Chosen Too

by Alan J. Garner

  'He's dead. I don't think his word carries much weight anymore.'

  'I see grief hasn't blunted your tongue any, Bushwalker.'

  'Nor has adversity taught you to think before opening your mouth.'

  Quickstep shut up. Treeclimber's loudmouthed girlfriend was as insulting as he had been in life.

  Placing her hands on her hips, Bushwalker stared reproachfully at the lounging males, an addition to her plan for deliverance forming in her mind. ‘Since you lot can't seem to make up your minds,’ she hooted, ‘I'm taking charge before we all die.'

  'You can't!’ protested Quickstep. ‘You're a girl.’ His mouth outran his brain again.

  'Nice of you to notice. Believe me, I don't want the job any more than you do, but someone's got to start making decisions around here since you males can't think your way out of a thorn bush.'

  Whisperings of discontent, all of them manly, filled the vault. Except for one. ‘Both Caverunner and Treeclimber are gone,’ reasoned Grubtaster, ‘and we can't decide upon a replacement chief. Why not give her a go? The worst she can do is get herself killed.'

  'Thanks for the endorsement,’ Bushwalker dryly said.

  Oddly enough, Quickstep came around to her way of thinking, if only to see her fall flat on her snout. ‘Go ahead and make her head boy, Grubtaster. See if I care.'

  There were no other objections. No male wanted to be the new Caverunner when the tribe was neck deep in problems and so Bushwalker became leader by default. A win was still a win. There was no ceremony, no fanfare of hoots and hollers, just a silent acknowledgment of her new status. Her fellow females were gob-struck and gazed at their elevated sister with a respect akin to awe. A precedent had been set with girl-power coming to the fore.

  'What about Bighand then, chief?’ It was Grubtaster again, putting his new boss to the test.

  'Taken care of.'

  He raised his brow questioningly.

  Reluctant to relive his murder, all that Bushwalker said of Bighand's demise was, ‘He's gone, never to return. I made sure of that. His troop won't bother ours anymore. We can use the waterhole again. Come morning we'll all go down and take a long overdue drink.'

  The troop, though dubious, took her optimism at face value. Hope was a better proposition than labelling Caverunner's successor a kook, moreso if there was the slightest chance of getting water.

  'That means with Bighand out of the way there'll be no more killings at night,’ Grubtaster surmised.

  'Hardly,’ contradicted Bushwalker. ‘Like I've been saying all along, the robusts aren't responsible for the deaths. A black bodied and hearted clawfoot is. He goes by the name of Yowlar and I have it on very good authority that he sees us as more than mere food. I think his hunt is some sort of vendetta.'

  Grubtaster frowned. ‘What did we ever to do him?'

  Bushwalker shrugged. The cause was unimportant. Its effects were.

  'Who's your source?’ Quickstep probed.

  'Nobody you'd know.’ Bushwalker's succinct reply rang with honesty. Telling Quickstep and the others that confirmation came from an untrustworthy crocodile would hardly put her in good stead. Her chieftainship, barely sanctioned, was a tenuous regime.

  'Are you planning to handle him by the same method you used on Bighand?'

  Bushwalker looked for the speaker of that astute query. It happened to be Windchaser, the fourth—no correction, now second—eldest gracile since Strayhand had been elevated to number one oldster following Plainswalker passing away. Bushwalker could not help but smirk admiringly. The intuitive nineteen-year-old Upright was female.

  'That's correct, Windchaser. However, I must face him alone. Only I'm equipped to deal with the clawfoot on his terms and I'll not endanger anyone else.'

  Quickstep sneered. ‘How can a mere slip of a girl overpower an alleged clawfoot who's supposedly bitten to death three of us?'

  'The same way Bushwalker neutralised Bighand,’ reiterated Windchaser.

  Quickstep obviously was not tiring of being shot down.

  'She's right,’ validated Bushwalker. ‘I won't go into the how, but the why is plain enough—to preserve our troop against any and all threats. I'll be in need of somebody to oversee the day to day running of Home-rock while I busy myself sorting out this nasty clawfoot. Windchaser, are you up to being deputy leader?'

  'Me?'

  'You're savvy and unafraid to express your opinion. Those are good qualities in a second. I need someone I can trust at my side.'

  Ditchjumper spoke up. ‘This is unnatural. Not one, but two females in power.'

  Bushwalker addressed his doubts. ‘Was I not just made chief Upright?'

  'Um, yes.'

  'It was a rhetorical question, Ditchjumper. My meaning was, I can do as I please with impunity.'

  'I wouldn't quite go that far,’ Quickstep butted in.

  'Grubtaster, you advocated my leadership. Either I have complete mastery of the troop or I don't.'

  Grubtaster admired Bushwalker's alacrity. He had backed a winner. ‘You know she's right, Quickstep.'

  'Trust you to side with her,’ quipped the heckler. ‘I'm betting your only motive is to mate with her.'

  Insulted, Bushwalker kept a tight rein on her indignation. She was not about to give Quickstep the satisfaction of seeing her provoked.

  'Her word can't be challenged,’ maintained Grubtaster. ‘Debated, but never contested. Whatever changes she makes can only be overturned in the event of her death.'

  'That can't happen soon enough for me,’ Quickstep cruelly uttered, pushing past Bushwalker as he stormed from the cave.

  Watching his fiery exit, she muttered, ‘Good riddance.’ She straightened herself. ‘I officially call this meeting over. Go get some sleep, all of you. Tomorrow we drink and eat our fill.'

  The subdued Uprights filed out of the vault, wanting to believe Bushwalker's promises yet afraid that her confidence was imprudent. Some, females mostly, mumbled words of congratulation as they paraded past. The rest ignored her.

  'Windchaser, Ditchjumper ... stay behind if you will.'

  The singled out graciles lingered in the grotto as Bushwalker handed out instructions. ‘To Windchaser she said, ‘You'll be leading the troop to Murky Watering when dawn breaks.'

  The elderly female pulled a face. ‘Will it be safe to travel there like you claim?'

  'Safe enough. The robusts are too afraid to trouble us again and besides I'll provide you with an escort.’ Ugnap did have his uses.

  'What'll you be doing, dear?’ the oldster wanted to know.

  'Working out a strategy for dealing with our furry unfriendly. That's where you come into play, Ditchjumper.'

  'I do?'

  'Yeah. Like me, you have firsthand experience of a clawfoot attack.'

  He shuddered from remembering his past ordeal. ‘How can my having been mauled by a Roarer possibly help, Bushwalker?'

  'You got up close and personal to a big cat much nearer than me and lived to tell about it.'

  'It was sheer luck I walked away at all.'

  'Luck or no, you survived. You can give me lifesaving tips so that I can do the same when I encounter Yowlar.'

  Ditchjumper's scarred back began to twitch nervously. ‘Make sure I'm not with you when that happens,’ he pleaded. ‘Once bitten, twice shy.'

  * * * *

  The flies buzzed, Yowlar too buggered to swish his tail to shoo away the annoying insects. He had collapsed in the shade of a stunted acacia more in the nature of an overgrown bush than fully fledged tree within sight of the waterhole as the dawning sun turned the placid waters from silver to gold. Attracted to the panther's badly bitten and clawed body, blowflies flitted over his wounds in ones and twos. Pretty soon there would be whole swarms of the disgusting pests infesting his messy wounds with their maggot-loaded eggs, turning him into a diseased scarecrow. Flies were pests worldwide!

  What I wouldn't give for a Stripeback about now, Yowlar wished. Skunks were natural insect repe
llents.

  With a groan he hauled himself to his paws. He did not fancy becoming a buffet for fly larvae and needed to clean his injuries. That meant a tiresome walk to Murky Watering. Yowlar eyed the distance unfavourably. The waterhole's sunlit surface glittered a hundred yards away. It might as well have been a hundred miles. He began padding with tortured slowness, dragging his savaged hindquarters, his blood-encrusted shoulders and rump throbbing hurtfully with each new step. By the time the mauled panther dressed in conspicuous black and red tumbled down the embankment and plopped into the soothing wetness, he was virtually spent. The night's dangers badly drained Yowlar of precious strength. His other eight lives were failing. He was dying.

  But Yowlar was not entirely dead just yet. Sensing movement in the cooling waters, he heaved himself up onto the bank barely in the nick of time as Ensodius lunged from the shallows, the croc's seeking jaws snapping shut on empty air.

  The unlucky Watersnout viewed Yowlar sprawled on his side in the mud, the panther's flanks heaving from the near miss. ‘I knew you'd be back, fluffy,’ he grinned. ‘My sixth sense is never wrong. You're looking rather poorly, Yowlar.'

  'Did you glean that from your intuition?'

  'A cat with a sense of humour ... don't give up your night job.'

  Yowlar weakly raised his head to stare down the floating crocodile. ‘Why did you have a go at me just now? There is such a thing as professional courtesy.'

  'Food is food,’ scoffed Ensodius. ‘You're not telling me that whoever chomped you up wasn't a predator like us.'

  The Sabretooth became broody. The crocodile quite literally had a big mouth on him. ‘What made you so certain I would return?’ he grumped.

  'Everyone needs to drink.'

  Yowlar's petulance did not improve at hearing the obvious.

  Ensodius was not finished. ‘There's a little more to it than that, pussycat. Like I told you, I possess a measure of acuity. It may be inherited from my remote ancestors. They supposedly could foretell far into the future. What a crock! You can't predict more than an instant or two. For example, I foresee you repaying your debt to me very shortly.’ The unsavoury crocodile started inching his way out of the water up on to the muddy lakeshore, the cold gleam of ruthless purpose lighting his slitted reptilian eyes. He meant to gulp down Yowlar at any cost!

  Unable to stand and fight let alone run away, Yowlar shut his eyes and waited for the death crunch. It never came. He cautiously opened one peeper, seeing the unwholesome reptile composedly basking in the sun's rays and chortling quietly to himself not ten feet distant. ‘Do you always laugh at your meals?’ the panther snarled peevishly.

  Ensodius did not answer.

  'What's the matter lizard, cat got your tongue?’ Yowlar liked that pun and was distinctly put out when the crocodile failed to respond to it.

  Eventually, Ensodius deigned to answer the gibe. ‘I've decided not to take advantage of you, fluffy, so I'm letting you live for the time being. You're far more amusing to me alive than mouldering at the bottom of my waterhole until soggy enough to tear apart and consume.'

  The black cat blanched at that macabre thought.

  Footfalls marked an approaching intrusion and the crocodile made a dash back to his watery refuge. Yowlar almost had to laugh at the reptile's gall. Ensodius had in no way given him a reprieve from his death sentence out of any desire for excitement at all. He had simply been frightened off. Maybe he hated being watched when eating. That was small comfort to the sickly panther as the intruder pulled close. One scavenging devourer was much the same as any other in terms of delivering death.

  'Fancy meeting you here, brother.’ Hoaru padded into Yowlar's line of vision, plonking himself down in front of the poorly panther. ‘My, how the mighty have fallen,’ he purred.

  'Come to gloat have you?'

  'Actually, yes.'

  'How did you find me?'

  'The Hookbeaks.'

  Yowlar noted the expectant vultures riding the thermals overhead in steady spirals. They were the signposts of the animal kingdom, marking the whereabouts of the dead and the dying. Whilst nowhere near as big as the impressive condors of his old world and life, the African carrion birds were far more numerous and Yowlar most of all identified with the benefits of a cooperative hunt, whether that be part of a pride or a flock. He envied their freedom, wishing he could up and soar away.

  'Hurry up and die, will you,’ Hoaru urged. ‘I've got hunting to do.'

  'Do you really hate me that much?’ his stricken brother mewed.

  'You still don't get it, Yowlar. I never hated you. It was pure jealousy. You had the life I always wanted.'

  'You're welcome to it now,’ the panther croaked.

  Hoaru bared his teeth in the cat version of a leer. ‘Think I'll pass. Who chewed you up so bad?'

  'A whole gang of Roarers.’ Yowlar had no desire to let on that a single lion reduced him to this bloody wreck. He had his dignity after all, even if that was the only pride left him.

  'Must have been some bunch to beat the mighty Yowlar.'

  'They were.'

  Hoaru suspected a mistruth in the nature of the concocted Taker story, but said nothing. ‘I bet you're missing clan life.'

  Yowlar both hissed and snarled at once. ‘I can't be expected to die quickly if you ask me stupid questions. Of course I do. We were proud to be pride.'

  'In name only,’ Hoaru contested. ‘You always had final growl.'

  'We were, we are, brothers.'

  A deep-seated familial stirring came to life within Hoaru. He regarded Yowlar's grave injuries. They did share the same blood staining the lakeside mud. Guilt-ridden, the black-patterned, golden-coated Sabretooth made his way over to his ebony sibling, jaws agape.

  Yowlar flinched. The expected death-bite that would end his suffering did not come to pass. He instead felt Hoaru's rough tongue licking his shoulder wounds. ‘What are you doing?'

  'Cleaning you up, as usual.’ Hoaru gagged and spat. ‘You've no idea just how disgusting fly eggs taste.'

  'I know what you are doing, only the why escapes me. I thought you wanted me dead.'

  'So did I. Unfortunately for me you are family.’ Hoaru's conscience had indeed been pricked to act beyond a mercy killing.

  'This is like old times, brother. You patching me up after a rough day.'

  'Don't get used to it. Once I've fixed you up, I'm back on my way.'

  'Where to?'

  'That'd be telling,’ Hoaru guardedly said, extremely protective of his new lifestyle and private territory. He roughly licked Yowlar's rump and his sibling whimpered.

  'Have you seen anything more of Miorr?’ the mewling panther asked, trying to take his mind off the pain.

  'No,’ Hoaru bitterly replied. ‘She's keeping to her word by staying clear of any and all males.’ His tongue roughed up a set of gashes notching Yowlar's flank and the midnight cat squirmed. ‘You certainly ruined her for anyone else.'

  'She was never yours, or mine for that matter.'

  Hoaru finished doctoring Yowlar in the manner of cats and ventured down to the waterside to rinse the taste of blood from his mouth.

  'Take care,’ his ailing brother warned. ‘A big, dodgy swimming lizard lives down there and he doesn't have an aversion to trying cat meat.’ Yowlar felt obliged to tip off Hoaru to the danger Ensodius posed, not out of any sense of loyalty mind you. The panther needed a nurse and Hoaru fitted the bill nicely.

  Changing his mind about lapping up some water, Hoaru turned from the waterhole and informed Yowlar, ‘Time I was off. I'll not be seeing you around.'

  'You can't leave me like this.'

  'Watch me.'

  'But I need food and rest if I'm to recover.'

  'That's not my concern.'

  'You must take care of me!'

  'I have no intention of doing you any more favours.'

  Yowlar brought out the big claws. ‘We shared the same father. That means we're kin and family sticks together no matte
r what.'

  Hoaru screwed up his muzzle in irritation, guilt again persuading him to recant his disavowal. ‘I'll look after you for today and not a moment longer,’ he acceded, grumbling, ‘Reverting to being your babysitter makes me want to cough up a hairball.'

  Back in command, temporarily at least, Yowlar conned his reluctant brother to go hunting for him. Using Hoaru's absence to gather his thoughts, the panther decided then and there not to die. He was stronger than that, buoyed by his personal creed. Yowlar lived to hunt, not hunted to live. Hoaru returned an hour later carrying the sorry carcass of a baboon in his mouth.

  'Bon appetite,’ the handsomely spotted Sabretooth said, depositing the kill by his brother's head.

  The panther sniffed at his meal, recognising the identifying scent. It was Jinku. There was not a single scratch on his deceased Squaremuzzle servant. He had simply died of fright from encountering the Roarer gang. What else stood out as amazing was the fact that Jinku's unmarked corpse had lain temptingly out on the savannah for the entire night untouched by roving hyenas, jackals, or other opportunists until Hoaru scavenged him.

  'Tough hunt, Hoaru?'

  'The little beggar put up a struggle, but I subdued him. Tuck in.'

  Yowlar was uninterested in consuming the baboon. While having no qualms about dining on someone he knew personally, he was conditioned to feed exclusively upon hominins. ‘I'm not so hungry after all,’ he told his lying brother.

  'Mind if I have a nibble?'

  'Feel free.’ Yowlar watched Hoaru dissect the flaccid monkey, undisturbed by his greediness.

  'You still owe me that explanation,’ Hoaru said to his sibling between mouthfuls. Yowlar looked blank. ‘For how we got changed and why we were brought here,’ Hoaru reminded him. ‘I'm assuming you know.'

  Feeling like he was indebted to all and sundry, Yowlar answered the question with a poser of his own. ‘What game have you been hunting since we got here?'

  Hoaru stopped eating. ‘What an odd thing to ask.'

  'Answer it.'

  'I no longer have to do anything you tell me to.'