Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Copyright
About the Publisher
“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
