The Hundred Names of Darkness Page 8

  “Leave him alone,” Jao said, chittering happily. “We are only civilians, no? He is probably covering himself in pink, purple and white floral backside special camouflage for Ferocious Attack Dog Squad dogs.”

  His heart too full to let him speak, or even woof a stern farewell, Doginder marched with dignity down the road, ignoring the minor detail that he was showering the pavement with blossoms as he trotted along.

  Mara thought she might be sick. The dog had viciously charged at a pack of harmless squirrels, and left them trapped in the branches of a tree. She couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t shaken them out of the tree and eaten them, but perhaps he was storing his snacks for later. It did seem odd that he had bougainvillea blossoms stuck to his coat, but the expression he bore as he marched in the young cat’s direction was murderous.

  She felt her whiskers tremble, and her paws started to shake. She knew she should turn and run, but she couldn’t make herself move an inch. Mara clung to the tire, which had begun to feel like her only source of stability in a swiftly tilting world.

  She made a tiny and pathetic figure as she crouched by the car tire, and Doginder felt his spirits rise. Here was a chance to show Ao and Jao that he was serious about his duties as a member of the Neighbourhood Watch Squad. True, the squad had only two members so far—Doginder brushed away the niggling voice that said the black beetle wasn’t really a member, the fellow hadn’t objected when he’d been recruited, had he?—but all big movements started small, he reminded himself.

  He wondered if he should chase the orange cat, perhaps just as a reminder to the squirrels that he really was a Ferocious Attack Dog, but his hunting instincts refused to kick in—she was such a small, quivering scrap! He would be, he resolved nobly, brushing a stray bougainvillea off his flank, a Rescue Dog. Perhaps she’d lost her clan, and needed to be led back to them. Perhaps she might want a Neighbourhood Watch member to show her the sights of Nizamuddin. Doginder brightened and his tail went up as another thought struck him: perhaps she might even want to join the Neighbourhood Watch! He bounded towards the kitten, barking his greetings, his tongue lolling out in a happy smile.

  Mara watched the slavering beast approach with a shudder. Those wicked teeth! That killer’s smile! She wondered if it would hurt very much, being eaten. A bus thundered by, juddering as it went, and she realized she was trapped.

  “Hello there, cat!” said Doginder genially.

  The orange cat stared at him, her green eyes growing larger and larger, and then she wailed into his surprised face.

  “Kill me now!” she cried.

  “Excuse me?” said Doginder, deciding he hadn’t heard right.

  “I can’t stand the suspense!” the cat howled. “Just strike me down with those large paws of yours already, and rend the flesh from my poor bones. It’s cruel to keep your victims hanging like this.”

  “Victims?” said Doginder, his woof anguished. “Here! No! You’ve got it all wrong!”

  “WOE!” said Mara, and her whiskers spread to their full extent. “Oh woe is me, to die like this, so young, before I have seen anything of the world, at the paws of a vicious, hardened, savage killer.”

  “What? Me? But…no, no, no. Never harmed a cat in my life. Chased a few up trees, yes, of course, all self-respecting dogs have to do that, you know, but I’m a Ferocious Attack Dog, not a vicious, hardened…what you said.”

  “Here!” said Mara, who had a tendency to get carried away when she was excited. “Rend my throat mercilessly if you must! Woe that I ever left my house! Woe that I ever abandoned my Bigfeet! Woe to this road and the ugly beasts on it.”

  “Now wait,” said Doginder, “my tail’s a bit on the fluffy side, true, and I’m not one of those pedigreed chaps, but ugly—that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? Ugly? Really?”

  “LOST!” cried Mara. “PERSECUTED BY BIGFEET, HUNTED BY NASTY TRAFFIC, AND AT THE MERCY OF A VICIOUS, SAVAGE KILLER…OH, SOUTHPAW, OH, BERAAL, WHY DID I EVER LEAVE HOME? WOE! THIS IS THE END!”

  “Whoa!” said Doginder, dazed. Mara’s sending had twanged through the air, shaking the bats in the old monument in the park awake, bringing even the squabbling of the squirrels to a sudden, hushed pause, reaching all the way down to the pigs at the canal. He had to shake his ears vigorously; at such close quarters, he’d received the full force of the Sender’s powers.

  “Woe!” said Mara, exhausted. She eyed the dog as she trembled, from the winter chill as much as from fear. “Why have you not yet pounced? Are you going to draw this out? Ozzy told me about predators who play with their prey. I wish I’d never left my house and the Chief Bigfoot and my nice basket. I had a soft toy of my very own, a monkey, and the lizard was my friend, and my Bigfeet have very kind hands and now I’ll never ever see them again because you’ll kill me and put my young life to an end, oh it’s too cruel. Where are you going?”

  Doginder was backing away. “Mad,” he said to the air with conviction. “As crazy as a coot, like that goat fellow down at the animal shelter who hasn’t been the same since he survived Bakri-Id, the traditional goat sacrifice. A little young, to be this loopy, but perhaps she had a head start.”

  His backside connected sharply with the white Ambassador next to the car Mara had been sheltering under. Mara, intrigued by the killer’s odd behaviour, watched him with bemusement.

  “I haven’t met any goats,” she said. “Only Southpaw and some tigers.”

  “Tigers,” Doginder said to the world at large. “She thinks she’s met tigers. If you ask me, she’s full-crack, not half-crack.”

  “Hello?” said Mara, forgetting her fear in the warmth of her indignation. “I’m not the one talking to the air, am I?”

  With the whine of a giant mosquito, a motorbike vroomed up the road. The driver was going so fast that he skidded, and Mara yelped as the bike’s tires came frighteningly close, spattering mud from the verge onto her fur.

  “Too close,” said Doginder, “hang on a tick.” He bounded down the road behind the bike, barking and growling for all he was worth, snapping at the speeding rider.

  “Ha!” he said when he got back to Mara. “That’ll show him. Did you see the way he sped off when he saw me? That’s the thing with Bigfeet—you have to show them who’s boss.”

  Mara was about to say that she wasn’t sure the biker had heard the barking over the roar of the traffic, or noticed that he was being followed. But Doginder looked so pleased with himself, and his tail thumped so hard against the car bumper that she decided to keep her opinions to herself.

  “Well, can’t spend the day hanging around here,” said Doginder, quite chuffed by his success with the bike. “Let’s get you to the park, it’s much safer there.” A cycle rickshaw went by, skidding through a puddle and sending a spray of slush in the direction of the cat and the dog. “And,” he added, looking with distaste at a splash of mud on his coat, “less…less…ah, sloppy. Come on, cat.”

  “Do you take all your victims to the park to kill them?” said Mara, torn between her own terror and genuine curiosity. She could understand, she felt, why a self-respecting assassin wouldn’t choose this spot—so close to the traffic, so exposed, so filthy.

  “Grrrrr!” growled Doginder, startling her. “Oof! That wasn’t supposed to be a menacing growl, it just came out that way. I don’t take my victims to the park, you stupid cat, because I hate that whole killing business. I mean…no, no, of course I don’t hate killing, I’m a Ferocious Attack Dog, trained killer, lethal weapon, hahahaha, my growl slays them before they even see me. It’s only that I’m, er, retired, you know? Never mind all that. Are you going to hang around this tire all day, or are you going to cross the road with me? Oh good show! That idiot of an auto driver, he’s taken the corn seller’s stall down for the second time—come on, let’s go.”

  Mara found herself rushing forward pell-mell when Doginder barked and bounded onto the tarmac. It felt sticky under her paws, hard and unpleasant, and she felt the gravel cut into her footpads. “
Ouch!” she said, and then she froze. Lumbering towards them was a bus.

  It had turned the corner slowly, edging past the auto and driving over a few stray half-roasted corn cobs, and it was the only vehicle on the road. The grill gleamed menacingly at Mara, and the headlights seemed massive to her, each one larger than Doginder’s head. The lights weren’t switched on, but the sun bounced off the metal, and to the Sender, it looked as though the bus had turned its full glare on her. It rumbled as it drew closer.

  “Keep moving!” called Doginder. “You’ve got to keep your paws moving or…don’t tell me. You’ve stopped. In the middle of the road. And there’s…Cat, there are bikes coming at you, from the other side.”

  He was almost across, and though he had turned to look for the cat, he kept going.

  “Move, cat!” he called.

  The Sender stood in the middle of the road, paralyzed, even though one paw was raised to take the next step. The bus driver, who’d been wrestling with the gears, finally got them to pop into place. The rumble turned into a roar as the bus driver stood up, shoving the gear into place as though it was the oar of a rowboat, and touched the accelerator.

  Doginder turned and barked at her, but the cat stayed where she was. Her green eyes were open so wide that he could see the water from winter puddles on the road reflected in their depths.

  “Rescue Dog,” he muttered to himself. “Should’ve stuck with Attack Dog, if you ask me. Much less work. Why am I doing this? It’s contagious, madness is. I’ve caught it from her.”

  Then he gathered himself, keeping a wary eye on the bikes, shot back into the middle of the road until he was behind the cat.

  “Move,” he said. “Now.” His usual cheerful yappiness was gone. Doginder shivered slightly as he took in the narrowing distance between the cat and the bus, the speed at which the bikers—a group of four—were shooting around the other side of the park; they would soon be here.

  An ugly growl broke from his throat.

  “Move!” he said. The growl did the trick.

  Mara threw her head back and yowled at the bus. She lowered her ears and charged.

  “No!” growled Doginder. “Idiot cat, not at the bus—away from it! Bikes! Bus! Cat! I’m getting out of here!”

  He shot after her, and he and Mara streaked all the way down the middle of the road, causing the bus driver to swerve violently when he saw the dog chasing the cat.

  “Wrong way, wrong way!” barked Doginder. “The park’s over there! Watch out for the bikes, mind you!”

  Mara flattened her ears as far back as they would get, and skidded left, finally heading in the right direction. Doginder, taken unawares, went past her.

  On their bikes, the Bigfeet gibbered at each other, swerving around the pair.

  “Don’t stop, keep going, you’re almost there, we’re almost at the park…Cat! Quit running with your eyes shut, you’ll slam into the railings and you won’t like it! Open your eyes, you little idiot!”

  The bus driver, who had rumbled up the road and was about to take the turn towards the school, glanced into his rear-view mirror. The animals were almost across the road, nearing the park, but something was very, very wrong. Then he realized what it was and he swerved violently for the second time, narrowly scraping past the Tarzan Tribes Brass Band, who were making their way towards the park for practice. He needed a word with his doctor, he decided. Either he needed to change his tonic or his glasses, but one of them had to go. He had seen a dog chasing a cat, and then it had turned into a cat chasing a dog. And the dog was running for all he was worth, like he was about to join the Delhi Marathon. It must, he thought, be his spectacles, perhaps he really should exchange them for a nice pair of contact lenses.

  Doginder barked as Mara neared the railings, but the cat kept her eyes tightly shut.

  “Survives traffic,” he panted between barks, “comes to a tragic end, smooshed against the iron bars…Ah! Magnificent! Well done, cat!”

  At the last possible moment, Mara opened her eyes, blinked, and slid so smoothly between the bars of the park that it looked as though she’d been practising the move all her life. She was off the road, the soft, sweet grass cool and welcoming under her paw pads.

  Tooth waddled across the grass, his talons disliking the spikiness of the blades. The uneven slope of the ground made him wobble awkwardly as he walked, and from time to time, he bobbed his head up, to check for Bigfeet and other predators. He didn’t think he would be disturbed—except for the occasional visiting pig, the Bigfeet and the stray dogs stayed away from the rough, unkempt strip of grass and mud that ran alongside the length of the canal.

  The smell of sulphur from the canal’s filthy, clogged waters kept the Bigfeet away; the dogs preferred to hunt for their prey or to raid the garbage heaps inside Nizamuddin, because the gravel and stones on this ragged strip hurt their paws. Even so, the cheel’s feathers were ruffled. He preferred to scan the ground for predators from high above. Being down here on the earth made him feel leaden-winged, as though he had been evicted from the sky. The cheel’s sharp eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon far above, and he gave the few birds soaring in the blue a wistful glance. They formed a net, like grappling hooks harnessing the air, and he wished he was among them.

  There was a rustle from the straggling ficus across the road, and the cheel swivelled, his tail feathers quivering furiously. “Dive!” he ordered. “Take cover now!”

  He waited. “I meant right now!” he said.

  “What-evah,” said a small cross voice. A ruffled head, its miniature golden and brown feathers disarrayed, poked up from behind a pile of discarded bricks.

  Tooth spread his feathers halfway out, shaking out his plumage in exasperation.

  “Dark is the night, and full of…” he began.

  “…Bigfeetanddogs, got that,” said the fledgling, opening its beak in a yawn.

  “Hatch!” said Tooth wearily. The ficus bushes rustled again, and a small black rat darted out, running as fast as it could when it caught a whiff of the two raptors.

  “What?” said the fledgling, exuding sulkiness from his drooping feathers. “The last time you sounded the alarm, Dad, it was a lizard, and the time before that it was nothing but a posse of ants. I didn’t want to be here anyway. It’s much warmer back home in the nest.”

  Tooth eyed his son, wishing that his mate, Claw, was here to handle Hatch’s tantrums.

  “You know why we’re here, Hatch,” he said, waddling on again. He cast a wary eye up to the heavens, but dusk had dropped over Nizamuddin, and most of the cheel squadrons had completed their manoeuvres for the day.

  “Idontwanna,” said Hatch to a passing beetle. The beetle waved its antenna back at him nervously and skittered off. “It’s stupid. I’m fine just the way I am.”

  Tooth folded his wings and turned, glaring at his son. His beak tore at the white-edged leaves from a spider plant in frustration, ripping them into lacework.

  “Hatch,” he said, “you’re not fine just the way you are. Your sister’s been out of the nest for almost half the winter! And you haven’t even started flapping your wings!”

  “You’re always picking on me,” said Hatch, his skinny legs skimming the ground far more gracefully than Tooth’s clumsier ones. “You like Mach better, she gets the fattest grubs from Mom.”

  “Hatch, Hatch,” said Tooth grimly, “you know that’s not true. Mach and you snapped at the grub together, and she won. Fair’s fair. You’re a cheel, you have to fight for your food. Especially if you’re not out there actually hunting it down.”

  “I hunt!” said Hatch, his beak clacking in injured tones.

  “Worms,” said Tooth, “beetles, things that crawl on the ground. Nothing from the trees yet, son, none of the fat grubs which nest high in the branches of the bael trees, or even the rats and mice who scutter on the ground. You don’t hunt those because they have to be hunted from the air…”

  Hatch raised his wings and called out in annoyanc
e, his keek-keek still so unformed that it sounded to his father’s ears like a kitten’s mew.

  “What-EVAH!” he said. “Dad, you’re such a bore. As if you haven’t said this a gazillion billion trillion times.”

  Tooth plucked at his feathers, wondering whether his father had ever felt as exasperated. Probably not, he thought. Conquer had been of the old school and had left most of the child-rearing to his mate, Stoop. That grim old commander would have used his talons to clip the tail feathers of any of his offspring who had said “Whatevah!” in that tone.

  Tooth had admired his father, especially Conquer’s gifts as a leadership commander, but when his own mate, Claw, had become broody, Tooth had promised himself that his chicks would have a kind, gentle and understanding dad, exactly the sort he’d secretly wanted for himself. He had done his best to keep his promise. Though every so often, he wondered whether it would be so terrible if he clipped his beloved son hard over the pileum.

  “Daa-aad?” called Hatch.

  “Yes, son?” said Tooth, proud of the way he kept his feelings out of his voice.

  “Can we go home now?”

  “No!” said Tooth, his feathers flying up again. “We’re here for a reason, remember, son?”

  Silence answered him, and Tooth peered worriedly around.

  “Son? Hatch? Where have you got to?”

  Hatch’s head popped out from under a discarded plastic sheet.

  “There’s no need to shout,” he said. “I was taking a nap.”

  “You’ve spent the day napping! You need to stretch your wings!” said Tooth. “You’re a cheel! We rise at daybreak, before morning in the bowl of night has flung the first stone of night, because we are the hunters of the east. And no matter what, we don’t go to roost until we’ve slipped the surly bonds of earth, at least once. Your mother and I explained all of this, remember?”