by Erin Hunter
Guilt gripped deep inside Crowfeather when he thought about his own recent distrust of his son. It seemed as mouse-brained now as these theories that Breezepelt had hurt Nightcloud. He foresaw, too, that more cats turning against Breezepelt could mean trouble for the entire Clan. If Onestar defended him, as Crowfeather expected, cats would end up taking sides, which meant that soon there would be a split in the Clan that would be almost impossible to repair.
“I agree. Onestar should just exile the Dark Forest cats. I mean, I know they swore an oath of loyalty, but they’ve broken oaths before. Why take the chance and keep them around?”
Crowfeather started at the sound of Featherpaw’s voice just behind him. He hadn’t realized that she had been close enough to overhear what Weaselfur and Leaftail had been saying. He was shocked that the rumors were spreading among the impressionable apprentices; it was bad enough that the warriors were saying such things.
Before Crowfeather could speak, the reply came from Gorsetail, who padded up with Hootpaw at her side. “Because we are one Clan,” she growled, “and we forgive our Clanmates—even when they’ve made terrible mistakes. Now let’s get on with this hunt. Larkwing is going to join us, too.”
Crowfeather shot a grateful look at Gorsetail as together they chivvied the apprentices away from Weaselfur and Leaftail and up the slope to the edge of the camp, where Larkwing was waiting. He was glad to see that Gorsetail had chosen her; it seemed as if the gray-and-white she-cat had changed her mind about the Dark Forest cats—or most of them, at least. Maybe the responsibility of being a mentor again would do her good.
Hootpaw and Featherpaw were padding along side by side. Crowfeather could see their fur bristling with excitement at the thought of hunting, and was glad that Hootpaw had something to distract him from missing his mentor.
But it won’t last long, for either of us, he thought sadly. Tonight they would sit vigil for Nightcloud, and there would be nothing left to do but face their grief.
The sun had gone down, though a few streaks of daylight still stained the sky. Above the moor the first warriors of StarClan had begun to appear. Crowfeather raised his head and gazed up at them.
Are you looking down at us, Nightcloud? Or are you still searching for the path that leads to StarClan?
Cats padded past him where he stood at the edge of the warriors’ den, making for the center of the camp. Onestar was already there, waiting to begin the vigil for Nightcloud.
Crowfeather glanced toward the dark shape of Breezepelt curled up in his nest. To Crowfeather’s relief he hadn’t made another attempt to head for the tunnels to attack the stoats. Crowfeather felt that he should try to talk to him, but he didn’t know how.
Hesitantly, Crowfeather slipped between the empty nests of other warriors until he reached Breezepelt’s side. His son was awake, but he didn’t get up as Crowfeather approached, only looked up at him with dull, incurious eyes.
“Do you want to walk over to the vigil with me?” Crowfeather asked, half expecting Breezepelt to snap at him and say he didn’t need an escort as if he was an apprentice.
But Breezepelt’s actual response surprised his father even more. “No. I don’t need an escort, because I’m not going.”
“Why not?”
Breezepelt’s claws extended briefly, and he growled through clenched teeth. “None of these cats trust me.” His voice was bitter. “I’ve heard them whispering about what I might have done to Nightcloud.”
So the rumors have reached Breezepelt, Crowfeather thought, swallowing his fury as if it were a tough piece of fresh-kill.
“Not every cat,” he meowed, remembering that several of his Clanmates had protested at Weaselfur’s accusations. “Heathertail stood up for you.”
A pleased, grateful expression flickered across Breezepelt’s face. “She did? Really?”
“Really. And I know it’s hard to hear your Clanmates spread rumors, Breezepelt, but the best thing you can do is hold your head high. You and I both know you haven’t done anything wrong.”
Breezepelt blinked up at him, as if he was surprised at his father’s sympathy and support. For a moment Crowfeather thought he might rise to his paws and accompany him to the vigil. Then Breezepelt let out a long sigh. “I’m still not going. I just . . . can’t.”
“Okay. I understand,” Crowfeather responded, though he wasn’t sure he really did. And a small part of him worried that Breezepelt’s absence would give more fuel for gossip. Cats like Weaselfur would assume the worst: that Breezepelt wouldn’t go to Nightcloud’s vigil because of guilt over her death.
Well, so be it. Those flea-pelts can think what they want. I won’t force Breezepelt if he doesn’t feel ready to face the Clan and the vigil. The Clan will just have to get over it.
“I’ll speak for you,” Crowfeather continued to Breezepelt. “I’ll tell every cat how much you loved her—and what a good mother she was to you.”
“Thank you,” Breezepelt mewed. He closed his eyes, laid his head on his paws, and wrapped his tail over his nose as if he was trying to shut out the world.
Crowfeather briefly touched his nose to Breezepelt’s forehead, then turned and headed for the center of the camp, where his Clanmates were already gathered in a ragged circle around Onestar. The empty space beside the Clan leader, where Nightcloud’s body should have lain, was like a yawning gap at the heart of the Clan.
Onestar dipped his head solemnly to Crowfeather as he took his place, acknowledging his arrival. Crowfeather caught some furtive looks from the other cats, and he could hear them whispering among themselves. Some of them seemed angry, while others simply looked wary, as if they found it hard to meet his gaze. He realized they had been waiting for him to arrive before they could begin.
Well, tough. Checking on Breezepelt was important.
For a moment Onestar still hesitated, perhaps expecting Breezepelt to arrive. He shot a questioning look at Crowfeather, as if asking whether they should wait. Crowfeather shook his head, trying not to let his frustration and disappointment show.
Onestar took a breath and began to speak. “Nightcloud was a strong warrior, and an important part of WindClan,” he meowed. “She will be truly missed by every cat.”
That’s true, Crowfeather thought. He knew he missed Nightcloud as the mother of his son, and he was worried about how her death was affecting Breezepelt. But now he realized that he felt more than that. He would miss Nightcloud as a friend, too. He knew he hadn’t treated her well when she was alive, but he had always thought he would have the chance to work it out later.
I guess it’s too late for that now.
Crowfeather listened in silence while other cats spoke about Nightcloud and how much she meant to them all.
“She’s one of the bravest cats in the Clan.”
“And a great hunter. No rabbit can—I mean could—outrun her!”
Crowfeather noticed that some of them were finding it hard to refer to her as if she was really gone. They’re having trouble paying tribute to her heroic death when no cat knows exactly how she died.
“She showed her courage when she went into the tunnels to attack the stoats,” Crouchfoot declared. “And when she was abandoned there—”
Abandoned?
“Hold on. Stop,” Crowfeather interrupted. Were some of his Clanmates really about to use the vigil to attack Breezepelt? He wouldn’t have it. He hadn’t planned to challenge any cat at Nightcloud’s vigil, but now that Crouchfoot had brought it up, he couldn’t just keep silent. That would make it seem as if he agreed. It’s time to bring this into the open—especially now, while Breezepelt isn’t here.
“Are you accusing Breezepelt of something?” he demanded.
“If we are, we have good reason,” Crouchfoot replied. “Why would Breezepelt leave the tunnel without his mother? How could he have left her behind?”
“Yes, no warrior would do that,” Leaftail added. “Unless Breezepelt had something to do with her disappearance.”
“That’s enough!” Onestar’s voice rang out commandingly and his eyes were glittering with anger. “I have told all of you, many times, that I trust Breezepelt, but you choose to question my decision—and at a vigil, of all places?”
Murmurs of disagreement rose from some of the warriors. Crowfeather felt a prickle of uneasiness beneath his pelt. He appreciated that his leader was supporting Breezepelt, but would Onestar’s trust end in splitting the Clan?
He remembered, again, how the wind in the medicine cat’s vision hadn’t been enough to drive back the flood. Maybe Kestrelflight’s vision was a sign of a threat from within the Clan.
But Crowfeather had no time to think that through now. “All of you flea-brains are wrong!” he meowed, turning on his accusing Clanmates. “Breezepelt can be prickly, and I’ve had my problems with him, too, but I’ve never questioned his love for his mother. When she and I argued, Breezepelt always took her side. He supported her in any way he could. The two of them always took care of each other. He would never hurt Nightcloud,” he asserted.
As he spoke, he realized that Onestar was staring at him with a mixture of surprise and approval. Fine, he thought. You told me to support Breezepelt, and now you’ve got what you wanted.
“Then why isn’t Breezepelt here?” Weaselfur challenged him.
“Because he’s grieving, you mouse-brain!” Crowfeather snapped. “Think about it. Because he thinks he has no support from the cats in this Clan, and he’s right—you’re all accusing him of things he would never do.”
“Not all of us!” Heathertail called out. “I agree that Breezepelt would never hurt his mother—or any WindClan cat. He’s a protector—he saved me when the stoats attacked me in the tunnels. I’ve seen how hurt he is about what happened to Nightcloud. You should all be ashamed of yourselves for spreading these rabbit-brained ideas!”
She glared at Crouchfoot as she spoke, and Crouchfoot let out a snarl in return, his shoulder fur bristling up. “You only say that because you like him!” he cried. “And Crowfeather is his father. Of course you don’t want to see him as a bad cat—but that doesn’t mean he isn’t bad!” Several other cats let out yowls of agreement.
Onestar raised his tail for silence. “Enough! We need to remember,” he began, “that whatever happened in the past, we are all WindClan cats now. Our unity is more important than anything else. I have forgiven Breezepelt for his part in the Great Battle, and I don’t want to hear another word of accusation against him. This is a vigil, and we are here to honor one of our own. It is not a time for arguing.”
Every cat—even Weaselfur and Leaftail—seemed chastened by their leader’s words. An awkward silence followed, most cats staring at the ground or their own paws. Gradually the outward signs of hostility faded, but Crowfeather could see that beneath the surface the tension was still there.
Suddenly he was glad that Breezepelt hadn’t attended the vigil. Even if the cats hadn’t accused him to his face, he would have felt their distrust and ill will in every hair on his pelt. He’s right to feel as though he doesn’t belong, Crowfeather thought. I don’t know what it would take to prove his loyalty to some of these cats. Maybe it isn’t even possible.
As the time for him to speak drew closer, Crowfeather struggled to find the right words. How do I honor Nightcloud? Perhaps these cats suspect my motives as well, he thought. They’re all watching to see if I’ll mourn the death of a mate I never truly loved, or defend a son I barely know.
But when Crowfeather’s turn came, the words were there. “We will miss Nightcloud,” he mewed simply, “and Breezepelt will always love her.”
CHAPTER 11
It was a few days after Nightcloud’s vigil, and every one of Crowfeather’s muscles ached with tension as he padded across the tree-bridge to the Gathering island. He swore he could hear hostile voices in the lapping of the black water a tail-length beneath his paws, and the silver glitter of moonlight on the lake seemed to mock the darkness in his heart.
This is far worse than going to Nightcloud’s vigil.
He wished that Onestar hadn’t chosen him to attend the Gathering, and even more that he hadn’t chosen Breezepelt to come with him. He isn’t ready. Breezepelt had stopped using his every waking breath to declare war on the stoats, but he was still clearly grieving. He barely ate anything, and he seemed morose, unable to talk much to any cat—even Heathertail. Now Crowfeather’s son was trailing along behind his Clanmates, enveloped in a fog of misery. When they thrust their way through the bushes into the central clearing, he stayed at the back in the shadow of a holly bush, looking down at his paws with a sullen expression on his face. Crowfeather wondered whether he should go and stand beside him, but then he remembered that Onestar would be announcing the circumstances of Nightcloud’s death at the Gathering.
I shouldn’t draw more attention to Breezepelt right now. I just hope he understands why. I don’t want him to feel any more rejected.
Besides, Crowfeather was still mulling over his dream of the night before, when he had met Ashfoot again, then followed her pale gray shape through the tunnels until he’d caught up with her on the banks of the dark underground river.
“Are you . . . a ghost?” he had asked her.
“I never thought you were a stupid cat, Crowfeather,” his mother mewed, dismissing his question with an irritated flick of her tail. “I’m what you see in front of you, and I can’t continue to StarClan until I’ve given you a message.”
Crowfeather’s heart raced with anticipation. Can she really tell me something that will put this whole mess right? Can she tell us what to do about the stoats, or how to settle our differences with ThunderClan? Then he remembered what he really wanted—more than peace within the Clan, more than peace with the stoats, more than anything.
Can she tell me how to help Breezepelt?
“What message?” he asked urgently.
But his mother’s response was only a single word. “Love.”
“Love what?” Crowfeather spat out, hugely disappointed. Has death made her mouse-brained? How can she possibly think that love can help me? “Love is no friend of mine. I loved you; I loved Feathertail; I loved Leafpool. Do you see a pattern here? Every cat I’ve loved, I lost.”
Ashfoot blinked at him, undaunted. There was tenderness and understanding in her gaze. “That shouldn’t have made you close your heart,” she murmured. “I wish I’d said more to you while I was alive, but this is my last chance. . . . Love.”
“Love who?” Crowfeather yowled in desperation, but already the dream was fading, Ashfoot’s form blurring until all he could see was her gaze fixed on him, bright with affection. “Nightcloud is dead, and Breezepelt—”
The brilliant light of a sunny leaf-bare morning had pulled Crowfeather out of his slumber, and once awake he’d wondered what he had meant to say in his dream. Breezepelt is beyond my love? Breezepelt won’t be helped by my love?
He’d closed his eyes again and tried to concentrate, to cling to the last remnants of his dream, but they’d slipped away from him like mist through his claws. His pelt was bristling with frustration as he gave up at last and rose from his nest.
Now, sitting with his Clanmates beneath the branches of the Great Oak, Crowfeather felt his pelt grew hot with embarrassment at the memory of his dream. I’m glad no cat can see into my mind. They’d think I’m going soft. I’m not a medicine cat—that means my dreams are just fluff and nonsense, like any cat’s. But at the same time, Crowfeather couldn’t entirely dismiss what his mother had told him in the dream. It had to be significant, that he kept dreaming of her, when she hadn’t been seen in StarClan. . . . Could it be a vision? Could it mean something?
As Onestar headed toward the Great Oak to take his place with the rest of the Clan leaders, Crowfeather glanced around at the other Clans. RiverClan and ShadowClan still looked wary after the tensions that had followed the Great Battle, while the ThunderClan cats were stiff and bristling, glaring across the clearing at the Wind
Clan warriors. It made Crowfeather glad of the Gathering truce: StarClan had forbidden fighting under the full moon.
When all four Clan leaders had taken their places in the branches of the Great Oak, Mistystar’s voice rang out across the clearing. “Cats of all Clans, welcome to the Gathering!” As the voices of gossiping cats faded into silence, she added to the leaders, “Which of you will speak first?”
Blackstar shifted on his branch, and then announced, “Before we begin, let us remember the fallen.”
Crowfeather caught Larkwing’s eye and could see the pale brown tabby she-cat was thinking the same thing as he was. Was any warrior keen to dwell on the terrible battle with the Dark Forest cats?
But as the ShadowClan leader reeled off names—“From ShadowClan: Redwillow, Shredtail, Toadfoot”—Crowfeather could not deny he felt a strange sense of calm fall over the Gathering. It suddenly felt right that all the fallen Clanmates were remembered, their shared sacrifice honored.
It took a horribly long time for Blackstar to get through all the names, but when he had finished, Onestar rose to his paws. “Thank you, Blackstar. I’m afraid I must continue this Gathering by sharing some sad news with the Clans.” He paused before continuing, meeting Crowfeather’s gaze for a heartbeat and casting a sympathetic glance toward Breezepelt. “Nightcloud is dead.”
Yowls of shock rose from the crowd of cats in the clearing. Another twinge of grief for his former mate pierced Crowfeather; then his tension eased slightly as he realized that the other Clans felt grief for her too. Nightcloud’s prickly nature meant that she had never exactly been popular, but every cat was aware of her courage and loyalty.
“How did it happen?” Mistystar asked gently, concern in her blue eyes.
“She fought so well in the Great Battle.” Blackstar spoke before Onestar could reply. “It’s hard to lose her now, after she survived that.”