by Erin Hunter
“You followed me!” Stick snarled.
Shorty cocked his head to one side. “We’re in this together, Stick, whether you like it or not. What did Velvet say?”
Stick padded along the alley to sit beside his friend. “She thinks I should leave Red to make up her own mind.”
“But it’s more than that!” Shorty meowed, shocked. “Our cats are being hurt, and we’ve lost Percy, all thanks to Dodge.”
Stick gave him a long look. “I’m not going to let Velvet think we’re weak, okay?”
Shorty let out an impatient huff, but made no comment. After a moment he went on, “Let’s go. I’ve found a place where we can spy on Dodge’s camp.”
Stick narrowed his eyes in surprise. “Where?”
“Follow me.”
The two cats trekked across the Twolegplace until they reached the edge, where spindly trees grew up to the bank of a dirty shallow stream. Stick gazed out across the sluggish yellow water, wrinkling his nose at the scent of the Twoleg waste that choked the current. There was a scent of cat, too, coming most strongly from a heap of Twoleg boxes tumbled at the water’s edge; some of them leaned over the stream, their flimsy material growing soggy as the waves lapped against them.
“That’s where Dodge lives?” Stick murmured. “It’s just about right for a mange-pelt like him!”
“Come up here,” Shorty urged him, waving his tail at a small wooden den a few fox-lengths from the river. “We don’t want Dodge to catch us.”
He scrambled up the wall to the flat roof of the den, and Stick followed, hissing with annoyance as splinters of wood stuck in his belly fur. He flattened himself to the roof beside Shorty and peered over the edge.
At first there were no cats to be seen. Then the side of one of the boxes flapped and Misha and Skipper emerged into the open. Stick let out a low growl as he remembered Misha’s claws slashing across Percy’s face, ripping out his eye. The two cats padded a little farther up the bank to where another of the boxes cast a heavy patch of shade. Stick stiffened as he made out movement and the glint of eyes in the shadow.
“Dodge is there!” he hissed.
Misha and Skipper stood in front of Dodge for a few heartbeats. Stick could hear the murmur of their voices, but he was too far away to hear what they were saying. Then he glimpsed movement among the trees on the other side of the stream. His claws slid out, digging into the wooden roof, and he bunched his muscles as Red and the gray-brown tom Harley came into sight. Red was carrying the limp body of a squirrel.
“Steady,” Shorty whispered, laying his tail across Stick’s shoulders.
Though Stick burned to jump down into Dodge’s camp, yowling a challenge, he watched in silence as Red and Harley crossed the stream by a set of stepping-stones. Red was hanging back as if she was nervous—and so she should be, going into Dodge’s camp!—but Harley seemed to be encouraging her.
Misha and Skipper dipped their heads coolly as Red and Harley approached: not welcoming Red, but making no attempt to chase her away, either. Stick’s ears strained to hear what they were saying. He managed to catch a few words; Harley was introducing Red to them.
“How do we know we can trust her?” Skipper asked.
“You know who her father is!” Misha put in spitefully.
Skipper said something else that Stick couldn’t catch; then Red stepped forward and laid her squirrel down at the two cats’ paws.
“Look, she caught us a squirrel!” Harley announced.
Memories flooded over Stick, of how he had taught his daughter to catch squirrels near their alley, and he sank his claws even farther into the roof. Why is she doing this to me?
Red stood watching while Misha and Skipper crouched down to eat the squirrel. Meanwhile, Dodge rose to his paws and emerged from the shadows, his gaze scorching Red’s ginger pelt. After a couple of heartbeats he mewed something to her; Red nodded.
“He’s asking her for information about us!” Stick snarled. “We have to stop them! Let’s get the others.” Spinning around, he jumped down from the den roof and headed back toward his own territory.
Shorty caught up to him in a swift patter of paws. “We can’t stop them,” he warned. “Not on our own.”
“We are on our own,” Stick snapped. “If Velvet is anything to go by, the kittypets around here aren’t going to be any help.”
“No, not kittypets,” Shorty replied. “But there are other cats we could ask, cats who are trained to fight and wouldn’t flinch at killing to protect their home.”
Stick halted.
“Do you remember those cats who came here just after the flood?” Shorty continued. “From a forest downriver? They were on their way to find other cats, weren’t they? Just like them.” His voice grew hopeful. “If we could find them, maybe they would help us to sort out Dodge.”
Stick stared at his friend. He remembered the tom with the flame-colored pelt, who had lost his mate in the flood and was looking for her, full of strength and determination, even though he was exhausted from battling the water. His muscles had been strong and lean under his fur, and there was a glint in his eyes that Stick had never seen in a kittypet.
“You’re right, Shorty,” he growled. “We must find those cats.”
CHAPTER 32
Leafstar sat in the shadow of the Rockpile; Sharpclaw, Stick, and his friends crouched around her as she listened to Stick describing battles and betrayals in his Twolegplace. She had sent Rockshade, Cherrytail, and Sparrowpelt back to the warriors’ den; the rest of the cats were asleep, except for Coal, still keeping watch from a ledge halfway up the cliff.
A chill night breeze whispered down the gorge, though at the top of the rocks Leafstar could make out the first pale streaks of dawn. The moon had set, and the warriors of StarClan were fading.
“Please, will you help us?” Stick asked, bringing his story to a close. “You’re the only hope we have.”
Leafstar felt like a twig whirled around and around in the pool where the river poured out from the cave. Her pelt prickled with annoyance at the way she had been distracted from her discovery that Sharpclaw was training her cats secretly at night.
There’s no way I’m letting that go unchallenged!
“I need to think,” she meowed. “Go to your den now, and I’ll let you know what I decide.”
Stick looked as if he was about to argue, but Cora touched him on the shoulder with her tail and jerked her head toward the path that led up to their den. Stick gave in and moved off, with Cora beside him; Shorty dipped his head to Leafstar and murmured, “Thank you for listening,” before he followed.
Leafstar was left with Sharpclaw; the ginger tom was flexing his claws impatiently.
“I can’t see that there’s much to think about,” he told her, once the Twolegplace cats were out of earshot. “We’re going to help them, aren’t we? We have the strength and the skills, and what Dodge has done is wrong.”
Leafstar fixed him with a hard gaze. “Where in the warrior code does it say that we have to use our skills to help other cats? I’m sorry for what has happened to Stick and the others, but I don’t see how it’s SkyClan’s responsibility.”
“What?” Sharpclaw gave a single lash of his tail. “Look at the way Stick and the others helped us with the rats! And they’ve hunted for us and carried out all the other warrior duties. Are you saying that SkyClan shouldn’t be loyal to them?”
“It’s not a matter of loyalty,” Leafstar pointed out, determined to keep her temper. “Stick and his friends never intended to stay with us for good. Surely that means they’re not warriors like us.”
Sharpclaw twitched his whiskers. “They’re not the only cats to have a life outside the gorge.”
“Why does it always have to come back to the daylight-warriors?” Leafstar snapped. She took a couple of breaths and continued, “I said I’d think about it, and I will. But it will be my decision, Sharpclaw.”
Her deputy met her gaze, then nodded and headed off toward
the warriors’ den.
Leafstar watched him go, then climbed the trail to her own den and settled into her nest. But although she was tired, she couldn’t seem to get comfortable in the moss and fern. Her paws prickled with restlessness; leaving the den again, she wandered up the gorge in the growing light of dawn. As she rounded the spur of rock before the training area, she spotted Skywatcher sitting on the edge of the sandy circle; the warrior of StarClan looked up as if he had been waiting for her.
“Greetings, Leafstar,” he meowed. “You are troubled.”
Leafstar dipped her head. “Greetings, Skywatcher. Do you know what’s happening? What the Twolegplace cats want us to do?”
“I do.” Skywatcher swept his starry tail around, beckoning Leafstar to sit beside him. “You must feel as though these visitors have been using SkyClan for their own ends.”
“Yes!” Leafstar exclaimed, warmed by the spirit cat’s sympathy. “That’s exactly how it feels.”
“But they have been loyal to their adopted Clan,” Skywatcher went on. “They have hunted and fought for you. Remember the rats, and the cruel Twoleg, and the wounded Twoleg kit? Other Clans would help one another in times of great need.”
“You mean the forest Clans?” Leafstar checked. “They didn’t exactly help SkyClan in the end, did they?”
Skywatcher shrugged. “Maybe this is your chance to show forgiveness, to prove that SkyClan has recovered and grown stronger from that time, and can show mercy of its own.”
Leafstar didn’t have a chance to reply before she glimpsed a movement among the rocks above the training area, and a black tom bounded into the open. The fur on her neck started to rise, thinking that a rogue was invading the gorge, until she spotted the glitter of stars around his paws.
The newcomer stormed up to Skywatcher, his ears flat with fury, his eyes blazing. “No mercy!” he snarled. “SkyClan has to survive alone! These intruders do not deserve to be warriors if all they ever wanted was our strength and experience to fight their battle.” He spun around and fixed his burning gaze on Leafstar. “SkyClan cannot leave the gorge!”
Skywatcher reached out with his tail in a calming gesture. “Swallowflight,” he meowed, “you are blinded by the wounds that were given to you long ago.”
“It was a wound from which we never recovered,” Swallowflight hissed.
“But the Clan did recover.” Skywatcher nodded to Leafstar. “Look, it’s back where it belongs, in the gorge that you found.”
“This is not a true Clan!” Swallowflight spat. “How many of them are kittypets, refusing to leave their pampered nests of slop and Twolegs fawning over them? Their leader doesn’t even know where half of them are when she’s asleep.”
Anger and horror flooded through Leafstar. “That’s not true!” she whispered, rising to her paws and backing away. Or is there a truth there that I dare not admit?
She looked at Skywatcher for support, but the gray tom did not speak. Instead, he leaped at Swallowflight, knocking him over and rolling him in the sand. Swallowflight fought back viciously, his hind paws scrabbling at Skywatcher as he tried to sink his teeth into the gray cat’s neck.
Skywatcher let out a screech. Leafstar jumped at the noise, and found herself back in her own nest, scrabbling among the moss and bracken.
“It was a dream!” she gasped, struggling for deep breaths to steady the pounding of her heart.
Sunlight poured into her den, and from outside she could hear the movement and voices of cats going about the tasks of the new day. She sat up and started to groom her pelt, feeling as if every hair of it was tangled and filthy.
A few heartbeats later a shadow fell across the sunlight as Echosong popped her head into the den. “Are you okay?” she meowed. “It’s late; I thought you might be sick.”
“No, I’m fine,” Leafstar replied, her voice still shaky.
She was lying. Her dream clung to the corners of her mind and Swallowflight’s challenge echoed off the walls around her. How many StarClan warriors felt the same scorn for her Clan of daylight-warriors? Have I really gone so far wrong?
Then she reminded herself that Skywatcher had been ready to fight on her behalf. And Spottedleaf, Cloudstar, Birdflight, and Fawnstep had all encouraged her. Maybe Swallowflight, whoever he is, has his own problems.
Even so, she was unsettled by the knowledge that StarClan cats would fight among themselves. Leafstar had been taught by Firestar to rely on the wisdom of her warrior ancestors, and she had never seen such rage unleashed among their own ranks before now. Two sides to an argument meant that one side had to be wrong, didn’t it? So which cats was she supposed to listen to?
Great StarClan, what am I going to do if I can’t even trust you?
Leafstar followed Echosong down toward the river. The sun was climbing into a clear sky, filling the gorge with warmth. Even the rocks were hot under Leafstar’s pads as she made her way down the trail.
Fallowfern’s kits were sprawled in a patch of shade at the foot of the cliff, with their mother standing over them.
“But we don’t want to clean out the nursery,” Nettlekit was complaining. “It’s too hot.”
“I just want to sleep,” Rabbitkit murmured drowsily.
“That’s too bad,” Fallowfern meowed, giving the nearest kit a prod with one paw. “The nursery won’t clean itself.”
“Why can’t the apprentices do it?” Plumkit argued.
Fallowfern’s eyes widened and she let out a shocked hiss. “Don’t be so lazy!” she scolded her daughter. “You’re old enough to do it yourselves now. Come along right away, and don’t let me hear another word from any of you!”
Groaning and muttering under their breath, the four kits hauled themselves to their paws and trudged up the path, with Fallowfern right behind.
That must be the first time I’ve seen those kits when they weren’t bouncing around, Leafstar thought, amusement driving away some part of her worries. She spotted Clovertail stumbling awkwardly down from the new birthing den and padding over to Echosong. Her pale brown fur was clumped and untidy.
“I feel as if my belly’s going to burst!” she complained to the medicine cat. “And this heat isn’t helping at all.”
“I know, it’s hard for you when it’s time for your kits to come,” Echosong soothed her. “Come and sleep outside my den—there’s a cool and shady patch there. And I’ll give you some borage; that should help.”
“Thank you, Echosong,” Clovertail mewed, limping off behind the medicine cat. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
Blinking approvingly, Leafstar turned toward the Rockpile, where Sharpclaw was sorting out the patrols. Her deputy didn’t speak to her, but gave her a cautiously cordial nod. Leafstar returned the gesture, though she was still unhappy that they hadn’t yet discussed the way he had kept secrets from her. All four Twolegplace cats were standing in a cluster at one side. They seemed more subdued than usual; Leafstar wondered if they had given up all hope of finding help. A pang of guilt stabbed through her. I wish I knew what was the right thing to do.
She was still pondering when the daylight-warriors appeared at the top of the gorge. No cheerful yowling announced their arrival this morning; the heat seemed to be affecting them, too, as they padded down the trail with Billystorm in the lead.
As the ginger-and-white tom approached Leafstar he gave her an inquiring look and cocked his head toward Sharpclaw. Even in the hot sunlight, a chill ran through Leafstar. Billystorm obviously wanted to know what had happened after she left him the night before. She felt like a coward for turning away from him. But what can I say to him? I’m not even sure myself what this all means.
“It’s so hot!” Macgyver complained, his paws dragging as he headed toward Sharpclaw. “Do we have to hunt in this weather?”
“Yeah, I feel as if my pelt is burning,” Harveymoon added.
Sharpclaw opened his jaws for a scathing retort, but Leafstar forestalled him. She was grateful to Harveymoon an
d Macgyver for distracting her from Billystorm, and she noticed that their pelts were especially thick. They were probably feeling the heat more than their Clanmates.
“Fallowfern is cleaning out the nursery,” she meowed. “Why don’t you fetch her some fresh moss from the cave? It must be nice and cool in there.”
“Great! Thanks, Leafstar,” Macgyver responded, waving his tail to beckon Harveymoon. “Let’s go!”
“Be careful of the path—it’s slippery!” Leafstar reminded them as they climbed the Rockpile. She turned back to Sharpclaw, expecting some complaint that she was favoring the kittypets, but her deputy said nothing.
The last patrols were leaving; Leafstar slipped alongside Shrewtooth as he led Ebonyclaw and Frecklepaw toward the Rockpile. “Mind if I join you?” she asked.
Shrewtooth blinked in pleased surprise. “We’d be glad to have you, Leafstar,” he meowed, dipping his head and falling back to let her take the lead.
“No, you lead, Shrewtooth,” Leafstar instructed.
She noticed Ebonyclaw giving her a pleased look, and remembered how concerned the black she-cat had been that Shrewtooth wasn’t getting on well in the Clan. He was doing better now, Leafstar reflected, as the young black tom led the way across the heap of boulders and up the opposite side of the gorge. He was carefully checking each marker, tasting the air for any unfamiliar scents, and sending Ebonyclaw to check on a hole that had opened up among the roots of an oak tree.
“I think it’s just fallen earth,” the black she-cat reported. “There’s no scent of anything but leaves and beetles.”
Leafstar began to relax as the patrol continued along the border. The thick green leaves overhead sheltered them from the worst of the heat; the forest floor was dim and cool, and the long grass brushed refreshingly against her pelt.
This is how Clan life should be.
Suddenly Shrewtooth halted, his ears pricked. “I hear something!” he announced.
Gazing around for the source of the sound, Leafstar spotted a hollow tree just across the border. Bees were flying in and out of a hole high up in the trunk. Their low-pitched humming was what had alerted Shrewtooth.