The bandicoot twitched his snout; he rolled a small ball of sand between his pink palms.
“You have any objection, Chamcha?” he said. He snuffled twice, sharply. “Because you should think very hard before you voice an objection, no? What is the point of having a hundred bandicoot families at your beck and call if you can’t beck them and call them, yes?”
“But I am nobody to object,” said Chamcha hurriedly. His tail showed signs of bite marks, and he twitched the tip nervously, as though he was scared of acquiring a few more. “I am only your humble, obedient servant, Moonch, whatever you say is fine by me. If you tell me to move your burrow to the top of the koel’s tree, we will oblige. If you tell me to move your burrow to the clubhouse, it shall be done forthwith! It shall all be as you say, Moonch, please forgive your humble servant if he has given offence.”
“Slinky, bite him,” said Moonch lazily. A bandicoot with a sly, conniving air about his eyes sidled up to Chamcha and took his tail up. Delicately, Slinky sank his teeth in to the tip, his black eyes feeding on Chamcha’s squeaks of pain.
“I am nobody to object, too,” said Poonch, his grunt calm, even belligerent. “And yet, one of us must, Moonch. The Bigfeet have noticed how deep our burrows go—some of them were walking around the other day, taking note of how many runs we had in each hole. They won’t run away as easily as the cats. If we cut back on our burrows, if we moved off the fairways and the greens, they’d probably leave us alone. But there are too many of us—and who are these new families anyway? Chamcha and I haven’t invited them, so you must have. It seems like every bandicoot in Delhi is showing up on the Golf Course.”
“How dare you!” squeaked Moonch. “This is my burrow! This is my Golf Course! I’ll invite whoever I please!”
“You’re inviting trouble,” said Poonch. His grunt had deepened; he rubbed his pink paws together in some nervousness. “You don’t want to hear this, Moonch, but it’s all going out of control. If we don’t get the newcomers out of here, and if we don’t stop building, the Bigfeet or some sort of predators will attack. We could live here peacefully for years if we’d just show some sense.”
“You were always a coward,” said Moonch, contemptuously. “Haven’t I planned ahead? If the Bigfeet try anything, I have my retreat in order. You’re forgetting what I am, Poonch, I think ahead.”
Poonch straightened up, and he held his tail in both paws as he stared at Moonch. “I know what you are,” he said. “But can’t you stop, Moonch? All we wanted was a small part of the course where we could breed in peace.”
“That’s what you wanted, fools like you and Chamcha,” said Moonch. He seemed to have lost interest in his former friends; his pink ears were cupped as he listened for something. “I always wanted the full course, all of it. A place for the bandicoots and the rats, only for us.”
“Why couldn’t we have shared?” said Poonch. “The rest of them do—the cats, the owls, the peacocks. Everyone shares their territory.”
Moonch grunted, a noise of satisfaction. “That’s because they are fools,” he said. “So smart of you to mention the owls and the peacocks.” There was a sudden screech from above ground, and then more. “We made a decision some days ago—Slinky and me.” The owls began hooting, and Poonch heard Hobson’s angry screeches. “We thought: these birds have too much territory. They strut around, fluffing up their feathers, and do they show us respect? No. I am a humble creature. I eat only a few beetles every day, only a handful of woodlice, some grubs, whatever birds’ eggs might be going around—simple, honest food. All I ask for is respect, yes?”
The screeches intensified, becoming more frantic, as the peacocks called to one another.
“And if it is not forthcoming, then we must take steps, yes?” said Moonch. His black beady eyes exuded a calm certainty. “It occurred to me that there was no need to build tunnels around the place, joining them up. If we took over the peacock’s territory, then we could tunnel through. Much simpler. I am a simple creature, after all, a bandicoot of humble, simple tastes.”
Abruptly, the screeches stopped. Poonch had no love for peacocks, but he felt a shiver run through his fur. The new settlers, those who had streamed in over the last few days, were far too eager to brawl and fight and spill blood as long as it was not their own.
Moonch drummed his tail on the floor and looked up at the sandy roof. “What’s taking them so long?” he said to Slinky. “They were supposed to report back immediately to tell me that they’ve taken over. I plan to have all the fairways under my control by morning, and then the clubhouse—those cats…”
He stopped in mid-squeak. The roof shook, and dust began falling into the centre of the burrow.
“Careful, you fools!” he grunted. “Step lightly, step lightly, no need to thump across the bunker!”
The sand began to stream steadily down, and Slinky ducked. Cracks started to ricochet across the ceiling. Poonch stared up—and then he had to fling himself onto the floor, to avoid the claw that ripped through the roof. For a moment, the claw hung there, as curved as a scimitar, as sharp as a rat’s tooth, and then it disappeared upwards, taking part of the roof with it.
“That was no bandicoot!” said Poonch.
“That was no peacock!” said Chamcha.
In the distance, they heard the sound of paws scurrying—away from the burrows, not towards them.
“Wait!” grunted Moonch. “I haven’t given you permission to go! Guards! Get them.”
A peacock screeched triumphantly. “A Mor! A Mor!” called Thomas, his cry carrying across the Golf Course.
Moonch whirled around, rubbing his paws together. “Slinky, get all of the families up and out! All of them! At once!”
An answering call came rippling back, and then another, and then a third, until the air resonated with the sound of peacock screeches. And then the yowls started. Huddled in the burrow, the bandicoots who had rushed out from their galleries and chambers shivered, as a cat hurled a challenge into the night.
“Cowards!” snapped Moonch, his tail quivering. “It’s only one cat, we can take it down like that.”
The caterwauling intensified, and from the north, another cat joined in. The bandicoots muttered and jostled one another.
“Two!” said Moonch contemptuously. “And there are so many of us. Remember how those two ran for their lives? Remember the fear in their whiskers?”
Another cat started up, and slowly, the sounds grew, until they formed an image in the minds of the bandicoots. Outside the burrow, a circle of cats stalked round and round, closing in on them.
“Moonch,” said Slinky, “I’ll just go and check on the other burrows, shall I?”
“You yellow-bellied, weak-furred, cowardly excuse for a…” Moonch began, but then the roof shook again and the sand poured down, in such strong drifts that the bandicoots started to cough and sneeze. They swarmed for the exits, frantic to get out of the tunnels.
Moonch stayed where he was, his black eyes glinting. He waited until the burrows had emptied, and he urged the few bandicoots who were hanging back to go. “Never mind me,” he said, his squeak suddenly acquiring a noble tinge to it. “Yes, yes, there’s a risk that the roof will fall in, but you must get out safely. Go, my friends, go. I’ll follow later.”
He waited, listening. The tunnels held the lingering, oily residue of bandicoot fur, and he heard the squeaks of relief as they tumbled out. Then the squeaks changed to cries of fear and despair. He listened, his pink ear quivering, as the peacocks cried “A Mor! A Mor!” and the bandicoots scurried here and there, as the cats caterwauled and yowled in triumph. And when Moonch saw blood darken the sand of the walls of the tunnels, he combed his whiskers, pleased that he had managed to escape.
He heard Southpaw’s growl close by, and peered out, careful not to risk his whiskers by getting too close. A black flood of bandicoots streamed out of the burrows, some hysterical with terror at the scent of so many cats, making for the walls. They would slip over, or tunnel under,
and find a place for themselves in the sewer systems nearby, or on the canal banks. Southpaw held two bandicoots in his jaws. He stood near a grey tom whose claws were out. Spinning through the fairways, a black-and-white cat whirled, spreading destruction in her wake. She moved so fast that Moonch felt his own stomach clench; the warrior queen and the other cats were everything that he had been brought up to fear.
Beraal yowled, hurling a string of war cries into the air, and her paws wreaked havoc wherever she went. “This feels like the old days, Southpaw!” she called. “I’ve missed being a warrior so much! Oh look, Katar’s got them on the run on the other side of the greens!” There, too, a river of bandicoots pushed and jostled one another as they fled the cats on one side, the peacocks on the other.
The cats stalked along one side of the field, and Moonch blinked, kicking back the sand with his hind legs so that he could burrow down and stay hidden. To the other side, the peacocks ran, making for the burrows on other fairways. A high screech alerted him to the danger in the skies; Hatch soared above the Golf Course, scouting for bandicoot runs.
The bandicoot climbed deep into the burrows, kicking sand over the bodies of those who had died in this one-sided war and fallen back in through the crumbling roof. Moonch pushed back a hanging taproot, and squeezed through the gap in the earthen wall. It didn’t look as though it was large enough to lead anywhere, but he emerged on the other side into a wide gallery. From the gallery, a long, narrow corridor bearing the signs of fresh scrape marks, but only a few paw prints, as if to indicate that it had been used by only one or two bandicoots, led deeper still.
Moonch descended through the earth, letting the musty scent comfort him. He scurried through the scraped-out corridors with their low ceilings, using the ends of the roots that poked out through the walls to help him pass through, but he didn’t rush. The bandicoot stepped into a wide gallery that had been built with some care. It was large enough to hold four or five bandicoots in comfort, well stocked with a selection of fine foods—hand-picked fungus, dried wild mushrooms, plant tubers and some grubs, squirming in a deep-dug pit. The walls were lined with bits of wool from the Bigfeet’s clothes, leaves, grass and other detritus patted together to make a snug nest. There was ample ventilation despite the depth of the burrow; it had been built to take advantage of two enormous tap roots, and chimneys of a sort had been constructed by removing some of the sand around each root.
Moonch surveyed his lair with satisfaction, and then, rubbing his palms together, he stepped into the next chamber. His whiskers twitched with pleasure when he thought of how clever he had been. It was a pity about the bandicoots who had died, but there were always more. His burrow was well-stocked; he would wait until the peacocks and the cats—officious beasts—had left. If there were bandicoots left above, they might die, too, but there was no shortage of bandicoots in Delhi; more would join him at need, in the seasons to come. And they had dug plenty of burrows all around the course. Moonch felt he might take an evening walk along the burrows every so often, once the fuss had died down.
He heard a scuffling sound, like paws running over a wall, and the patter of feet, but those sounds grew more distant. Moonch rested in the comfort of the scrape he had made in the burrow’s loose earth. He thought there might be a few of his kind left, after the carnage, and in the fullness of time, he, Moonch, who had imagined a better life for his clan and his kind than any of the other long-snouted ones, would bring the bandicoots back again. Different ones, perhaps, but there was little difference between a Slinky and a Chamcha.
There was a scraping noise from the tunnel that led back into his wide, comfortable gallery, and behind the other wall, the one that led to an old set of abandoned rat runs he hadn’t bothered to examine, a quick, rushing patter. “Who’s there?” called Moonch.
“Nothing to worry about,” said Poonch. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” The scraping sound continued; then there was a series of rapid, muffled thuds.
“What are you doing?” asked Moonch.
“Only a few security measures,” said Poonch, grunting with the exertion. Moonch heard him work his way out of wherever he was; and then he smelled Poonch’s fur above, and looked up.
Poonch peered down at him, through one of the gaps in the roof, where a large root dangled down into the chamber. His snout was scratched and bloodied.
“You’re all right, Moonch?” he said, chuffing from exertion. “Came out of the battle unscathed, I see.”
Moonch twitched his whiskers, trying to read Poonch’s scent. His hind legs, he found, were alert and ready for battle, though he wasn’t sure why.
“I got lucky,” he said, his grunt wary.
Poonch’s black eyes blinked. “Yes,” he said. “Bandicoots like you often get lucky, Moonch, very lucky. They get lucky when they haul themselves out of the sewers and the gutters and start to boss their friends around. They get lucky in wars where they send other bandicoots out to do the mucky work of fighting, and bleeding, and dying. They get lucky when they discover a place better than the stinking, cramped quarters they came from. Some of them stop right there, you know? Some stop when they have a fine, clean burrow of their own.”
“What are you talking about, Poonch?” said Moonch. “Babbling like a babbler, on and on and on.”
Poonch went on as though Moonch hadn’t let out a squeak.
“Some never do stop, Moonch,” he said, his shoestring tail poised over his head. “Some get greedy after they get lucky. They want more, and more, and still more, and they forget that luck runs out. They put everything that really matters into danger because they can’t stop wanting more, their bellies never full no matter how much they might stuff their snouts. They put everyone into danger, except for their own precious selves, and they dream dangerous dreams.”
He moved away, his snout disappearing into the darkness. Moonch heard another sound, one that made his own ears stand up in alarm. Poonch was digging with his hind legs, and Moonch remembered how large those legs were, how well-muscled, how much sand and earth they could bring down with them.
“Chhota Poonch,” he called, “stop that at once! You’re bringing the roof down on this place.”
“If I do it right,” Poonch called back, “you will be buried forever, locked up into the earth so that you can never harm anyone else again. The fairways run with the blood of bandicoots who followed you, Moonch, the Bigfeet’s greens are black with the blood and guts of bandicoots whose only fault was to accept an invitation you sent them. You’ve been lucky, Moonch. Very lucky.”
Moonch grunted, a hard, angry noise.
“Nonsense,” he said. “You won’t bury me, Poonch. I built this place, and I know where all the doors are. You won’t sleep much, because you’ll know that my whiskers and my teeth are after you, and one day, when you do sleep, I’ll catch up, and that will be the end of your treacherous, betraying ways.”
He climbed up to the tunnel that led to his chamber and crawled in. Poonch waited, pausing in his labours, allowing his hind legs a rest.
Moonch squeaked in fury, “The exit’s blocked! Poonch, that was your doing.”
“You ordered this place to be built,” said Poonch. “I was the one who built it. Don’t bother trying the other exits, they’re firmly sealed. Except for the ones in the far wall, the ones that lead to the ancient rat runs. You never bothered to talk to the rats, did you? I did, half a moon ago. They didn’t seem to like your plans, Moonch. They didn’t seem to think it was a good idea to draw the Bigfeet’s attention to their quiet, ancient runs, places that had been left undisturbed—until you got here. In fact, they didn’t seem to like the idea of you taking over their most ancient chamber at all. But I’ll let them explain the matter to you.”
Moonch scrabbled to go up the walls, but they had been well made. It would take a lot of digging before he could bring them down. He scraped with his hind legs, frantically.
Poonch started up again, aiming his hind legs with some care at a
single spot on the roof. Clods of earth started to rain down, and then larger and larger pieces.
Moonch grunted, and Poonch heard the sound of claws scraping against stone.
Inside the chamber, the earth crumbled slowly, leaving bald patches in the far wall. Moonch scurried back as the wall began to collapse. He saw one small black nose, sniffing and questing, then another, then a third; and then there were too many to count. What was left of the wall heaved as though it was alive, and then the brown, wriggling mass of rats turned their whiskers in his direction. Their eyes were beady, and questioning, and not at all friendly.
“Poonch!” cried Moonch. “The rats! The rats! Get me out of here.”
“But you were the one who didn’t want to leave the Golf Course, Moonch,” said Poonch. The loosened earth poured into the centre of the chamber, burying Moonch in a mound of dirt as the brown circle of rats shuffled closer and closer still. Then Moonch disappeared from his view, covered by the earth, and by the busy rats.
There was a frantic scrabbling. It was quite some time before the scrabbling stopped.
The rats squeaked, and Poonch heard a final, feeble scrape of claws. Then there was silence, and only the taproots stirred, like slender fingers reaching out of the earth.
“What a summoning!” said Umrrow Jaan. “This Sender of Nizamuddin—I suppose she’s the Sender of the Golf Course now—bless her whiskers, I haven’t been picked up and whirled around in the air like that since the time I went to sleep in my Bigfeet’s holdall and found myself being dumped on the upper berth of the Rajdhani Express! It’s so impressive, Begum, it took all five of us to summon her, and she lifted her whiskers like she’d been doing this all of her life—and boom! You, me, Jalebi, Spook, Baoli—right here! I swear, if she’d noticed them she’d even have picked up the Viceroys.”
The Viceroys were a tribe of goats who lived in Mehrauli, and exhibited signs of deep derangement. Curzon was given to bouts of trouser-eating; Wavell made up for his tendency to butt heads with everybody by having an exceptionally soft nose; Canning had hard little horns and ate rusty nails for breakfast, and Mountbatten had something of a roving eye, not to mention an omnivorous appetite.
The Hundred Names of Darkness Page 32