The Hundred Names of Darkness

by Nilanjana Roy

  “What-evah,” said Hatch, yawning.

  Tooth stomped ahead, placing his talons on the bumpy ground with some force to try and relieve his feelings.

  “Here,” he said, indicating the spot with his beak. “Line up beside me.”

  “Do I have to?” said Hatch, dragging his talons moodily over the stumpy grass.

  Tooth turned, and this time there was a decidedly unpleasant glint in his yellow eyes. “Of course you don’t have to,” he said, his keeks losing their shrill edge and acquiring a dangerous sweetness instead. “We’ll go back right this moment to our lovely warm nest, and you can explain everything to Claw. Shall we?”

  Hatch stared at his father, his eyes black and opaque. “Explain to Mom?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Tooth, preening his tail feathers, inspecting the hooklets and then the calamus of each one with great care. “I’m sure she’ll listen very, very carefully to everything you have to say.”

  Hatch glowered at his father, but remained hunched over, a small stubborn ball of brown and gold feathers standing his ground.

  “Or,” said Tooth, “since we’ve come all the way here, we could get in a bit of practice.”

  Hatch stirred, and slouched along the ground to the starting point, his belly collecting dried leaves and other debris.

  “There,” said Tooth cheerfully. “You might even enjoy this, if you’d let yourself.”

  Hatch closed his eyes and ducked his small head so that only the very top of the pileum was visible above his wings. “What-evah,” said the pileum crossly to Tooth.

  “Quit making a fuss,” said Tooth, “you know you like this bit. Now, we’re going to do this together. Though you’d normally spread your wings and take the plunge from the nest, there is another way for us to get airborne off the ground.”

  Hatch made a noise at the back of his throat that Tooth chose to interpret as a sound of assent.

  “Here we go!” said Tooth. “First, spread your wings out and give them a nice long stretch. That’s right, that’s right, shake the dust and the twigs out of them. Then, press your talons into the earth, feel the connection, very good, very good, young Hatch. You could start flapping your wings at this point—no? No problem, mustn’t rush these things, we’ll do it your way.”

  Hatch had unfurled his wings, and was bobbing up and down on his talons, stretching his tarsus in delight.

  “Excellent!” said Tooth. “Here we go! Spread your wings out—that’s right, watch out for the bougainvillea, don’t let them get tangled up in the blossoms—and now, we start the run-up!”

  A squirrel shooting down the bark of an ancient neem stopped to watch, astonished. Two cheels bobbed up and down, waddling faster and faster on their legs, flapping their wings as they trundled along the grass and mud.

  “Perfect!” cried Tooth, his keek-keek soaring through the freezing evening air, making beak-shaped clouds of mist ahead of him. “You’re going to do it, Hatch!”

  “Yes, Dad!” cried Hatch, whose wings were held straight out in classic fashion, echoing the perfect form of the last few cheels far above them in the sky.

  “You are?” said Tooth, forgetting his run-up and wobbling in surprise.

  “Yes, Dad!” cried Hatch, bobbing up and down as he ran.

  “Here we go!” cried Tooth. “Flight pattern: domestic hopping flight, short distance only, first target, edge of canal bridge, to the left of the big black pig. Got that?”

  “Got that!” called Hatch.

  “Prepare for lift-off!” called Tooth. “Wings unfurled, pinions ready, talons off the ground. Got that?”

  “Got that!” called Hatch.

  “One, two, three…lift OFF!” cried Tooth. “Reach for the skies!”

  “Reach for the…nope, sorry, Dad. Changed my mind,” said Hatch.

  “You…what?” called Tooth, who had soared into the air and was heading for the bridge. “Hatch, you did it again.”

  The cheel circled the canal, ignoring the filthy sludge and the promising scutter of prey on its banks, pretending not to hear the questioning calls from the last few cheels left in the sky, relieved that none of them were from his squadron. His eyes photographed the scene back on the pavement that ran along the edge of the canal. Illuminated in the glow of the streetlights, bobbing up and down—like a duck, like a blasted duck, not a cheel, he thought furiously—and racing along the grass, with his small curving beak carving a wobbly trajectory through it all, was his son. Hatch—child of two of Nizamuddin’s best-known raptors, son of the cheel known for his deeds in the battle of the ferals, descendant of Stoop, who had been one of Delhi’s fastest, most ferocious aviators—had failed to get off the ground again.

  Tooth couldn’t bear to go back right away. He did a backflip in the sky, letting the thermals waft him all the way down the canal route, until he had to flip himself over and swing through the maze of electric poles that lined the alleys leading to Nizamuddin’s ancient dargah. The cheel shot up above the roofs, heading for the safety of the high skies. And then he changed his mind. “Figures of eight,” he said to himself grimly.

  He sliced through the darkness, letting himself drop like a stone until he was almost level with the tops of the electrical poles. Then he unfurled his wings, just in time, shooting up again, slipping and sliding between the electrical lines, between the poles. It eased his heart a fraction, so he did a few slaloms, a few shimmies, just for fun. His aerobatics were so dazzling that the cheels roosting along the roofs of the dargah poked their heads out to watch the show.

  Tooth saw a young Bigfoot, the butcher’s apprentice, come ambling out of a lane. The boy spotted him as he swung between three poles, flying almost parallel to the ground, the barest of gaps between his wingtips and the lines whose hum spoke of danger. Tooth hesitated; he had always told his squadron to stay well away from the Bigfeet. But there was only this one, and he was a fledgling Bigfoot, not at all dangerous, whispered a little voice in his head. “Anything goes,” said Tooth, half to himself, and then he flashed all the way down until he was skimming the lane. He shot past the boy’s head, watching the stunned, fascinated eyes, and he circled the boy, brushing the Bigfoot’s head lightly with the tip of a feather.

  The boy flinched, and that brought Tooth to his senses. The cheel turned on his side and skimmed out of there hurriedly, hitching a ride on the thermals. As he shot out from above the roofs, he could see other Bigfeet faces turned up in his direction, and then the earth shrank, receding, leaving him back in the skies that he loved so much.

  He sped towards the canal, but he felt the air change behind him, and turned to greet the cheel who had swooped down from behind the winter moon.

  “Later, Slash,” he said to the old fighter. “I have things to do.”

  Slash flew by his side, giving Tooth his space, but not going away, either.

  “This can’t wait,” said Slash.

  “It has to,” said Tooth. “Like I said, I’m busy.”

  “Do you understand the risks you took back there?” said Slash, swerving so that he and Tooth were almost wingtip to wingtip.

  “Look, Slash,” said Tooth. “I appreciate this, but…”

  Slash cried out once, a battle cry, a warning of attack, and shot past Tooth until he was a cloud’s distance away; then he turned so neatly that Tooth almost plunged downwards. Slash hovered in front of him now, challenging his old friend to look away.

  “No, you don’t,” said Slash, as the two cheels circled in the sky, staring at each other. “You spent so many of your years as a fledgling trying to live up to the Commander—yes, you did, Tooth, I watched you grow up, and I was his Group Captain just as I’m yours now—that you didn’t grasp the truth.”

  “What truth?” said Tooth, as the winds swiped at them, and both cheels rocked sideways, trying to retain their balance.

  “You were trying so hard to be like Conquer,” said Slash, rising so that he was slightly higher than Tooth, “that you didn’t realize
you were exactly like Stoop.”

  “My mother?” said Tooth, startled. “But there’s no resemblance.”

  Slash’s laugh cut as sharply as the wind chill factor, his keeks slicing through the air.

  “I flew with her for years,” he said. “And you fly exactly like her when you’re upset or angry. The aerobatics. The control. The precision. And the high wings take your feathers, you stupid cheel! Tooth, the risk-taking!”

  Tooth fluttered his wings, keeping an eye on the tiny blob far down below that was Hatch. They were approaching the canal bridge at speed.

  “Calculated risks,” he said. “I knew what I was doing. I have to go now, Slash, my boy’s down there alone.”

  Slash did a barrel roll to work off his emotions, and when he came back up, his feathers were calm. He flew alongside Tooth for a while, neither of the cheels calling out or speaking.

  “I’ve known you since you were a fledgling, Tooth,” he said. “I’ve watched you grow up, I saw you handle some things that would have torn the wings of a lesser bird apart. But you have to know this: you aren’t helping your boy by taking the risks you did back there. Those were electrical wires, some of them live. Those were concrete poles you were swinging around at that speed. That area is crawling with Bigfeet.”

  Tooth turned his beak away, and when he spoke, his voice was even, though his keen eyes glittered.

  “I know what I’m doing, Slash,” he said.

  Slash folded his wings and dropped down hundreds of feet. Then he soared back up, getting right into Tooth’s flight path, forcing the other cheel to slow down.

  “So did your mother,” Slash said drily. “Stoop knew exactly what she was doing, and calibrated every risk she took, and got away with it.”

  “Well,” said Tooth, preparing to dive back down to Hatch. “You’re the one who said I resembled my mother.”

  “Every single risk,” said Slash, “until the day she did a triple roll through those wires, and hit a live one. Don’t carry the resemblance too far, Tooth. Your son doesn’t need to find out the way his father did what it’s like to lose a parent.”

  And with that, the old cheel was gone, speeding away, a fading black dot that melted into the night sky.

  Tooth did a double roll, but his heart wasn’t in it. It had been a dreary evening. He flapped his wings, slowly, and began the long dive down. The dot on the ground far below had been joined by another dot. Tooth made himself think of landing patterns. He thought of the way Hatch’s head had looked, the sticky feathers forming a plume, when his son had popped out of the shell, following his sister Mach into the world. He concentrated on his low flight over the bridge, where the tarry waters of the canal heaved and foamed sullenly, and on the buzzing pigs who stood shivering on the banks. He concentrated on everything he could call to his mind, except for the empty space in the sky near his left wingtip where Hatch should have been flying.

  One of the dots he’d seen lifted off the earth, and soared up into the sky, expanding into a brown ball and then an arrowhead shape. Tooth watched his daughter, noting the clean trajectory, the ease with which she caught and rode on the back of the winter winds. Mach had a knack for reading the sky; she took after Claw, who could map the most unknown terrain in one sharp glance, letting the bristles on her beak tell her the secrets of the thermals and the clouds.

  “Dad,” she called as she drew closer, “there’s a cat down there who wants to talk to you.”

  Tooth dipped sharply, peering in Mach’s direction.

  “You left your brother alone with a cat?” he said, his call harsh.

  “Chill, Dad, you worry too much,” she said. “It’s that dude, the one who chats with Mom and you every so often, the grey tom.”

  “Katar,” said Tooth, his feathers relaxing, his talons uncurling in the air. “Yes, we met at the battle of the ferals.” He thought of the friend who had brought them together, the wise Siamese cat who’d given her life trying to save Nizamuddin’s little ones. After the battle, Katar had approached him, stiff-legged, his hackles wary; but there was gratitude in the tom’s whiskers, and he offered Tooth the thanks of the Nizamuddin clan, for the way in which the cheels had come to the aid of the cats. They had talked about Miao, sharing their memories of the Siamese, Tooth perched on a flame tree branch, Katar curled up on the railing of the balcony that ran alongside the flame tree. The two had sensed a connection. They were both warriors and leaders by nature, and they had similar instincts: the clan came first for Katar, the squadron’s well-being mattered most to Tooth.

  The cat and the cheel were careful not to intrude too far into each other’s territory, but a friendship of sorts had sprung up between them. And while Katar and the dargah cats still stalked the young fledglings every year, and Tooth and his squadron made the occasional sortie, dive-bombing the cats so that they had to scatter, it was understood that this was just business, nothing personal. Hatch would be safe in Katar’s company.

  “Dad!” said Mach as they approached the earth. “Stop brooding! Don’t let your feathers get into a tangle. Hatch will get it one of these days.”

  “You’ve been out of the nest and flying for more than a moon,” said Talon, circling close to the tops of the trees and the straggling shrubbery. He hated coming out of the sky, losing the speed and the effortless grace he took for granted; the ground pulled at him, holding him down, making him exchange soars and swoops for that graceless waddle.

  Mach touched her wingtips to her father’s larger wings, brushing them lightly.

  “He’ll fly when he’s ready,” she said. “Look at him! He’s so happy racing along the ground!”

  And indeed, Hatch made a funny sight, scooting along and zigzagging, his wings dipping crazily from side to side as he chased a cobweb spider under the branches of a fallen tree.

  He looks like a partridge or a pheasant or a peacock, not a cheel, Tooth thought sadly, but for his daughter’s sake, he said nothing.

  Hatch came to a halt as the two cheels landed, and while he raised his wings in greeting, he didn’t look his father in the eye. Tooth took a quick look around; Katar sat some distance away, on an abandoned concrete pipe, giving the cheels their privacy.

  “So,” he said carefully, “what happened this time, Hatch? Did something scare you?”

  The fledgling hunched his shoulders, still not looking at Tooth, and started to walk backwards, leaving tiny talon marks in the soft earth.

  “Na,” he said. “I wasn’t scared.”

  Tooth waited, his feathers fluffed against the cold. Mach watched the two, her eyes inscrutable, her beak tucked into her left wing.

  “You had a perfect run-up,” said Tooth. “We’d discussed your flight path. You had it memorized. All you needed to do was spread your wings and let go.”

  “Whatever,” mumbled Hatch, picking a flea out of his feathers.

  Tooth lost his patience, letting out an angry series of keeks, flapping his wings.

  “Your mother and I have been so patient with you, Hatch,” he said. “We haven’t pushed you out of the nest—all right, not after that one time when you plummeted straight down and Claw had to catch you on her back. We’ve walked you up and down this stretch of ground for what seems like most of winter. Mach is flying! She’s doing double rolls already! Most of this year’s fledglings are airborne! You’re the only one stuck to the ground, and I have to ask—is this the way you intend to spend your life as a cheel? Scurrying around like a beetle?”

  Hatch had pulled his plumage over his eyes, so that he looked like a small furry ball shuffling along the ground.

  “Idontwanna,” he said. “Flying’s so silly. Just because we’ve done it for generations doesn’t mean we have to keep doing it. You might want to flap your wings and disappear into the sky, but I don’t like it. The sky’s so empty! The ground’s much nicer. You can’t fall out of it, for one thing.”

  “You can’t fall…” Tooth began, his beak opening and shutting, but Mach intervened.<
br />
  “Dad, you’d better talk to your friend, he’s been waiting for a while,” she said. “Why don’t I take Hatch off to the nest? Then you can take your time, fly up whenever you’re ready.”

  “Sure,” said Tooth bitterly. “Take that freak with you. Hop along the ground instead of using the wings you were born with. I wish…never mind. Go on, you two.”

  Except for the sounds of the Bigfeet’s handcarts—the vegetable seller, the fruit seller and the rest who were trundling home, done for the day—there was very little noise in Nizamuddin. Tooth glared at the retreating backs of his chicks, both of them waddling along as they made for the nest. Then he turned away, folding his wings sadly, and walked with his legs awkwardly splayed over to where Katar sat.

  He was too far away to hear a short exchange between Mach and Hatch.

  “Mach?” said Hatch, his stumpy legs working hard to keep up with hers.

  “Yeah, brat?”

  “Dad said I’m a freak.”

  “Dad says anything that comes into his head when he’s angry. Don’t get your feathers in a twist.”

  “Mach?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Suppose I never want to fly, ever?”

  “It’s okay,” said Mach. “I’ll look after you.”

  “Ah,” said Hatch.

  They waddled along the banks of the canal.

  “I mean, you might be a freak,” said Mach, “but you’re my baby brother freak.”

  “Take it back.”

  “Freak!”

  “I hate you!”

  “Is the widdle fweak a cwybaby birdie, then?”

  “What-EVAH!” said Hatch crossly, and he lowered his head back into his feathers as they stumped up to the base of their tree.

  —

  KATAR APPEARED TO BE absorbed in the activities of a colony of termites who were expanding their territory in daring fashion, marching towards the very edge of the concrete wall that separated the canal from the road.

  As he joined the cat, Tooth remembered something his mother had said to him, in one of the years when the population of dargah cheels and Nizamuddin cheels had hit a record high. “Sometimes, it’s more polite to fold your wings and learn how to stare out, seeing only the wires, only the trees, giving the other cheels their own, private piece of the sky,” Stoop had said, as they’d watched a cheel family fluff their feathers protectively around each other in the monsoon rains.