Читать книгу Panda Panic - Jamie Rix, Jamie Rix - Страница 6

ying on her back, with her legs crossed at a jaunty angle, Mao Mao stripped the bamboo shoot with her teeth, then using the soggy stump as a pointing stick, waved it in front of her face.

“Look,” she said, munching methodically on the woody pulp in her mouth. “There’s a giant panda up there in the sky.”

Her daughter An, who was lying by her side and chewing on her own stick of bamboo, raised her eyes to look.

“And it’s being chased by a golden monkey,” she said without surprise, swallowing what was left in her mouth before taking another bite.

“I could watch clouds all day,” said her mother. “They make such interesting shapes. And they’re so quiet, so respectful. When you’re resting, listening to a sea of green bamboo growing, the last thing you want is a noisy interruption.”

“I agree,” said An. “Nobody likes a screaming wind or a crashing wave. Here on the grassy slopes of Mount Tranquil we prefer whispering clouds and the chuckle of a gentle stream.”

“You’re a girl after my own heart,” sighed Mao Mao, brushing a fly off the tip of her black-and-white nose. And with that, mother and daughter snuggled down into the soft bed of rhododendron leaves and prepared themselves for another tiring day of doing nothing.

Then suddenly, from the other side of the bamboo hedge, there was a terrifying scream. The very earth they were lying on seemed to rattle and shake, families of frightened grandala birds took flight and, sitting bolt upright, An choked on her mouthful of pulp. A second scream accompanied by the thundering thump of heavy paw-steps made Mao Mao’s eyes snap open.

“What on earth!” she cried, sitting up and shaking the sleep out of her head by boxing her ears with the palms of her paws. Deep in a fuzzy recess of her brain a motherly instinct was sounding a warning that the scream belonged to her only son – An’s twin brother, Ping. But before she could shout at him to keep the noise down, the bamboo hedge to her right was flattened by a young panda cub, who tumbled through it and landed with a distinct lack of respect on her belly. It knocked the wind out of her, not to mention the chewed bamboo in her mouth, which pinged off Ping’s ear like a bottle top.

Still panting, Ping flipped over and stood up on his mother’s round stomach as if she was nothing more than a grassy knoll.

“Run for your lives!” he yelled, grabbing the stick of bamboo out of his sister’s mouth and tugging at her paw to drag her to her feet. “Your lives are in danger!”

An refused to budge and snatched the stick of bamboo back.

“Don’t just lie there!” yelled Ping. “Mummy, please! Get up! Stir yourself!”

“How can I,” she said calmly, “when there’s somebody standing on me?”

Ping jumped down and prodded his mother’s arm.

“There are poachers right behind me,” he cried urgently. “They’ve got literally millions of panda hides slung across their shoulders.”

“Millions?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“Well, seven or eight,” admitted Ping. “But there is a look of killing in their eyes. If you don’t want to end up as a rug, follow me now!”

But Ping’s mother was unmoved. She simply snapped off another stick of bamboo from the hedge and resumed her methodical chewing. Ping had never seen such indifference to danger and redoubled his efforts.

“What’s the matter with you two?” he hollered. “Do you want to die?”

Mao Mao leant forward and biffed Ping round the ear.

“Ow!” he cried. “What was that for?”

“You’ve interrupted my meal,” said his mother. “Not to mention the lovely peace and quiet.”

“But there are poachers,” Ping said half-heartedly. Even he appeared to be losing interest in the life-or-death news.

“If there are poachers,” his mother said evenly, “then I’m a panda from another planet; and I’m not, as you very well know, Ping. I am a panda from the Wolagong Nature Reserve, who sits in this clearing in the Serene Forest for fourteen hours a day eating bamboo – a lifestyle, incidentally, which suits me very well, but which, it would appear, does not appeal to you.”

“It’s boring,” said Ping. “And why does nobody ever believe a word I say?”

“Because your lying stinks worse than golden monkey poo,” sniggered his sister, sticking out her tongue at him. “And it’s easy-peasy to spot when you’re lying because your mouth curls up like an ancient lychee into a snooty, ‘Aren’t-I-so-clever’ smirk.”

“You’re not helping, An,” said Mao Mao, before turning her disapproving gaze back to her son. “How many times do I have to tell you, Ping, to stop making up stories.”

“There’s nothing else to do around here,” he protested.

“You could eat bamboo,” she said.

“Oh, whoop-di-do!” Ping cheered sarcastically. “I can eat bamboo and poo forty-seven times a day!”

“There’s no need to be rude,” said his mother. “Giant pandas have lived this way for thousands of years.”

“Well, maybe it’s time for a change,” suggested Ping. “Maybe I wasn’t born to pose for the endless stream of visitors who pass by every day with their cameras. Maybe I am destined to be the first panda in the history of Wolagong who was born to lead a life of excitement and adventure! I have been speaking to my friend Hui and—”

An interrupted him.

“Hui is just a birdbrain,” she said dismissively. “I don’t believe anything he says either.”

“Hui is a grandala bird, who travels the world and knows everything,” Ping corrected her. “And he says that the world is full of interesting animals just waiting to meet me.”

His mother lay back down and contemplated the sky.

“It is enough that water is wet,” she said meaningfully. “It cannot also be fire.”

Ping sighed. His mother was fond of her irritating little sayings. She had a habit of slipping them into a conversation when she wanted the conversation to stop. Deep down Ping knew that she was right. A panda was a panda and he shouldn’t try to be something else. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t dream, did it?

Moving away from his mother and sister, Ping sat down out of their sight and picked up a handful of the bamboo stalks that he’d knocked over earlier when he’d tumbled through the hedge. He was just taking his first bite when there was a scampering and a chattering behind him, and before he could say, ‘What on Wolagong!’ he was surrounded by an excitable troop of golden monkeys.

“What do you want?” he said, knowing full well what the monkeys wanted – what monkeys always wanted. To tease him. Pandas are quiet, contemplative creatures that like to think deeply, but golden monkeys are noisy chatterboxes interested only in tittle-tattle and gossip. In short, monkeys are trouble.

“Hello, Ping,” mocked their leader, Choo. “Having another busy day?”

The other monkeys sniggered at their leader’s brilliant wit.

“Been eating lots of bamboo, have you? Had a few poos? Posed for some cameras?”

The sniggering increased to such a volume that Ping felt the need to defend himself.

“Actually, yes,” he said, bigging himself up. “I have had an extremely busy day, thank you, Choo. Some might even say a heroic day!”

The monkeys gasped and exchanged looks of mock admiration.

“I saw one of the visitors trying to steal a golden pheasant,” Ping continued, “and when I realised that there wasn’t time to call a ranger and that I was the bird’s only hope, I took a deep breath and grabbed on to a creeper and swung through the trees like a stealthy shadow until I was hanging over the top of the villainous visitor. I must have been at least ten metres above his head. Probably more. Anyway, without any thought for my own safety, I let go of the creeper and bravely dropped on to his head, driving the visitor into the ground like a fence post. And after he’d pulled himself out and run away screaming, the golden pheasant put its wing on my shoulder and said, ‘Truly, Ping, you are a great hero. You have saved my life when nobody else could. And if we had a king here in the Wolagong Nature Reserve, you can bet that I’d put you up for the job because you are the best.’ And that’s how I’ve spent my day!”

At the very least Ping was expecting a pat on the back accompanied by a shame-faced apology, but instead, when he turned around, the monkeys were rolling on the ground clutching their bellies and laughing.

“You are such a fibber!” Choo screamed, leaping up into a tree and swinging back into the forest. “The lousiest liar in Wolagong.”

In a trice the other monkeys followed their leader into the trees and Ping was suddenly alone with only the echoes of their cruel laughter to keep him company.

The young panda cub slumped to the ground and rested his chin in his paw as he mulled over his life.

“I hate it when the monkeys are right,” he told himself. “Being a panda IS really dull.”

He felt his mother’s paw stroke the top of his head.

“Do not fear going forward slowly. Fear only standing still,” she said, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

“Actually there’s another saying that’s much more appropriate,” Ping said.

“Really?” she replied. “I’d love to hear it.”

“Do not fear going forward looking like a doodoo-headed ninnyhammer. Fear only being a doodoo-headed ninnyhammer,” he said.

“And is that what you think you are?” his mother asked. “A doodoo-headed ninnyhammer?”

Ping turned and stared at her through black-ringed eyes and couldn’t find a way of saying ‘Yes’ without sounding sorry for himself. Instead he said, “I’m going to bed,” and trotted away with his tiny tail between his legs.

But he couldn’t sleep.

As he tossed and turned on his bed of rhododendron leaves, the long, cold night carved out the truth. His life was standing still. If he didn’t do something exciting soon, he would almost certainly turn into a stone.

But, that night, as luck would have it, his wish for excitement was granted.