Tooth and Claw

by Stephen Moore

  Ki-ya had only three legs but he was far from being slow; his speed and guile at the hunt was only just short of his sister’s. It was Bryna who always found herself trailing last. In the early days she would sometimes lose their scents among the trees and in a state of panic break cover and come chasing wildly after them. And then around some tree or in some hollow she would find herself bumping awkwardly into Ki-ya. Always Ki-ya. He would be faking a limp, or listening to some sound that she couldn’t hear, sniffing at some scent that never quite reached her nose: pretending he was not waiting there for her to catch him up.

  And if he was not slowed up by his lack of legs, neither was his art at the kill any the less. He found it as easy to bring down a young rabbit at full stretch with his one front paw, as Bryna found it almost impossible with her two. “Perhaps I should bite off one of your paws, pussy,” Dart skitted. “Then maybe’s you’d hunt as well as my brother here.”

  Bryna might have turned on her, but for Ki-ya’s soft purr gently calling, “Don’t mind her. Don’t mind her.” Instead, she lifted a front leg and began hobbling about on three paws, pretending to chase awkwardly after an invisible rabbit. She tumbled over, fell heavily, missed its invisible neck with a snap of her teeth, and burst out laughing. Then Ki-ya and Dart played copycat and threw themselves after her, mewing like silly kits, stretching themselves out carelessly under the afternoon sun.

  For now there were no more dogs, no more ghosts or bad dreams, and for Bryna that was enough.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Shadow Stalking

  “What was it really like, lass – living with them?” Beacon asked one evening as the four cats lazed away a warm spring evening, belly-full and content after a successful hunt.

  “Them?” said Bryna.

  “You know, people.”

  “Oh yes, come on, tell us all about it. What was it like living in a house?” Ki-ya said enthusiastically, licking the last spot of warm rabbit’s blood from the end of his nose.

  “Pah! Who wants to know that?” said Dart. She tucked her tail in under her chin, half-closed her eyes, and lay watching her younger brother and the house-cat Bryna. Watched them very carefully.

  “Well, I don’t know really. It was . . . it was warm,” Bryna began, trying to remember how it had been. “Yes, warm, and closed in. It seems so very long ago now.” The long afternoons spent in front of roaring fires. The easy food, and easy company. “There was Mrs Ida Tupps and me, and we had a whole house all to ourselves. I used to sleep on her knee—” (Beacon tut-tutted and looked knowingly at Dart). “There was a big box that sat on a table in the corner of the front room. Sometimes it was full of strange voices.”

  “Voices in a box,” spat Dart, trying to sound as if she wasn’t the least bit interested. “I don’t believe that. Wasn’t there anything proper – like other cats?”

  For a moment Bryna didn’t say anything. In her mind she saw the town streets again. Saw Dexter and Fat Blossom, Lodger, and poor Treacle. “It was safe inside the house . . .” she said at last, but her voice trailed off, and left behind it a chill silence.

  “I talked to an old house-cat once,” Beacon said, hoping to lift the mood. “He told me his people spent all of their time rubbing things with sticks. There was a stick for the floors of his house, and one for the grass in his garden. There were even short wet sticks for rubbing the walls. Always rubbing they was—”

  “Well, yes, but—” Bryna tried to interrupt.

  “And he said his people shed their skins every night before they slept, and grew new ones again every morning when they woke up.”

  Bryna tried again. “Yes, they do, but that’s only clothes. That’s not—”

  “Mad,” said Dart, “mad they are, the lot of them. No wonder they disappeared. You’re much better off without them.”

  Bryna couldn’t bring herself to argue any more. A heavy sadness had gripped her, and wouldn’t let go. A sadness she could not run away from. She closed her eyes and while the voices of her companions babbled on around her she fell asleep.

  And in that sleep she dreamt again. Dreamt again of dark evil things . . . Of the street prowler. Of the shadow stalking. The hunter of both cat and dog, eager for the kill. Only this time she gave the creature a name, borrowed from some silly kittish memory. “Dread Booga!” she called out in her sleep. It gave her no rest. Silently, swiftly, it began to search her out, came ever closer. And she, in her turn, ran away from it. Ran wildly, and would not stop running—

  A distant crack of thunder woke her with a start.

  She was alone. It was the middle of the night. Her paws felt damp, the hair on her back and neck stood rigid, and a thick bile sickened her throat and soured her tongue. In her sleep she had backed herself into a hole beneath a knot of tree roots she had been sheltering against. Through the tangle of roots and the leafless, spring-budded treetops above her, she could see the sky. There was no moon, no stars. She sensed the blackened clouds that hung there, incredibly low, oppressive, and heavy. The air around her was cold to the touch of her nose; but this was not the cold of a fresh spring night.

  The shadows of her dark dream still filled her head and made it ache with a steady dull pulse. She pricked up her ears and tried to listen to the night. There was nothing unusual, no more thunder . . . Perhaps, like Dread Booga, that too had been a part of her strange nightmare. Even so, she did not sleep again that night. She sat there, as still as the trees, and watched. Watched until a thin watery sun worked its way through the treetops and diluted the blackness.

  With the morning came the urgent mewing of a cat.

  “Bryna. Oh, Bryna, where are you lass? Where are you?” Beacon came bounding through the trees, her whole body heaving with excitement. “Come out. Come out and see what Ki-ya has caught for himself.”

  Bryna shuffled herself out through the roots of her tree, noisily rustling the carpet of dead leaves that had gathered there the previous autumn, politely signalling her presence to Beacon. (Beacon was excited enough without having her think some wild animal was creeping up on her.)

  “Oh, there you are. Well, lass, you’ve got to come and see this for yourself.” Beacon never stopped running. She flew past Bryna going one way, swung around the nearest tree and flew past her again going back the way she had come. “Never seen anything like it. Never. And with three legs too. Three legs!” There was nothing for Bryna to do but chase after her.

  Beacon led her out of the wood, through the wire fence and on to the field beyond. The big black-and-white gawp-eyed cattle were standing feeding, just the same as always. Bryna’s ears pricked up. Ahead of her she could hear Dart and Ki-ya calling eagerly to each other.

  And then she saw it, lying there upon the ground like a huge toppled mountain . . . a fallen bullock. It still stared at her gawp-eyed, but it saw nothing now. It was dead, quite dead. One side of its huge body had been torn open across its length; a wound so deep and terrible, it had taken only the one to bring the animal down. This was no cat’s kill. No dog pack, either. And it wasn’t dogs or cats who had eaten their fill upon the carcass. The dark shadow of another hunter clung there. And impossible though it was, Bryna knew it for the creature that had haunted her dreams. She was certain this death was Dread Booga’s work.

  “Well, pussy-cat, what do you think of this?” Dart cried with delight, plunging her teeth into the loose fronds of fresh red meat that trailed from the carcass, as if she had just wrestled the animal to the ground all on her own and was making the kill herself.

  Ki-ya looked up from the spot where he was feeding upon a string of scattered entrails. He mewed at her joyfully, and went back to his feast.

  “You made this kill?” Bryna asked anxiously.

  Ki-ya lifted his head again with mock embarrassment. “Well, I might have exaggerated for my mother’s sake. But I did find the beast first!”

  “We won’t have to hunt for days and days,” Beacon said proudly, as if she hadn’t heard her son’s co
nfession, and she pounced greedily upon the carcass, suddenly desperate for her share of the spoils.

  Slowly and carefully Bryna approached the body of the bullock. There were strange scents hanging in the air around it. One seemed oddly familiar, but then again, not. And something had burnt here, though there were no visible signs, something that left her nose stinging. “I-I don’t like this . . . it’s-it’s not natural, somehow.”

  “Oh, pah!” spat Dart. “What more do you want? The creature’s deader than a stone. It couldn’t even hurt a scaredy-cat now.

  “It’s just that, it’s just . . .” She didn’t finish. It was all too hard to explain, even to herself, and her mouth was dripping with saliva as the tantalising scent of fresh meat began to mask both the smell of fear and that of the hunter.

  For several days the carcass of the bullock lay in the field. It became an essential part of their daily prowl. An easy meal, and not only for the cats. Bryna caught the smell of dog on the second morning. And something else fed there too . . . something much larger, that splintered the biggest of the bones as if they were twigs, took off a whole leg at one go and carried it away. And if the scent that remained belonged to a hunter, it was something else too…

  The smell of a bad dream. The smell of Dread Booga.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Shadow Falling

  Then came the morning when what was left of the dead bullock was not worth eating. Its meat was too old and maggot-ridden even for the scavengers, and its scattered bones were no longer moist pink, but dry white.

  The day started brightly. The sun was shining, throwing deep shadows between the trees, and there was no wind to carry a cat’s scent. Perfect conditions for a hunt. Beacon led the way across the Town Moor and down on to one of the narrow lanes that would take them into the outskirts of the town and eventually to the riverside. It was a lazy prowl. Ki-ya and Dart walked side by side a few paces behind their mother, and Bryna a few paces behind them. Only instinct kept them off the tarmac road and within the shadows of the hedgerow that ran alongside the lane. There were no speeding cars or treacherous lorries threatening to run them down, but old habits die hard, and the less any likely prey knew of their presence the better.

  They didn’t get far. Beacon hissed at them to stop.

  “What is it?” Ki-ya called, standing still.

  “We must take cover. Quickly now. There’s little time.”

  Without further question the four cats scampered up the shallow earth bank that formed the base of the hedge at the side of the lane. And one by one they found a make-shift spot to hide within it.

  “What is it, Beacon?” Ki-ya called again, his eyes and ears alert and searching. His senses told him nothing, but he’d learnt to trust his mother’s skills. It was a common enough routine.

  “There, look – see? Where the lane twists towards the bottom of the valley. We aren’t the only animals out on the prowl.” Beacon’s eyes were so much better than her kits it was some moments before they caught on.

  “Dogs?” said Dart.

  “Aye, lass, dogs. Come across the river by the stones of the old bridge. Six of them . . . although I was near certain I counted seven. And they’re moving this way, very fast.”

  “Well, if they’re after the meat of that bullock, they’re wasting their time. Even their stomachs couldn’t keep it down now.”

  “Shush – be still now.”

  The cats held their breath. The dogs were already getting close and a scented breath would have given them away faster than a cry. Perhaps, if they did not breathe, if they kept perfectly still, if the heads of the dogs were full up with whatever nonsense it was they were intent upon pursuing, the cats wouldn’t be noticed there, hidden in the shadows of the hedge.

  The dog pack didn’t break its pace. Soon it would be past. Soon they would be safe.

  A terrier at the back of the pack suddenly skidded awkwardly, lost his stride, and pulled himself to a stop. He sat down heavily, self-consciously, used a back leg to scratch away a fly he pretended was bothering his ear.

  The cats froze. Or at least, they thought they did. The dog stood up again, held his head high. His wet nostrils twitched, strained, searched the air for something.

  “Come on, Yip-yap,” barked an ugly brown-haired mongrel at the front of the pack. “Stop messin’ about.”

  Yip-yap started at the sound of his name. Sniffed the air again, and then, wagging his short stub-end of a tail, bounded after his companions.

  “That was a close call,” whispered Bryna. “Too close.”

  “I reckon we could have handled them, if we’d had to,” Dart said, weakly, her voice giving away the pretence of her words.

  “Shush!” hissed Beacon. “It’s not over yet, lass. There’s still one missing. I’m certain of it.” Ki-ya sensed his mother’s nervous mood. If there was no wind to carry away a cat’s scent, there was no wind to bring a dog’s scent to them.

  “GOTCHA!” roared Khan. The huge dog charged at them from behind, came straight at them through the thickest part of the hedge, eyes glaring, teeth bared.

  There was instant panic, instant movement. The cats shot out from beneath the hedge, with nowhere to run but out into the middle of the lane. Bryna found herself facing the dog pack. It had turned around in response to Khan’s excited outburst.

  The stench of the dogs, their hot, panting breath, engulfed her. At first her paws flailed about uselessly as their mass of heavy bodies turned and twisted around and over her, agitated to the attack. Snarls, roars, squeals of pain, all became the same then. Ki-ya’s head appeared for a moment over the back of a poodle, only to disappear again as Dart shot out from between the legs of the ugly mongrel. And then, suddenly, a flash of Beacon’s claws—

  The dogs may have had the element of surprise, but they were not quite prepared for a fight with wild cats. Bryna began to find her mark. She struck out instinctively with open claws, planted them deep: found fur, or skin, or muscle, anything that gained her a hold. Then she pushed out with her back legs in an attempt to throw herself upwards and clear of the pack. She would have made it too, if Yip-yap hadn’t been turning in mid-air, attempting to bite off Beacon’s tail as it whipped passed him. Dog and cat collided, and landed together in a heap.

  Yip-yap was quick enough to catch hold of Bryna’s ear in his teeth, tearing it to shreds like a piece of soggy newspaper. Fortunately for Bryna the momentum of their fall kept them rolling, and finding himself turning underneath her, Yip-yap let go for an instant. His jaws quickly snapped shut again searching for her neck and a grip he knew would bring death. But his break of hold was decisive. As Yip-yap moved, so did Bryna. She strummed frantically at his unprotected belly with her back legs. And as her claws tore open the soft flesh, they gained a firm hold there. Again instinct told her to use her advantage and throw herself clear. To run. To run and run and run.

  Yip-yap was at her heels. The heat of his anger, the agony of his belly wound as much his weapons as the snap of his teeth.

  “You can’t run forever cat,” he yelled. Bryna’s eyes stared blankly ahead, seeing nothing but escape. She did not know there were cats running with her. Ahead of her Dart was drawing off the main pack of dogs with Khan at their head. Almost alongside her ran Beacon and Ki-ya.

  “She’ll run you to your grave, dog,” Ki-ya hissed at the terrier.

  “Aye, she will, lad. If I don’t get to you first.” Beacon ran a tight circle around the stump of an old tree. To his dismay, Yip-yap found the wild cat charging at him from the side, slashing at his snout with open claws. And he was tiring now, as the pain of his wound bit deeper. Yip-yap dropped to the ground, turned his attack to defence before the cat could land another blow. For a moment Beacon was undecided; should she try to finish off the stricken dog or make her own escape? In front of her Dart was losing ground to Khan, had somehow been turned and was running into the path of the fleeing Ki-ya and Bryna. A second encounter with the pack would leave them without t
he strength for flight. It would be all or nothing.

  The dogs began to bay and howl as they were filled with the madness of the hunt.

  But the real madness was only just beginning.

  In a single moment the chase was suddenly ended. Not by a dog. Not by a cat, either. They all stood heavily upon the open ground, solid and unmoving, like lumps of stone. Pursuers and pursued. All staring in the same direction. All disbelieving what it was they saw standing there.

  The creeping shadow of Bryna’s nightmares began to fill her mind again. But the nightmare was not inside her head this time: it was out there in front of her. Out there in the open. Standing looking down upon them all. And its presence hurt.

  Still no animal moved. Dogs and cats alike stood panting nervously, or whining, or silently crying. Puzzled beyond puzzlement. All eyes carefully watching as the creeping shadow began to move among them.

  “It’s a . . . it’s a man,” cried out Yip-yap.

  “Yes. Yes . . . it is a man,” Bryna answered. “It is a man!” And yet, if this was a man, what was the shadow that hung so closely about him, disguising his form? The shadow that even now was getting darker as he approached. A clawing hurt inside Bryna’s head gripped tighter, and would not let go.

  “They’ve come back. They’ve come back for us!” Dogs began to bark loudly with excitement. “Yes, oh yes! Just like you said they would, Khan. Just like you said.” Their tails thrashed and whipped with joy. And almost as one they began to run towards the solitary figure.

  Bryna felt split in two. She too should run to greet him. Turn belly up, play begging-kitten. A strange excitement began to burn deep down inside of her, tempting her forward. Tempting her even as the claws of the shadow held her back. He would be her comfort – just as Mrs Ida Tupps had been – he would feed her, keep her warm and safe . . .