then a face loomed into view. It was Hummingbird.

  What had he done that the most senior Barbary of all was taking charge of the interrogation?

  “Explain,” Hummingbird said in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Talk.” And he thrust some stones into Trumble’s face.

  “They’re my counting
stones,” he answered. “For supplies. For organizing supplies to the army, and—”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” growled the Barbary.

  “Well, it’s complicated….There’s a system….”

  Hummingbird snorted with derision, turned his back and walked to the far side of the cell.

  “Accusations have been made,” he pronounced.

  “Accusations?”

  “Against you. We have witnesses.” Hummingbird spoke with chilling certainty.

  “What have they said?”

  Silence.

  “I’ve been a loyal servant to this troop!” exclaimed Trumble. “I fought in the elites, and now—”

  “Now you’re in trouble.”

  There was no give in Hummingbird.

  “What have I done?!” Trumble couldn’t hide the exasperation in his voice.

  “You’ve kept the secret of these to yourself,” Hummingbird replied, flicking some stones across the floor with his foot. “That gives you power. Power to use against Lord Tyrell.”

  Trumble could barely believe his ears. “This is insane! Who has said these things about me? WHO?!”

  Hummingbird crouched down and scrutinized Trumble, reading every line on his face.

  And then, strangely, the Barbary smiled. A thin, grudging smile of satisfaction. He had got the answer he wanted: Trumble was loyal. If he’d been hiding a guilty secret he would have been more defensive, and eager to denounce someone else. But Trumble’s indignation smacked of honesty.

  “You need to prove your loyalty,” Hummingbird said, gesturing to the Barbary guard to loosen his grip.

  “What more can I do? I’ve served the troop all my life,” Trumble said, real hurt in his voice.

  “Much more.”

  Hummingbird nodded to the guard, who started gathering up the stones from the floor.

  “Teach others,” the Barbary commanded.

  “But…but it’s complicated,” stammered Trumble. “No one’s ever wanted to know.”

  “We do now.”

  For a few moments Hummingbird crouched there, silent, menacing; then slowly he extended his hand.

  Trumble was astonished—behind this simple gesture was acceptance and trust. He put his hand in Hummingbird’s and felt the ape’s strength pull him to his feet.