Moore - Tooth and Claw

By Stephen Moore

Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

2013 / Stephen Moore

First published in Great Britain in 1998

By Hodder Childrens Books

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Stephen Moore would rather be writing books than writing about himself. But here goes:

Stephen hails from the North East of England, a land he never tires of exploring; full of ancient Roman history, fantastic castles and remnants of the infamous Border Reivers.

A long time ago, before he discovered the magic of storytelling, Stephen was an exhibition designer and he has fond memories of working in the strange old world of museums. Sometimes he can still be found in auction houses pawing over old relics!

Stephen has shared his house with several of the animals that frequent his books, though not the flying pigs or foul-smelling brugan. He loves art and books, old and new. Hes into rock music and movies and theatre and video games! But mostly, he likes to write, where he gets to create his own worlds. If pushed very hard to name his favourite book of all time there are many contenders hed have to say... Today, its a dead heat between, Robert Westalls The Machine Gunners and Robert Louis Stephensons Treasure Island .

Maybe, his own books are OK too?

Book List

Dead Edward

Fay

Fiddlesticks and Firestones

Skin and Bone

Spilling the Magic

The Brugan

Tooth and Claw

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For Peter Moore

D read Booga was asleep in the dark. Hidden, like a guilty secret, beneath the town; beneath the place of men. Out of sight, out of mind. The creature spent most of its time asleep. Asleep was best. Awake it was frightened, worried, puzzled. It was certain it did not belong in this awful place, in this awful world.

Had there been an accident? Inside its injured head there were few memories. A fleeting image of breathtaking beauty; a deep black starlit sky. The certainty that at some time it had travelled a long, long way. Did it belong there , up among the stars?

It had not travelled alone. The delicate dried-up bones of its mate lay broken and scattered close by, where it had died. How long ago was that? A season? A lifetime? Or a hundred lifetimes?

And why did it hide? It was a creature more of spirit than of body. Its first memory of this world was the cruel, unbearable weight of a million selfish thoughts mens thoughts pressing in upon its own, clouding its mind, hurting it. Forcing it to escape into the darkness of the pit where mens thoughts were loath to follow. Caging it there like a wild beast, until a wild beast it had become.

There were other animals in this strange world; lesser animals than men with lesser thoughts that did not give it pain. They had seen the creature come, had run away before it.

And it was these other animals who had given it a name.

Booga, they called it.

Dread Booga.

The name tired mothers used to scare troublesome kits to sleep at night. Shush now, or Dread Booga will come for you. Dread Booga will come.

It had become a thing of dark legend, of superstition and nightmare. Perhaps that was for the best...

Comings and Goings

O w! Mrs Ida Tupps squealed, and leapt into the air. The cats claws dug deeper. Pierced the old womans thick woollen jumper, her cotton blouse and winter vest. Pricked the loose warm folds of her skin beneath, and there took a tight hold.

Ow! Ow! Ow! With every Ow! Mrs Ida Tupps gave another leap into the air, hopping wildly from one ancient leg to the other. Why, you horrid cat! Miss Bryna Tupps sticking your nasty little pins into me like that.

Unrepentant, Brynas claws dug deeper still.

Yoooo-oooOW! I wont have you in this house a minute longer. I wont. You can spend your night outside, madam. Lets see how you like that! Mrs Ida Tupps took a deep breath, puffed herself up, and holding the young queen off at arms length, blustered her way between the sitting-room and the front door.

Bryna called out in desperation, her yowling almost as sharp a cut as her claws. And her cry said, This is not fair. I dont care if I was sitting in your chair. I was there first! I was warm, I was tired. I was belly-full and contented. And I really, really dont want to be put outside! She pushed and pulled, scratched and clawed against the arms that held her fast. But Mrs Ida Tupps did not understand. The silly old woman never understood a single word she said.

Bryna heard the front door clack open. Felt the first icy blast of midnight air. Felt herself dropped, unceremoniously, to the ground. The door was snapped shut behind her with a string of muffled words. Then the pale yellow light behind the hall window was switched off.

The cold and the dark of the winters night closed in around her. She flicked her tail stubbornly, the fur on her back twitching with annoyance. I dont want to be outside! she cried. I dont want to be outside! Nobody was listening.

Her nose was still full of old, familiar, indoor scents. The stuffy, stale air. The dry and drowsy warmth. And the peculiar, sharply sour, unnatural smell that was Mrs Ida Tupps. For a moment she remembered her food bowl, the whiteness of a saucer of milk, and the luxury of soft, comfortable things to sleep on. But then, the wind began to curl around her, blowing away such thoughts, and she lost them.

Reluctantly, Bryna turned her head into the wind. All at once, the town heaped itself upon her, in a mad, confused whirl, flooding her senses; too much for the wit of a lazy, dull-brained house-cat. The brick, the stone, the iron, the glass. The crippling weight of the countless buildings, stacked remorselessly, one against the next in never-ending lines. The prickling sting of street lights. Here, the shrieking of birds in flight. There, the reek of stray cats. From far off, the soft warning smells and the tickling sounds as a river danced. And beyond, the puzzlement of dumb animals standing out upon open fields. And then in one great burst, the roar of the metal road machines the cars and the buses, the lorries and the motorcycles with their burning oils and choking gases. All shapes, all sizes, all mad as hell, with staring eyes that scorched the night as they charged endlessly up and down. Forever going, never getting there. And always, first and last, always and always, the heavy scents of men calling to her; this is all mine, mine, mine, mine!

Brynas fur bristled; a new, pungent odour stung her nose, soured her tongue, and drove away all else. At last a scent she did understand... dog. The stench of a dog, close by. She lifted her nose and sniffed deeply... A low purr rose up in her throat; this was a stale scent, yesterdays smell, and without threat.

Bryna gave herself a quick lick for confidence sake, and tried to soothe herself with thoughts of her own private outside world. Her prowl. Yes, as is the right of all cats, even this poor lap-cat has her prowl. Around and about her was the clutter of houses she took great pride in knowing by their names. There was Shipley Avenue, St Basils, Hers Over The Road, Piggys Lonnen and The Corner Shop. Names she had learned as a kit from Mrs Ida Tupps. Of course, exactly which houses matched which name she was less sure of, so she had taken to calling them all The Lonnen. It was a poor prowl then, a short walk between houses and back gardens, trees and rubbish bins, hedges and back lanes. A prowl beyond which she dared not venture. But at least it was all hers and, for the most part, trouble-free.