Rising Storm

by Erin Hunter

  Bluestar leaped into the river and swam easily to the other side, all frailty gone from her body as if fire had purged the weakness from her and burned her strong again. Fireheart slipped into the water after her. The clouds above the trees were beginning to thin, and he felt a chill through his wet fur from the fresher wind as he waded from the river. He padded over to Cinderpelt, leaning down to lick her head. Sandstorm glanced at him, her eyes reflecting his sorrow, while the rest of the Clan paused on the shore and stared in silent horror at the forest. Even in the faint moonlight, the devastation was obvious, the trees stripped bare, the musty fragrances of the leaves and ferns replaced by the bitter stench of burned wood and scorched earth.

  Bluestar seemed blind to it all. She strode past the other cats without pausing and headed up the slope toward Sunningrocks and the trail home. Her Clan could do nothing but follow.

  “It’s like being somewhere else,” whispered Sandstorm. Fireheart nodded in agreement.

  “Cloudpaw.” Fireheart slipped through the cats ahead of him and fell in step beside his apprentice. “Thank you for staying in the RiverClan camp as I asked.”

  “No problem.” Cloudpaw shrugged.

  “How are the elders?”

  “They’re going to take a while to get over Halftail’s and Patchpelt’s deaths.” Cloudpaw’s voice was subdued. “But I managed to get them to eat some fresh-kill while you were away. They need to keep their strength up, however much they are grieving.”

  “Well done. That was the right thing to do,” Fireheart told him, proud of his apprentice’s unexpectedly wise compassion.

  The ravine lay like an open wound in the landscape. Sandstorm stopped and peered over the edge, and Fireheart could see her trembling. He was shivering too, even though his fur had already dried from the river crossing. The Clan filed slowly down the steep slope and followed Bluestar into the camp. Inside the clearing the cats gazed silently around the stripped, blackened space that had once been their home.

  “Take me to Yellowfang’s body!” Bluestar meowed sharply at Fireheart, cracking the silence.

  Fireheart’s fur bristled. This wasn’t the weak shell of a leader he had struggled to protect in recent moons; but nor was it the wise and gentle leader who had welcomed him to the Clan and been his mentor. He began to pad toward Yellowfang’s clearing, and Bluestar followed. Fireheart glanced over his shoulder and saw Cinderpelt limping behind the ThunderClan leader.

  “She’s in her den,” he meowed, standing at the entrance. Bluestar slipped into the shadows inside the rock.

  Cinderpelt sat down and waited.

  “Aren’t you going in?” Fireheart asked.

  “I’ll grieve later,” Cinderpelt told him. “I think Bluestar needs us now.”

  Surprised at the composure in Cinderpelt’s voice, Fireheart looked into her eyes. They were unnaturally bright with sadness, but seemed calm as she blinked gently at him. He returned the gesture, grateful for her strength of spirit in the middle of such endless tragedy.

  A chilling wail echoed from Yellowfang’s den. Bluestar staggered out, twisting her head wildly and glaring around at the blackened trees. “How could StarClan do this? Have they no pity?” she spat. “I will never go to the Moonstone again! From now on, my dreams are my own. StarClan has declared war on my Clan, and I shall never forgive them.”

  Fireheart stared at his leader, frozen with horror. He noticed Cinderpelt creep quietly to Yellowfang’s den and wondered if she’d gone to grieve for her old friend, but she reappeared a moment later holding something in her jaws, which she dropped beside Bluestar.

  “Eat these, Bluestar,” she urged. “They will ease your pain.”

  “Is she injured?” asked Fireheart.

  Cinderpelt turned to look at him and lowered her voice. “In a way. But her injuries cannot be seen.” She blinked. “These poppy seeds will calm her and give her mind time to heal.” She turned back to Bluestar and whispered again, “Eat them, please.”

  Bluestar bent her head and obediently licked up the small black seeds.

  “Come,” Cinderpelt meowed gently, and led the ThunderClan leader away.

  Fireheart felt his paws tremble as he watched Cinderpelt’s quiet skill. Yellowfang would be so proud of her apprentice. He padded into the den and grasped Yellowfang’s crumpled, smoke-stained body by its scruff. He heaved it into the moonlit clearing, and arranged it so that Yellowfang rested with the same dignity with which she had lived. When he had finished he bent down to give his old friend one final lick. “You shall sleep beneath the stars for the last time tonight,” he whispered, and settled down beside her to sit in vigil as he had promised.

  Cinderpelt joined him as the three-quarter moon began to slide away and the horizon glowed cream and pink above the blackened treetops. Fireheart stood and stretched his tired legs. He gazed around the devastated clearing.

  “Don’t grieve too much for the forest,” murmured the gray cat beside him. “It will grow back quickly, stronger because of the injuries it has suffered, like a broken bone that heals twice as well.”

  Fireheart let her words soothe him. He dipped his head gratefully to her and went to find the rest of the Clan.

  Mousefur was sitting on guard outside Bluestar’s den.

  “Cinderpelt ordered it,” Whitestorm explained, padding out of the shadows. The warrior’s pelt was still stained with smoke and his eyes were red-rimmed from the fire and exhaustion. “She said Bluestar was sick, and needed to be watched over.”

  “Good,” Fireheart meowed. “How are the rest of the Clan?”

  “Most of them slept a little, once they’d found places dry enough to lie down.”

  “We should send out a dawn patrol,” Fireheart thought out loud. “Tigerclaw might take advantage of what has happened.”

  “Who will you send?” asked Whitestorm.

  “Darkstripe seems the fittest of the warriors, but we’ll need his strength to start rebuilding the camp.” Even as he spoke, Fireheart knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth. He wanted to keep the dark tabby warrior where he could see him. “I’d like you to stay here as well, if that’s okay.” Whitestorm dipped his head in agreement as Fireheart continued, “We need to tell the other cats what’s happening.”

  “Bluestar is sleeping. Do you think we should disturb her?” A worried frown crossed Whitestorm’s face as he spoke.

  Fireheart shook his head. “No. We’ll let her rest. I’ll speak to the Clan.”

  He bounded onto the Highrock in a single leap and called the familiar summons. Below him, the Clan cats padded drowsily from the wreckage of their dens, their tails and ears flicking in surprise when they saw Fireheart waiting where their leader usually stood to address them.

  “We must rebuild the camp,” he began once they had settled in front of him. “I know it looks a mess now, but it is the height of greenleaf. The forest will grow back quickly, stronger because of the injuries it has suffered.” He blinked as he repeated Cinderpelt’s words.

  “Why isn’t Bluestar telling us this?” Fireheart stiffened as Darkstripe challenged him from the back of the group.

  “Bluestar is exhausted,” Fireheart told him. “Cinderpelt has given her poppy seeds so that she can rest and recover.” Anxious murmurs rippled through the cats below.

  “The more she rests, the quicker she’ll recover,” Fireheart reassured them. “Just like the forest.”

  “The forest is empty,” fretted Brindleface. “The prey has run away or died in the fire. What will we eat?” She glanced anxiously at Ashpaw and Fernpaw, her face shadowed with a mother’s concern even though her kits had left the nursery.

  “The prey will come back,” Fireheart assured her. “We must hunt as usual, and if we need to go a little farther to find fresh-kill, then we will.” Murmurs of agreement rose from the clearing, and Fireheart began to feel a surge of confidence.

  “Longtail, Mousefur, Thornpaw, and Dustpelt—you’ll take the dawn patrol.” The four cats looked
up at Fireheart and nodded, unquestioning. “Swiftpaw, you can replace Mousefur on guard duty and make sure Bluestar is not disturbed. The rest of us will start work on the camp. Whitestorm will organize parties to gather materials. Darkstripe, you can supervise the rebuilding of the camp wall.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?” demanded Darkstripe. “The ferns are all burned away.”

  “Use whatever you can,” answered Fireheart. “But make sure it is strong. We mustn’t forget Tigerclaw’s threat. We need to stay alert. All kits shall remain in camp. Apprentices will travel only with warriors.” Fireheart gazed down on the silent Clan. “Are we agreed?”

  Loud mews rose from the crowd. “We are!” they called.

  “Right,” Fireheart meowed. “Let’s start work!”

  The cats began to move away from the Highrock, weaving among one another swiftly to gather around Whitestorm and Darkstripe for their instructions.

  Fireheart jumped down from the Highrock and padded to Sandstorm. “We need to organize a burial party for Yellowfang.”

  “You didn’t mention her death,” Sandstorm pointed out, her green eyes puzzled.

  “Or Halftail’s!” Fireheart glanced down as Cloudpaw’s mew sounded beside him. The young apprentice sounded reproachful.

  “The Clan knows they are dead,” Fireheart told them, feeling his fur prickle uncomfortably. “It is for Bluestar to honor them with the proper words. She can do it when she’s better.”

  “And what if she doesn’t recover?” ventured Sandstorm.

  “She will!” Fireheart snapped. Sandstorm winced visibly, and he cursed himself. She was only voicing the fears of all the Clan. If Bluestar had really turned her back on the rituals of StarClan, Yellowfang and Halftail would never hear the proper words to send them on their journey to Silverpelt.

  Fireheart felt his confidence slide away. What if the forest didn’t recover before leaf-bare? What if they couldn’t find enough fresh-kill to feed the Clan? What if Tigerclaw attacked? “If Bluestar doesn’t get better, I don’t know what will happen,” he murmured.

  Fire flared in Sandstorm’s eyes. “Bluestar made you her deputy. She’d expect you to know what to do!”

  Her words hit Fireheart like stinging hail. “Put your claws away, Sandstorm!” he spat. “Can’t you see that I’m doing the best I can? Instead of criticizing me, go and organize the apprentices to bury Yellowfang.” He glared at Cloudpaw. “You can go too. And try to keep out of trouble for once,” he added.

  He turned away from the pair of startled-looking cats and marched across the clearing. He knew he had been unfair, but they had asked a question he wasn’t ready to answer, a question so frightening that he couldn’t begin to think what it might mean.

  What if Bluestar never recovered?

  CHAPTER 29

  The sky stayed gray and cloudy over the next few days, but the showers didn’t hamper the rebuilding of the camp. In fact Fireheart welcomed the cleansing rain that would wash the ash into the soil and help the forest to recover.

  But this morning the sun shone high overhead, the clouds billowing away over the horizon. The sky will be clear for tonight’s Gathering, Fireheart thought ruefully, wishing for once that the moon could be hidden so that the Gathering could not be held. Bluestar was still a long way from being her former self, emerging from her den only when Whitestorm persuaded her to come and see how the repairs were coming along. The ThunderClan leader had nodded blankly at the cats as they worked before limping back to the security of her nest. Fireheart wondered if she even remembered that the Gathering was tonight. Perhaps he should go and find out.

  He padded around the edge of the clearing, feeling a ripple of pride at the work the Clan had done so far. The camp was already regaining some of its former shape. The trunk of the elders’ oak was blackened but still in one piece, although its maze of branches had burned away to nothing. The bramble nursery, which had been stripped of its protective leaves down to a tangle of stems, had been carefully patched with leafy twigs fetched from less damaged parts of the forest. And the camp wall had been shored up with the strongest branches the cats could find, although there was little they could do to replace the thick barrier of ferns that used to surround the camp. For that they would have to wait for the forest to grow again.

  Fireheart heard a scratching behind the nursery. Through the patchy walls, he saw a familiar pelt of white fur. “Cloudpaw!” he called.

  The apprentice emerged from behind the bramble bush, his jaws crammed with twigs that he’d been weaving through the nursery walls. Fireheart blinked in welcome. He hadn’t been the only cat to notice how hard Cloudpaw had worked these past few days to fix the camp. There had been no more questions about the white apprentice’s commitment to the Clan. Fireheart wondered if it had taken something as severe as a fire for Cloudpaw to discover the true meaning of loyalty. The young cat stood in front of him now without speaking, his fur flattened and blotchy with soot and mud, his eyes strained and exhausted.

  “Go and rest,” Fireheart ordered gently. “You’ve earned it.”

  Cloudpaw dropped his bundle of twigs. “Let me finish these first.”

  “You can finish them later.”

  “But I’ve only got a few left to do,” Cloudpaw argued.

  “You look dead on your paws,” Fireheart insisted. “Go on.”

  “Yes, Fireheart.” He turned to leave and glanced forlornly at the fallen oak where Smallear sat with Dappletail and One-Eye. “The elders’ den seems so empty,” he mewed.

  “Patchpelt and Halftail are with StarClan now,” Fireheart reminded him. “They’ll be watching you tonight from Silverpelt.” A wave of regret tugged at his belly as he remembered that Bluestar had refused to conduct the proper ceremony for her dead Clanmates.

  “I will not place them in the paws of StarClan,” she had told him bitterly. “Our warrior ancestors do not deserve the company of ThunderClan cats.” And so Whitestorm had soothed the anxious Clan by speaking the words that would send Yellowfang and Halftail safely to their old friends in Silverpelt, just as he had done for Patchpelt at the RiverClan camp.

  Cloudpaw nodded, but he looked unconvinced. Fireheart knew that the apprentice still found it hard to believe that the lights of Silverpelt were the spirits of their warrior ancestors, watching over their old hunting grounds. “Go and rest,” he repeated.

  The young cat dragged his paws toward the charred stump where the apprentices gathered to eat and share tongues. Brightpaw hurried across the clearing to greet her friend, and Cloudpaw met her with a friendly nuzzle. But the white apprentice’s eyelids were already drooping, and his greeting was interrupted by a huge yawn. He lay down where he was, resting his head on the ground and closing his sore eyes. Brightpaw crouched at his side and gently began to wash Cloudpaw’s grubby pelt. Watching them, Fireheart felt a pang of loneliness as he remembered the same companionship he had once shared with Graystripe.

  He turned his paws once more toward Bluestar’s den. Longtail was sitting outside, and he nodded as Fireheart passed. Fireheart paused at the entrance. The lichen had been burned away and the stone was black with soot. He mewed a quiet greeting and stepped inside. Without the lichen, the wind as well as daylight flooded in, and Bluestar had dragged her bedding into the shadows at the back of the drafty cave.

  Cinderpelt sat beside the huddled shape of the leader, pushing a pile of herbs toward her. “They’ll make you feel better,” she urged.

  “I feel fine,” snapped Bluestar, keeping her eyes fixed on the sandy floor.

  “I’ll leave them here, then. Perhaps you’ll manage them later.” Cinderpelt stood and walked unevenly toward the den entrance.

  “How is she?” Fireheart whispered.

  “Stubborn,” replied Cinderpelt, brushing past him out of the den.

  Fireheart cautiously approached the old leader. Bluestar was even more of a stranger to him now, locked in a world of fear and suspicion directed not just against Tigerclaw, but
at all their warrior ancestors in StarClan. “Bluestar,” he began tentatively, dipping his head. “The Gathering is tonight. Have you decided who will go?”

  “The Gathering?” Bluestar spat with disgust. “You decide who to take. I won’t be going. There is no longer any reason for me to honor StarClan.” As she spoke, a cloud of ash blew through the open doorway, cutting off her words with a bout of coughing.

  Fireheart stared in dismay as spasms racked her frail body. Bluestar was the leader of the Clan! It was she who’d taught him about StarClan and the way the warrior spirits watched over the forest. Fireheart couldn’t believe she would reject the beliefs she had based her whole life upon.

  “Y-you don’t have to honor StarClan,” he stammered at last. “Just be there to represent your own Clan. They need your strength now.”

  Bluestar looked at him for a long moment. “My kits needed me once, but I gave them to another Clan to raise,” she whispered. “And why? Because StarClan told me I had a different destiny. Is this it? To be attacked by traitors? To watch my Clan die around me? StarClan was wrong. It was not worth it.”

  Fireheart felt his blood turn to ice. He turned and padded blindly out of the den. Sandstorm had replaced Longtail outside. Fireheart looked hopefully at the pale orange warrior, but she clearly hadn’t forgiven his harsh words, because she fixed her eyes on her paws and let him pass without speaking.

  Feeling unsettled, Fireheart spotted Whitestorm trotting back into camp with the sunhigh patrol. He signaled to the white warrior with his tail, and Whitestorm headed toward him while the rest of the patrol split up in search of food and a place to rest.

  “Bluestar isn’t well enough to attend the Gathering,” Fireheart meowed when Whitestorm reached him.

  The elderly warrior shook his head as if the news came as no surprise. “There was a time when nothing would have kept Bluestar from a Gathering,” he observed quietly.