The Wildings by Nilanjana Roy

we’ll see some sport.”
    “Wait!” said Southpaw, trembling in fear but holding his ground. “I’m sorry I had to rush into your home, but you heard and smelled the dog, and all cats may seek sanctuary from predators. We don’t know each other, Datura, Aconite, Ratsbane, but I mean you no harm. Can’t we—?”
    Aconite’s rusty laughter rose to the roof. “Wonderful!” she said. “Datura, where did you find this one? He means us no harm, did you hear?” Southpaw felt the presence of many other cats, and swinging around, he stared up at the stairs. Now he could see Datura more clearly. The cat was a perfect white, his fur clean and shining despite the filth in the house. He had curious eyes; one was a mottled blue, the other a glaring yellow. The tip of his tail was ringed with black. He looked at Southpaw with an idle curiosity, and the kitten’s small gut constricted as he recognized the look: it was the same one he’d seen on Miao’s face many times when the queen went hunting. The look said: hello, prey.
    Around the kitten, creeping out from under ancient wooden wardrobes, dropping down silently from crumbling pelmets where thick velvet curtains hung, the ring of feral cats was growing. Southpaw took his eyes off Datura and circled, turning to face his predators one by one. His heart plummeted: Ratsbane lounged against the door, covering his one hope of escape, and there were far more cats than he’d expected, at least a dozen, possibly a score.
    Upstairs, a slow thumping noise made Datura look up. The white cat’s tail flicked from side to side in annoyance, and he signalled to the others to stay where they were. Southpaw stayed crouched to the floor, trying to ignore the squelch of what felt like mouldy newspapers pressed against the fur of his belly. The stench made him feel sick to his stomach.
    He considered surrendering—most toms and queens would not fight a kitten who rolled over on its back and offered its throat in abject submission—but for a small kitten, he had a full-grown cat’s worth of pride. Southpaw looked up at Ratsbane, with his great yellow teeth bared, and then at Datura, and some instinct told him, pride apart, that if he bared his throat to these two ferals, they would tear the soft flesh into shreds as though he were a mouse.
    “The meat isn’t scared enough, Datura,” said Aconite’s sinister voice, right behind Southpaw. “Shall I play with him, then?” And before the kitten could run, a paw cuffed him hard across his back, the blow heavy, the cat’s claws raking his back paw painfully.
    Southpaw miaowed and turned to slash back at Aconite. But the cat—a skinny grey with malevolent golden eyes—wascircling the kitten lazily, padding around just out of reach. It seemed to the kitten then that time slowed down, and he could almost hear Miao’s injunctions, out in the park, to the older kittens: “Never leave your back unguarded! Let your whiskers and the fur on your tail tell you what walks your way, wherever you are!” He flattened himself to the ground and rolled, just in time to escape Ratsbane’s chattering teeth. The black cat had moved away from the door, drawn by the prospect of sport, and would have bitten the kitten’s paws or tail right through if he hadn’t shifted in time.
    The circle of cats was tightening around Southpaw. Fear made the kitten’s heart hammer. He stared into Aconite’s eyes. His blood hummed with a sudden understanding: this was not just play, nor was it the often savage defence of territory that many cats would consider a reasonable response to intruders. The kitten slashed at Aconite’s nose swiftly, watching the blood flow and exulting in his small victory as the cat howled and backed off. Southpaw whirled and slashed, blindly, driving three would-be predators back; his size gave him an advantage—he was so small that he made a difficult target for the ferals.
    He knew now that these cats would kill him as soon as they had