by Erin Hunter
I wish I’d told her that . . . but now it’s too late. She’s gone.
CHAPTER 9
Crowfeather sat at the edge of the warriors’ den, forcing himself to choke down a vole. Memories of his terrible discovery earlier that morning—the blood-soaked nest in the ferns, and the stink of fox that tainted the air around the pool—took away the last traces of his appetite. But he made himself eat because he knew he would need all his strength for what he had to do now.
Nightcloud is surely dead. . . . How am I going to tell Breezepelt?
On his way back to camp, Crowfeather, still stunned by his discovery, had almost forgotten that he was trespassing on a rival Clan’s territory. Heading for the border stream, he had thrust his way through a bank of ferns and emerged into the open to see a ThunderClan patrol padding through the undergrowth a couple of fox-lengths away from him. Fox dung!
Quickly he withdrew into the ferns and crouched there, peering out, convinced that at any moment his scent would give him away, and that this time he would be brought to Bramblestar. And Onestar will have my head. Then, to his relief, he noticed that all four cats were loaded with prey. Hardly daring to breathe, he prayed to StarClan that the scent of the fresh-kill would mask his own, just long enough for the patrol to pass him without realizing he was there.
He was in luck—they walked by close enough that they ruffled the fern fronds where he was hiding, but didn’t spot him, didn’t scent him. Crowfeather had stayed there for many heartbeats, shaking from ears to tail-tip, until he felt fit to go on.
When Crowfeather returned to camp, he was almost relieved that Breezepelt was nowhere to be found. For a few moments, at least, he could delay the inevitable. How am I going to tell him his mother is dead? Now Crowfeather spotted him stalking back into camp with a rabbit dangling from his jaws. Heathertail and Harespring were with him, also laden with prey.
Crowfeather’s gaze followed Breezepelt as he padded across the camp and deposited his prey on the fresh-kill pile. His belly churned as he tried to decide what he would say to his son.
I can’t put it off any longer. . . .
When Breezepelt had dropped his prey, he turned immediately to Heathertail. Crowfeather was close enough to overhear their conversation.
“You have to help me,” Breezepelt meowed urgently. “I’m not asking you to go back into the tunnels, just show me how to figure out the layout. I’m going down there again to find Nightcloud, and no cat is going to stop me!”
“But, Breezepelt—” Heathertail began.
While Breezepelt was speaking, Crowfeather had bounded over to join the two younger cats, and now he interrupted whatever Heathertail had been about to say.
“That won’t be necessary,” he mewed gently in response to Breezepelt.
Pain tore at him like a badger’s claw as he saw the hope flaring in his son’s eyes.
“You mean you went? You found her?” Breezepelt asked.
Crowfeather sought the right words, but for a moment all he could do was let his head droop, shaking it sadly. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” he began at last, “so I went out and looked for Nightcloud again at the ThunderClan end of the tunnels. But I didn’t find her. I caught her scent and followed it to a clearing with a pool. Her blood was on the ground, and there was a terrible reek of fox. I think . . . Breezepelt, I think a fox may have taken her.”
Crowfeather had expected a furious denial, or perhaps a wail of despair from his son. Instead, as the hope died in Breezepelt’s eyes, the black tom seemed to shrink, drawing into himself. Crowfeather’s heart was wrenched at the change in him.
“I don’t want you to blame yourself,” he meowed. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Several heartbeats passed before Breezepelt responded. “No, I don’t blame myself. It’s their fault.” His voice was deadly quiet. “They killed her.”
“Who?” Crowfeather asked, bewildered, unsure what Breezepelt was talking about. ThunderClan? Onestar?
“The stoats. Those vicious mange-pelts in the tunnels.” There was a savage glare in Breezepelt’s eyes, and he tensed his muscles as if he could see his enemy in front of him. “Nightcloud was a great fighter, and so brave. The stoats must have hurt her badly, or she could have fought the fox, or run away.”
“Breezepelt, I’m so sorry,” Heathertail mewed, stroking the tip of her tail down his flank.
Breezepelt seemed hardly aware of her. “We can’t put it off any longer,” he told Crowfeather. “We must kill every last stoat. After what they did to Nightcloud, they have to pay! I don’t care what it takes.”
“Calm down,” Crowfeather told him sternly. “Yes, it’s terrible what the stoats have done, but they’re stupid, crow-food-eating creatures—hardly cold-blooded killers. We’ll get the stoats out, and prevent that horrible scene in Kestrelflight’s vision, but you mustn’t do anything rash.”
His son gave him a glare as cold as the wind that swept across the moor in leaf-bare. “I don’t care about Kestrelflight’s vision,” he hissed, “and I don’t care what you call them. I just want the stoats dead. Nightcloud was the only cat who really cared about me, and they murdered her. I’m going to make them regret ever laying their filthy paws on my mother.”
For a moment Crowfeather was frozen into silence, stunned by the force of Breezepelt’s anger. He knew that he should reassure Breezepelt, tell him that he had a father who cared for him, too—but for some reason the words were stuck in his throat.
Breezepelt was scaring him a little bit. Is this how the rest of the Clan sees him? Angry and unpredictable?
Before he could find what he needed to tell his son, Leaftail sidled up to them, a suspicious look in his amber eyes. “Did you just say you don’t care about Kestrelflight’s vision?” he asked.
Oh, StarClan.
Crowfeather wanted to tell Leaftail to leave Breezepelt alone, because he had just learned of his mother’s death. But before he could speak, Breezepelt turned on the tabby tom with a snarl of anger.
“I don’t care! I need to kill the animals in the tunnels. That’s the only thing that matters.” With a lash of his tail he strode off into the warriors’ den.
By now more cats were gathering around, listening to the exchange in curious silence.
“That proves it, then,” Leaftail announced, his gaze raking across the crowd. “If Breezepelt were truly loyal to WindClan, he would respect his medicine cat. Every cat knows how important Kestrelflight’s vision was! How can we prevent the flood if we don’t work together?”
A murmur of agreement rose from some of the other warriors, while the rest exchanged doubtful glances. Irritated, Crowfeather let his voice rise above the sound.
“Don’t be such a sanctimonious cleanpaw. Of course Breezepelt cares about the vision,” he snarled. “But he just learned that Nightcloud is dead—that’s why he’s angry. How would any of you flea-brains feel if those animals had killed your mother? You think you’re so much better than him? Please! Give him time to deal with his grief.”
For a moment the cats around were silent, exchanging shocked, incredulous glances. “Wait, Nightcloud is dead? How do you know?” Leaftail challenged Crowfeather.
“I found signs she was gravely injured in the tunnels, and then she was attacked by a fox,” Crowfeather replied. “If she’d been healthy, the fox would have been no match for Nightcloud, but with her wounds . . . She must have been too weak. I just told Breezepelt, and he’s not taking it very well. You should all understand that.”
Crouchfoot twitched his whiskers into a sneer. “Maybe Breezepelt is taking it so badly because he knows he could have done more to save his mother. After all, he was the only one with her in the tunnels.”
Again Crowfeather could see that many of his Clanmates agreed with Crouchfoot, as they gazed after Breezepelt with unsympathetic eyes. But Heathertail’s shoulder fur bristled with indignation as she faced them.
“I can’t believe you said that!” she spat at Crouchfoot.
“Breezepelt is just as loyal to WindClan as any of you—maybe more. Like you said, he was with her in the tunnels, putting his life on the line for all of us—and where were you?”
“I was on the second patrol!” Crouchfoot began indignantly, but Heathertail ignored him.
Spinning around, she headed after Breezepelt, only to halt as Crowfeather stepped into her path. He felt a warm glow of appreciation at the way she had defended his son, but he knew Breezepelt well enough to see that he wouldn’t welcome any cat right now, not even Heathertail. “Give him some space,” he advised her. “He’s angry now. Don’t give him the opportunity to say things he doesn’t mean.”
“Yeah, don’t bother,” Leaftail put in. “We’re all sorry Nightcloud’s dead, but Breezepelt can’t be trusted. There’s something dark inside him. He fought on the side of the Dark Forest, after all. Maybe he deserves all this bad stuff that’s happening to him.”
Heathertail’s eyes widened in fury and disbelief. “You . . . you heartless flea-pelt!” she snarled. “How could you say that? He just lost his mother!” She gave a single lash of her tail, then turned and ran up the side of the hollow and out of the camp.
The rest of the cats watched her go, then turned to look at Crowfeather. Clearly, they were waiting to see what he would do.
Crowfeather wanted to join Heathertail in speaking up for his son, but his Clanmates’ hatred of the Dark Forest cats hung in the air like the reek of fox beside the pool where Nightcloud died. He felt burning in the depths of his belly, and a lump in his throat that stopped him from speaking.
Fighting on the side of the Dark Forest was wrong, but Breezepelt is still my son, even if we have never been close. How long can he be expected to go on paying for his past mistakes?
He stood gazing at his paws, then gave his head a helpless shake. He knew that Breezepelt had been loyal to WindClan ever since the Great Battle, but it hadn’t done him any good. His Clanmates would always look at him with suspicion. Maybe he’s doomed to always be an outsider.
Worry about Breezepelt threatened to overwhelm Crowfeather. His son had suffered more than any cat could be expected to take: the loss of his reputation, the attack by the stoats, and now the death of his mother. I don’t want him to turn out even more angry and wounded than he already is.
But Crowfeather had no idea how he could reach Breezepelt or comfort him. He realized that what he wanted was to go and discuss their son with Nightcloud. She would be able to comfort Breezepelt. But she’s gone now. Breezepelt only has me . . . his father.
A huge weight seemed to descend on Crowfeather’s shoulders as he admitted that he had no answers to offer Breezepelt, only more questions and doubt. And he had no answers to give his Clanmates, either. They were determined to distrust Breezepelt, and he wasn’t sure they entirely trusted him, either. Nothing he could say would change that.
Slowly he turned and padded away in the opposite direction from Breezepelt. It was time to talk to Onestar, and tell him that Nightcloud was dead.
CHAPTER 10
“Tonight, we will sit vigil for Nightcloud,” Onestar announced. “We will honor her as a brave warrior and a valued member of our Clan.”
As soon as the sun had risen on the day after Crowfeather’s discovery of the place where Nightcloud had died, Onestar had called a Clan meeting. He hadn’t been thrilled to learn that Crowfeather had sneaked onto ThunderClan territory, but his anger had softened when he’d learned of Nightcloud’s death. She was a beloved WindClan warrior, and the leader was clearly sad to lose her. The loss felt even worse coming on the paws of so many Great Battle deaths.
Every cat was subdued as they gathered around, and Crowfeather’s paws itched with restlessness.
I want to be out there doing something, not standing here listening to our Clan leader.
As saddened as he was by Nightcloud’s death, knowing that the stoats were still in the tunnels was worrying Crowfeather. He couldn’t forget Kestrelflight’s vision of the storm, suggesting that WindClan might almost be destroyed if they failed to deal with the threat. And he couldn’t stop thinking about how the wind hadn’t been enough to stop the flood. Does that mean we’ll have to involve other Clans? Is Onestar going about this all wrong?
At dawn that morning, Breezepelt had tried to leave the camp, intent on taking revenge by entering the tunnels alone and killing every stoat he found there. It had taken five cats to hold him back, and finally Heathertail had convinced him to wait. She’d told him they would take on the stoats, but to do that, they needed him at his full strength. He needed rest. He argued for a while, but eventually he gave in, and now Heathertail watched over him as he slept.
But what happens when he wakes up? Crowfeather asked himself gloomily. How do I help him deal with his grief, without running foolishly into an ambush of stoats? He had no idea. He hadn’t even spoken to Breezepelt since he announced that Nightcloud was dead, and he doubted that his son wanted his support.
“Now there’s one more task for me to do,” Onestar continued. “Hootpaw, Nightcloud was a good mentor to you, but she is gone, and you will need another cat to guide you through the rest of your apprenticeship. Gorsetail, you are a loyal and intelligent cat. I know you will pass these qualities on to Hootpaw.”
A look of pleased surprise spread over Gorsetail’s face. “I’ll do my best, Onestar,” she responded.
Crowfeather blinked at the gray-and-white she-cat, not sure how he felt about this. On the one paw, he was relieved to be back to one apprentice—training Featherpaw would be easier now. But on the other, Crowfeather couldn’t forget that Gorsetail had openly mocked Breezepelt and said he couldn’t be trusted. It seemed wrong, in a way, for her to take over Nightcloud’s apprentice.
Hootpaw was standing in the circle of cats, his head and tail drooping in dejection. Crowfeather knew he was grieving for his lost mentor. But when Onestar mentioned his name he looked up and gave his pelt a shake. As he padded over to Gorsetail and touched noses with her, he was clearly determined to do his best.
Even though training two apprentices had been a challenge, Crowfeather liked the sturdy, enthusiastic young apprentice. Gorsetail isn’t my favorite cat, but I’m sure she’ll try to be a good mentor for Hootpaw. And I’ll keep an eye on him, too—it’s the least I can do for Nightcloud.
“Harespring, it’s time to send out hunting patrols,” Onestar meowed, angling his ears toward his deputy. “But no cat is to hunt near the tunnels for the time being.”
A murmur of disapproval greeted the Clan leader’s announcement. Crouchfoot called out, “Are we just leaving that part of our territory to the stoats?”
“Certainly not,” Onestar responded with an irritated flick of his tail. “But we’ve lost Nightcloud, and some of our warriors are still bearing wounds from the last skirmish. I intend to wait until every cat is healed and strong again and we’ve had time to figure out what to do next. Meanwhile, I don’t want the creatures provoked. If they think that cats aren’t coming back to fight them, they might get lazy and careless—which means they will be easier for us to deal with.”
Crouchfoot shrugged and muttered something inaudible but didn’t protest again.
Onestar declared that the meeting was over, and Harespring began to organize the hunting patrols.
“Please, Harespring, can Hootpaw and I hunt together?” Featherpaw asked as the deputy padded over toward her and Crowfeather, who gave his apprentice a stern look. “That’s not for you to decide,” he scolded.
Featherpaw didn’t seem bothered by his rebuke; she kept a hopeful gaze fixed on Harespring.
“I don’t see why not,” Harespring mewed kindly. “I’ll go and tell Gorsetail, and find a couple of other cats to go with you.”
Crowfeather was just about to tell Featherpaw that an apprentice’s job was to do as she was told and keep her mouth shut, but he heard a low-voiced murmur from behind him.
“I still think it’s really suspicious, how Nightcloud went missing
in the tunnels. I mean, no cat was there to see what happened. . . . Well, no cat except Breezepelt.”
Crowfeather felt his muscles tense and every hair on his pelt start to rise. He had recognized Weaselfur’s voice, and he flicked an ear back to hear more clearly.
“Yeah, all that yowling and wailing this morning.” That was Leaftail’s voice. “It felt like he was just pretending. That’s suspicious, all right!”
Shifting slightly, Crowfeather managed to steal a glance at the two cats without letting them see that he could overhear them. Weaselfur and Leaftail were standing with their heads together, surrounded by a few of their Clanmates, who were waiting to be assigned to a patrol.
“Why is Breezepelt so sure Nightcloud is even dead?” Weaselfur continued. “After all, we only have Breezepelt’s word for it, and he was one of the cats who fought for the Dark Forest. Maybe he’s sure because he killed her, and he’s beside himself with guilt. How much can we trust him, or any of the Dark Forest cats?”
Is he serious? How many times do I have to say it—Breezepelt would never hurt Nightcloud! It was all Crowfeather could do not to leap out at Weaselfur and confront him, but he forced himself to stand still and listen to what else the ginger tom might have to say.
“Oh, come on, now,” Emberfoot protested loudly at Weaselfur’s accusation.
“Ridiculous,” Sedgewhisker agreed. “Hasn’t Breezepelt been punished enough, losing his mother? Must you now make these silly accusations?” When the other cats ignored them, the two of them turned away and padded off.
Leaftail watched them go, then nodded in agreement with Weaselfur. “I don’t know why Onestar doesn’t just drive out the cats who trained with the Dark Forest. Wouldn’t that be the wise thing to do? Better safe than sorry.”
Crowfeather slid out his claws, digging them into the ground. Why are these cats turning against Breezepelt? He’s just lost his mother! And they must know that he would never have hurt her. Whatever problems Breezepelt has had with his Clanmates, he has always loved Nightcloud.