'I'm asking brother to brother.'
'Stop flinging that in my muzzle.'
'Hey, if it works, use it. Now answer my query.'
Hoaru sighed. ‘If you must know, it's been mostly Screechers. Stag-moose don't exactly abound here and what with my newfound arboreal skills—'
'What about Uprights?'
'What of them?'
'Have you a compulsion to hunt them more than any other prey type?'
'Not especially. Screechers are easier to catch and...'
Yowlar switched off as Hoaru droned on about the finer points of monkey catching. It seemed his brother's mutation had affected his personality too, making him far more talkative than his old self. It was not an improvement.
He sensed, more than reasoned, that Tsor mind conditioning was not nearly as strong in the others as it was in his own psychological makeup. Perhaps it was linked to the unalterable fact that he was the first recipient of the mutation process and received the strongest dose. Still, the anomaly of being able to feed upon monkeys instead of hominins was a puzzler. If Yowlar was a bit more studious with his cognitive deduction he might have worked out by way of inference that monkeys were just a lower branch on the primate tree the simians currently crowned and that their flesh was similar enough to ground-ape meat to satisfy Gurgon-Rha's mentally implanted menu. The dead Tsor's puppetry was inherently flawed.
'Whatever became of that female you got up the duff?’ Yowlar bluntly asked his kin. ‘Don't tell me she got all moody like Miorr.'
Hoaru clammed up. Not one to mate and tell he relented only when Yowlar pressed the issue. ‘She died.'
'What happened to her?'
'The change we underwent ... she didn't survive the transition. The cubs she carried perished with her.’ Hoaru choked on the last bombshell.
Yowlar glossed over his sibling's grief. ‘Fatherhood is not the lark it's cracked up to be. You sire a few sprogs and then their snotty mothers take over—end of story. Believe me, you've not missed anything.'
Hoaru disagreed in terse silence. Parenting was to have been a wonderful new adventure heartlessly denied him by what could only be his baby brother's perennial meddling. ‘What caused us to change, Yowlar?’ he insisted on knowing.
'You always were like a dog with a bone.'
'Insults won't put me off.'
'A giant walking snake waved his claw, made us over into these inferior cats, and plonked us here to exterminate every Upright pride.'
'Stop yanking my tail. Everyone knows snakes haven't got legs.'
'Remember that odd moving cloud I spotted over Sunning Rock on our last day in Scrubland Domain?'
Hoaru recalled the fur-raising incident and hissed in response at the unnerving memory. ‘The cloud had something to do with all of this?'
'The two-legged snake rode in it.'
'That's a hard tale to swallow.'
'It's the truth,’ avowed Yowlar. ‘I have no reason to fib.'
His brotherly Sabretooth growled scoffingly. Yowlar could not lie straight on a riverbed.
'Believe what you will, Hoaru. Why the lasting interest anyhow? What has happened to us can't be undone.'
'I'd like to thank this snake.'
'Thank him?'
'For making my life freer than it has ever been since I was whelped. And on that growl, goodbye, Yowlar.’ Abandoning his half-finished meal, Hoaru turned tail, padding away from the prone panther.
'Surely you're not leaving? What about brotherhood?'
Hoaru answered promptly without slowing or looking back, and there was hurt inflecting his voice. ‘What you said about fatherhood applies to brothers too. Once the cubs are grown, the relationship is severed.'
Not bothering to protest further, the panther refused to watch his sibling depart and averted his anguished eyes. Whenever he was in trouble Yowlar had a knack of landing on all four paws in the end. This was no different. Dying was just a mere inconvenience. Yowlar was certain he would bounce back. Glancing up, he saw the lowering vultures, which upon reading death on the updrafts were swooping in to land. It seemed the winged carrion finders did not share his confidence.
Chapter Thirteen
Bushwalker grew sick of waiting. A fortnight passed and the warren of Home-rock had not been revisited by its resident demon. That fact delighted the majority of the graciles. The notable exceptions were Bushwalker and her confidants. She retained a gut feeling that the phantom black cat was eventually going to revisit the scene of his crimes to restart his killing spree and her edginess grated on both Ditchjumper's and Windchaser's nerves. Something had to happen soon or the tension would snap Bushwalker in two.
Those two weeks were not uneventful. On the coaching side of things, Ditchjumper taught his plumb crazy leader everything he knew on how to survive a lion attack. That took all of five seconds. His advice to Bushwalker, stemming from the method that ultimately saved his own hide, was to seek out the nearest available tree and scale it to the topmost branches. It did make sense. Roarers were heavier than other clawfeet and their weight prevented them from ascending exceedingly high, as branches tend to creak and splinter when carrying too heavy a load, dumping the hefty climber earthwards. Unfortunately, Ditchjumper's recommendation did not impress Bushwalker all that much as she was going up against a tree-climbing Sabretooth.
There was some light at the end of the inky tunnel. Bushwalker cleverly jogged Ditchjumper's hazy memory of his having been attacked by a potential man-eater and consequently picked up some useful information that, combined with recent long distant observations of various breeds of clawfeet at work, brought her up to speed on big cat hunting behaviour. They generally came at prey unseen from behind, bowled their victim over then clamped vice-like jaws about the target's throat, suffocating the luckless creature. Granted, they were small points of interest but invaluable considering Bushwalker was basing her entire strategy for tackling Yowlar on those truths. If only the panther would show for her to test tactics against.
Of course, Ditchjumper thought her madder than a tick-ridden Nosehorn for actually wanting to bait a clawfoot armed with nothing more than a quick mind. Bushwalker had not revealed her secret weapon to the troop. She did not want outsiders getting wind of the cutter and continued secretly practicing its use in the confines of the murdered toolmaker's grotto every moonlit night, undisturbed and undiscovered.
'You coming with us today, boss?'
Sitting on her haunches in the cave mouth of the vault next door to Caverunner's deserted abode, rendered undesirable by the ghoulish goings-on and the residual stink of Troublefoot's putrefaction, Bushwalker considered Windchaser's query. She enjoyed a prime view of the dawn sun lifting augustly into the eastern sky, marking the beginning of the third week of her vigil. ‘Maybe later,’ she said with a yawn, tired from a night spent slicing cave air filled with imaginary foes.
'I'll find some bulbs to bring back for you,’ Windchaser promised with a wry smile before heading off.
The troop's number two had come to know her chieftain's habit of staying put at the cave complex for days on end and was kindly keeping her fed. Only a dry throat periodically compelled Bushwalker to abandon her post and join the rest of the Uprights in their daily trek to the waterhole. She always hurried back to Home-rock after slaking her thirst afraid that she might miss the panther's comeback, thereby ruining her planned daylight confrontation. The dread night belonged to the ferocious black cat and she would not challenge him on his terms.
On the whole, Bushwalker was finding command relatively straightforward. The key to successful leadership is delegation and in Windchaser she had selected a capable second who handled admirably the tasks set her. The restructured hierarchy did not start off smoothly though. The males at first strongly resented the changes imposed upon them and complained monotonously, but soon came to realise that female rule was not so bad and began to noticeably whinge less. Leniency replaced despotism, helping to partially break apart the mortar cementi
ng gracile ethics for generations. Equality of the sexes was an unreachable goal in man-ape times, yet the division of labour gradually became less uneven as every adult pitched in for the united good of the troop.
Bushwalker remained true to her word in saying that Bighand was right out of the picture. Every morning following Bushwalker's promotion, Windchaser without fail fronted the troop shambling unopposed to Murky Watering and on to the premium feeding grounds beyond. Seldom seen, the robusts—when glimpsed at a distance—gave their emboldened cousins an uncommonly wide berth. Even the weather seemed to favour the new chieftain. The land baked continuously beneath a winter sun constantly threatening drought, yet rain-laden thunderheads were building up on the western skyline, on call to moisten the thirsty savannah at a moment's wind change.
'This isn't healthy, Caverunner.'
'I thought I told you not to call me that, Ditchjumper.'
The scarred male stepped in from the day-bright ledge outdoors to sit beside his leader in the perpetually shaded grotto. ‘It's tradition,’ he answered urbanely.
'Hang tradition. It's old fashioned. My given name is Bushwalker. That's what I'm used to, so that's what you'll call me.'
'I still feel weird about it.’ The dark look he got back convinced Ditchjumper not to pursue the matter. She had already defied convention by appointing Windchaser her deputy, refusing to occupy the topmost cave, and later decreeing that all members of the troop, females included, be granted the inalienable right to speak in council. Why should he protest the dropping of a heritable title? ‘This obsession of yours is unhealthy and getting out of hand,’ he accused her.
'Why Ditchjumper, are you being familiar?'
'N-No chief, I wouldn't dream of doing anything improper.'
She laughed kind-heartedly at his discomfort. If it were not for his scarred back, Ditchjumper might have been considered handsome in a rugged sort of way with his scruffy sandy pelt. As his love life stood he was constantly rejected in the mating game. No female wanted to consort with a deformed suitor. Accordingly, his people skills regarding the opposite sex were understandably limited.
Thinking Bushwalker was making fun of him, Ditchjumper griped, ‘I'm only concerned for your sanity, chief. This monstrous clawfoot of yours isn't going to show anytime soon. Is it worth putting yourself through the aggro of waiting for the sod?'
Bushwalker smiled kindly at Ditchjumper. He was proving a loyal supporter. In spite of his initial reservations concerning females in charge, he had, like Grubtaster, stuck by her and now conceded that the early days of her leadership were passing without a hitch. In fact, the Home-rockers had gradually begun to thrive. Access to water and better fodder was theirs again, accompanied by a general contentment permeating the whole troop. Yet Bushwalker knew that this was the calm before the storm. ‘Oh, he'll be back alright,’ she swore.
'What makes you so certain?'
'Call it female intuition.'
Ditchjumper let it go at that. He understood women less than lions. The gentle morning breeze wafted against his blonde-haired skin and he felt the simmering heat of the coming day in its airy touch. A wistful expression crossed Ditchjumper's face. ‘Any chance of your revealing how you got rid of Bighand?’ he offhandedly slipped into the conversation. It was only the second instance Bushwalker had been asked that since Grubtaster's desire to know.
'Can you keep a secret?’ she responded.
'I've never told anyone that Strayhand still wets his bedding.'
'Until now.'
'Oops.’ Embarrassment replaced Ditchjumper's pensiveness. His eyes darted down worriedly to his crutch. ‘And he made me promise not to blab on pain of castration.'
Bushwalker giggled.
Ditchjumper was far from amused. Though his manhood seldom got much use, he was very attached to his family jewels and would prefer them not bitten off.
Getting over her mirth, his leader commanded, ‘Have a look at this,’ whipping out an unnatural looking stone she had been sitting on.
'That can't have been very comfortable,’ remarked Ditchjumper. He was handed the pebble-tool and refused taking the rock. It had just come out from under Bushwalker's butt!
'Hold out your hand, Ditchjumper,’ she ordered, slapping the stone into his unsteady palm. ‘Be careful, it bites.'
The bemused male gave the curiosity the once over. ‘This looks vaguely familiar.'
'It should. Rockshaper used to play with stones like that all the time. In fact, he left behind a hidden cave full of them.'
'And it's good for what?'
'Making changes.'
A creepy suspicion entered Ditchjumper's mind. ‘What's this black stuff crusted on the sharp end that looks hideously like a Roarer claw?'
'Bighand's blood.'
Ditchjumper dropped the cutter faster than a chunk of hot lava. ‘You mean you, you...’ He could not even say it.
'I killed him,’ Bushwalker affirmed with a tight grimace. By no means proud of the murder she committed, the maid felt no shame for what was in her eyes a justifiable act. Regret, maybe, but not remorse. Events dictated that she sacrifice one robust life to spare many graciles. The collateral damage Ugnap's horns caused did not imbalance her sense of right and wrong.
'I need to sit down,’ Ditchjumper groaned.
'You are sitting.'
'Then I need to lie down.’ He flopped onto his back, the cave spinning. The sweet innocent Bushwalker appeared to be was nothing but a façade.
'What did you think I did with Bighand—batted my eyelashes and got him to leave on a promise?'
'No, chief, but killing is so drastic.'
'On the contrary, it's a natural necessity. Predators kill to eat. We must on occasion, I've learnt firsthand, kill to survive.'
He rolled his eyes Bushwalker's way. ‘You don't look like a killer.'
She sighed genuinely. ‘I don't think of myself as one either. That's not to say I won't carry out what needs to be done to stay alive, or keep my troop watered for that matter.'
Ditchjumper tried to rise and sagged back down, feeling dizzy still.
'Take deep breaths,’ Bushwalker advised him.
He tried to get a handle on things. ‘You used that sharp stone to, to...'
'Deprive Bighand of living.’ She put it as nicely as she could.
The concept of tool-usage was not wholly alien to Ditchjumper. The Uprights regularly drove sticks into termite mounds and feasted on the irritated insects that clung to the shaft of wood when it was withdrawn. Leaves were frequently curled over and used for drinking cups. The strongarmed robusts wielded their cudgels to deadly effect. But those implements were naturally formed and ready at hand. Bushwalker had used a purposefully crafted tool, engineered and employed by forethought. That was a first to him and the world at large.
'And you'll use it on this clawfoot of yours too?'
'When I get the chance.'
'You're game.’ Ditchjumper sat up and stayed perpendicular. He remained drained of colour, his fur a lighter shade of pale. ‘Some of the others are doubting your story about the cat again.'
'Let me guess who. Quickstep for one?'
'He's saying that following Bighand's, er, removal, there's been no more raids in the night, which only goes to show that the robusts were the guilty party all along.'
'He's an imbecile who's going to be proved wrong.'
'You want more of us to die?’ Ditchjumper exclaimed.
'Don't be absurd. Yowlar's return is not going to be marked by another Upright death. With your help, I'll make sure to deny him that.'
'I thought I had helped by sharing the details of my Roarer escape with you.'
'That was only for starters.’ Bushwalker leaned over and picked up her cutter. ‘How do you fancy me teaching you how to slash with one of these?’ Her education on big cats had decided for her that it would be wisest not to go up against the panther alone.
'No thanks.'
'I want backup on the day,
and Ditchjumper you're the closest thing that comes to an experienced clawfoot handler I've got.'
He shook his head sadly. ‘I'm a coward at heart. You need someone heroic, like Treeclimber used to be.'
Bushwalker remembered her unborn child's father with mixed feelings. ‘He was that alright, but what use is valour when it places you in needless jeopardy? I don't want to be dependent on a male who'll recklessly land himself in trouble. Somebody who values his own skin more than impressing his leader will serve me better as my reinforcements. Someone like you.'
'I will only let you down, Bushwalker.
'I'll take the gamble.'
Ditchjumper quietly took in the view. Though the crowns of the thorny acacias making up Scraggly Bush masked them from sight, he pictured his fellow graciles meandering from the scrub on to the sward, heading face-on into the emerging day with the lumbering Curvehorn uncomplainingly riding shotgun all the way to the watering hole. ‘Windchaser's your right hand Upright,’ he argued. ‘She'll be more reliable than me. Train her up.'
'No. She remains where she is in case something happens to me.'
Ditchjumper laughed bleakly. ‘That's not helping to convince me.'
She returned the satirical chuckle. ‘If you think Yowlar's going to be a no show, what's the harm in aiding me? At best you'll reclaim a little of your lost courage, at worst you'll bum round here for a few days being hand fed.'
'Or wind up cleaning some Roarer's teeth with my ribs.'
'Only the strong survive, Ditchjumper. Recently, I've found those aren't bad words to live by.'
'Want to hear my favourite maxim?'
'Go ahead.'
'Run away and live to enjoy another day.'
Bushwalker grinned. ‘You'll do me just fine.'
Chapter Fourteen
Snow-capped and radiant, the summit of Whitetop reared majestically above the surrounding plain. The sheer physical presence of the sole mountain in the region naturally dominated the landscape. Bottomed by the perpetual mist cloaking its forested slopes, the tapering peak appeared to be magically floating on clouds. It was in fact composed of not one but two separate extinct volcanoes, long since eroded by time and past eruptions into what appeared from a distance a single flattened cone.
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