Monkey Wars (12 page)

I
t was a strange thing, but in the midst of all the death, Soames had never felt more alive.

The langur attack, swift and savage, had torn through his troop with devastating cruelty. He had seen families executed, old friends cut down…

And yet…

In the darkness of the carnage, a rush of adrenaline had surged through Soames, galvanizing him, and that had brought a strange thrill, the kind of thrill you never got sucking juniper berries on the lawn.

From his perch high up in the summer house tower, he gazed out across the moonlit lawns with grim satisfacti
on—he'd shown those arrogant langurs what true strength was. They'd attacked with such conceit, and now they were cowering behind the trees.

Soames knew the bonnets had the mettle to withstand this siege; their grief had hardened into anger, and they had enough ammunition to turn anger into bloody vengeance. They could cut down an entire army if it came to it, but Soames knew it wouldn't. In war, morale was everything, and once the bodies started piling up outside the tower, the langur leaders would be forced to retreat.

It was true the bonnets didn't have that much in the way of food, but they could all do with losing a bit of weight. As for water, the skies looked heavy with rain, which would come straight into the tower now that it had lost its roof tiles; all the bonnets had to do was sit under the leaks with their mouths open.

Soames rolled backward off his perch and started to make his way down the tower, offering a reassuring nod here and a friendly word there. The spear monkeys were poised and ready with their sharp sticks, the flint monkeys were surrounded by piles of cutting stones, and two younger monkeys were busy ferrying fresh ammunition up from the basement.

When he got to the bottom of the tower, Soames swung into the main body of the summer house, where the large monkeys wielding fighting sticks were ranged. As he looked at them, Soames felt a swell of pride. Just yesterday these monkeys had been lazing on the lawns; today everything about them declared “warrior.” It would be a brave langur who would take on these bonnets. Brave, or foolish.

Even though the langur attacks had ceased as the sun set, Soames kept his forces on high alert, just in case. But it had been quiet for a while now, and as the strong moon made it impossible for anything to move on the lawns without being spotted, Soames gave the order to rest. The lookouts could work in shifts; everyone else was to sleep by their weapons.

Confident that the momentum of the battle had swung the bonnets' way, Soames snuggled down between two wooden pillars and dozed off.

The langurs spent the night perfecting their plan. They had left the beehives, still wrapped in netting, in a quiet corner of the gardens, trying to calm the swarms down, while General Pogo worked with his troops on a method of levering open the shutters of the summer house.

There was no room for mistakes—if the langur were beaten here, it would send a signal to monkey troops right across the city, advertising their weakness. The bonnets didn't just need to be defeated; they needed to be annihilated for daring to resist.

As the rising sun stained the gray sky with ominous red streaks, General Pogo put everyone on high alert; he was waiting for the perfect moment, when it was light enough for the bees to navigate, yet dark enough for the bonnets to still be asleep.

All eyes were on the general.

All thoughts on the imminent carnage.

All hopes pinned on the beehives.

Until finally Pogo gave the order.

“Go.”

Immediately a dozen langur elites scurried across the lawns, hugging the damp shadows. When they got near the summer house they split into three groups, each taking a beehive. They scurried to the windows and, in a carefully synchronized move, jammed their sticks into the shutters and heaved.

The shutters split open and the elites hurled the beehives into the building, ripping away the netting, then raced back across the lawns to the waiting lines of langur troops.

A drone in the darkness, that was all it was. Not angry; if anything, rather soothing, almost hypnotic. But different enough to wake Soames, who sat up, peering into the gloom.

It was beginning to get light but there was a shadow swirling like a fast-moving black mist. It didn't make sense to him.

Soames shook his head, trying to cast off fatigue, trying to understand….

And with a shock he realized. The drone. The cloud.
Bees!

Soames leaped up, senses jangling, when the first one hit him, like a hard berry, bouncing off his face. He lashed out with his arms, turned away…and saw the cloud swarming toward him.

“BEEES!!!”

It was the only warning he had time to scream before the insects engulfed him, followed by a storm of searing stings.

Desperately Soames clawed at his eyes, trying to protect them, but it was no use—the bees crawled over his hands, between his fingers. No matter how furiously he shook, still they overwhelmed him.

Suddenly a new sound of terror echoed through the summer house as the bees found other sleeping monkeys. Screams of agony and confusion as the bonnets cannoned into one another, trying to escape the swirling cloud of death.

Even as he stumbled to the door, Soames knew the massed ranks of langurs were waiting to pounce, but in here death was inevitable. Maybe out there he could still fight.

With a desperate lunge, Soames hurled himself at the door, bursting it open, and started dragging his comrades out into the open.

“Weapons ready!”

He heard the cry echo up and down the langur ranks, but it was too late to turn back now. Following his lead, other bonnets were tumbling out of the shutters, desperate to escape the bees.

A bloodthirsty war cry erupted in the morning gloom as the langurs charged, falling on their victims in a frenzy. They attacked with primal savagery, biting off fingers and ears as if trying to devour the bonnets.

Soames had gone beyond agony. As he hauled himself to his knees, numb to the stings that still lashed his body, he could only look on, helpless, as the langurs carved a bloody swathe across the lawns. It was like watching a ruthless killing machine, pitilessly cutting down everything in its path, sparing no one.

Round and round the langurs swirled, destroying everything Soames had ever known or cared about. He had fought with every last drop of courage, but still it was not enough. He had failed his troop. On
his
watch, the proud and ancient bonnet macaques had fallen.

There was a sharp jolt in his back—Soames looked down and saw his stomach distend as a fighting stick punctured his fur and burst out through his gut. He stood there, swaying gently, looking down at the spear that impaled him.

Finally, death was coming, relief from the torment of his catastrophic failure.

A force welled up inside Soames like a huge bubble trying to escape as the old leader opened his mouth and let out one last primal scream.

It wasn't a scream of pain or fear or even sorrow; it was a scream of shame.

Then silence.

As the strength ebbed from his body Soames felt dizzy. Gently he toppled forward, and the Great Lawn caught his fall.

The grass felt soft on his cheek, which he found strangely comforting. The magnificent expanse of the lawns had so long been a symbol of the bonnets' status that, even now, the fact that it was lush and green gave Soames a melancholy twinge of pride.

He watched as green turned dark red with his own blood until, with relief, Soames closed his eyes and died.

The clean-up squads had their work cut out for them. Their orders were to remove the dead bodies, bonnet and langur alike, drag them out of the walled gardens and dump them in storm gullies, where wild dogs and other scavengers would finish the unpleasant task of disposal. Because of the scale of the task, all the cadets had been seconded to help.

As he stared at the brutal aftermath of the battle, Mico discovered with dread that it was one thing to talk about victory, quite another to see the reality of torn flesh and spilled entrails. There was no heroism here, no glory.

He felt numb with guilt as he wandered across the body-strewn lawns. His handprints were all over this horror. But what else could he have done?

Faced with a stark choice—help the langur or watch them die in battle—Mico had tried to do the right thing. But there was nothing right about this gruesome vista.

He closed his eyes, but the darkness only intensified the smell of blood.

“Cadet Mico, what's come over you?”

Mico opened his eyes to find Deputy Tyrell standing in front of him.

“I–I…my squad has been ordered…,” Mico stuttered, but Tyrell just reached out and started to lead him away from the carnage.

“These degrading duties are not for monkeys of your caliber. You should be proud; this is a great day, and I appreciate your contribution to its success.” Tyrell turned and looked at Mico; strangely, one eye seemed to be smiling, the other warning. “Although it was
my
idea that won the day, your role as an advisor was most appreciated. You'll be handsomely rewarded.”

Despite himself, Mico felt a swell of gratitude—it was as if Tyrell was taking the whole burden onto his own shoulders. All the guilt in Mico's heart could vanish under Tyrell's guiding hand; it could all be so easy.

Too easy.

There was a part of Mico that refused to walk away, because there was one question that needed to be answered. A question that had been forgotten in the heat of battle and the rush to avoid defeat, but which refused to go away.

“Where's the human baby?” Mico asked with disarming frankness.

Tyrell looked at him and blinked, momentarily lost for words.

“Where is the baby the bonnet macaques kidnapped?” Mico repeated. “The baby we went to war for?”

Tyrell nodded silently as his slippery mind wound its way around an answer. “Whatever the bonnets did with it, they won't get a chance to repeat their crimes,” he said gravely.

Not good enough.

“I've asked some of the troops who were on the front line—”

“It really doesn't matter now,” scoffed Tyrell.

“And none of them have seen anything—”

“Mico, enough!” The sharp tone silenced him. “War is an ugly thing, a shocking thing. The reasons for it are complex, the truth too difficult for ordinary monkeys to understand. They need the comfort of simple solutions.”

Tyrell put his hand on Mico's shoulder. “But you
do
understand. You've shown today that you're not like the others. You have a gift that marks you out for great things. I could help you climb to where you really belong.”

Tyrell studied him closely—he could feel the young monkey's resistance, but that was good; it showed spirit.

“Take some well-earned leave,” said Tyrell. “Forget about all this,” he waved a dismissive hand across the battlefield. “Enjoy a break from cadet duties. Think about what we've discussed. Then come and see me.”