The Wildings by Nilanjana Roy Page B

difference does it make where I was born?”
    Southpaw felt his terror slip away from him. His black whiskers rose slightly as he tried to imagine what it would be like to exchange the vast expanse of Nizamuddin—the canal roads, the Bigfeet’s lawns and rooftops, the narrow alleys and old ruins—for this confined, reeking space. He now understood where the thought that had briefly interrupted his impending demise had come from. “You were the first, weren’t you?” he said to Datura.
    “The first what?” said Ratsbane. “Datura, just raise a paw, and I’ll tear the little scum’s whiskers out by the roots.”
    Suddenly, Southpaw realized he was no longer afraid. He ignored Ratsbane, backing further until he could feel the broad comforting expanse of a wooden wardrobe behind him.
    “The first to be born in the Shuttered House,” said Southpaw. “Isn’t that true, Datura? You grew up seeing the outside, feeling the wind from the skies on your whiskers once in a while, through the windows, out on the roof, but you’ve never really been outside, have you? The rest of the cats came here later, didn’t they? Most came here when they were still very young kittens, some were born here, but you were the first of them.”
    “What of it?” said Aconite. The grey cat was staring at the kitten, but there was open space between her and him, and she would have to launch a direct assault if she wanted to go on the attack. “You speak of things we all know, or even if we didn’t, these are matters of no importance.”
    There were twitches of assent all around the room, but Southpaw noted that only some were strong; a slight, almost imperceptible uncertainty also travelled along the whiskers, and he thought he could sense hesitation in the air. The kitten found his paws sweating; whatever he had picked up from those powerful but scattered images in their brief sharing added up to little more than a feeling. But his only chance was to hold the attention of the cats, to keep talking until—and here his mind shut down, refusing to accept that there was no escape.
    “You say these are matters of no importance, Aconite?” the kitten said, letting his whiskers relax. “But why haven’t you been outdoors to see what it’s like? Why are all of you shut up here like mice, like rats, like a band of scuttling, scurrying roaches, living off stale food and stinking milk, when the hedges outside teem with fresh, fat prey?”
    “I’ll pull your whiskers out myself!” hissed Datura, and came sideways at him. Southpaw bared his small teeth and growled. The white cat stopped just a foot short, arching his back and hissing hideously, but careful not to get too close. The kitten’s claws were tiny, but sharp, as he had demonstrated to Aconite.
    “I’m not done,” said Southpaw. Out of the corner of his eye, he was judging the distance to the velvet drapes, wondering whether they would bear his weight if he had to make a run for it. A low hum was rising up from the ferals.
    “You’re done,” growled Ratsbane.
    “Look at yourself, Ratsbane!” Southpaw called, as loudly as he could, startling the large black tom.
    “You’re so proud of your strength, of your muscles, of your killing abilities, aren’t you? And yet, why have you never usedthese outside? Never battled the crows for the right to your kill, never brawled gloriously with another tom, never fought a dog? Look at your kills—a cat with a broken paw, a kitten with its whiskers not even white yet. Are you proud of yourself, Ratsbane? You, Aconite?”
    The snarling that greeted him made the kitten back up and shiver, but he could not let them see how scared he was. Pushing himself up to his greatest height, which placed him a long way under Ratsbane’s massive shoulder, he fluffed his fur out and hissed.
    “The only reason you haven’t gone out is because your leader never went out. Datura shut you all up in the Shuttered House because he had never been out as a