Leafpaw winced at the old she-cat’s suggestion that their leader was anything like the murderous Tigerstar. She wasn’t the only cat to be shocked. Several cats turned on Speckletail, hissing fiercely, but when Firestar replied, his voice was calm.
“Tigerstar wanted to satisfy his greed for power. All I want is to make peace. And as for Blackstar,” he added to Cloudtail, “Tallstar has always been more reasonable.”
“That’s right.” Greystripe supported his leader from where he sat at the base of the Highrock. “Remember when Bluestar wanted to fight WindClan? Tallstar was ready to make peace then.”
“But there wasn’t a shortage of prey back then,” Thornclaw reminded him.
“Right.” Mousefur’s tail lashed again. “Some cats will do anything if their bellies are empty.”
Leafpaw listened in dismay as yowls broke out around her, agreeing with Mousefur. She spotted her mother, Sandstorm, exchanging an anxious glance with Greystripe.
Firestar signaled with his tail for silence. “That’s enough! My mind’s made up. All the Clans are in trouble together now. This is no time to start fighting one another.”
“Be careful, Firestar,” Sorreltail warned him, as the yowls of protest died into discontented muttering. “You may go in peace, but the other clans might not see it that way.” She glanced at Leafpaw, reminding her of their of their narrow escape from WindClan only a few days ago.
Firestar nodded. “WindClan will have to respect a patrol that looks strong enough to fight back,” he meowed. “I’ll make it clear to Tallstar that there’ll be trouble if he can’t control his warriors and keep them on their own side of the border. But we won’t be looking for a fight. With StarClan’s help we can avoid that.”
Leafpaw’s mind filled with images of the scarred moorland she had seen when she visited WindClan territory, and the desperation of the warriors who had chased her. Every hair on her pelt shrank from the idea of attacking WindClan and making their plight even worse.
“This is a bad time for all of us,” she began hesitantly. “We should be trying to help one another. Why don’t we all share the fish in the river? There are still plenty of those.”
“That’s for RiverClan to say, not us,” Greystripe pointed out, while Ashfur added, “Fishing’s too difficult.”
“No, it’s not,” Leafpaw protested. “We can learn how.”
She noticed that some of the other cats were giving her suspicious looks, as if they were wondering what she knew about fishing. Embarrassed, she scuffled her forepaws on the ground. “It was just an idea,” she mumbled.
“But not one we can use,” Firestar mewed decisively.
Anxious not to draw any more attention to herself, Leafpaw bowed her head, and sat looking at her paws while Firestar chose the cats who would make up the patrol going to WindClan.
“Greystripe, of course,” he began. “Sandstorm, Dustpelt, Thornclaw. Ashfur. And you, Cinderpelt. Tallstar will listen to a medicine cat if he won’t listen to me.”
Leafpaw realised that he had not chosen any of the cats who had been arguing for an attack straight away, though he had included some formidable fighters. This patrol would not need to run!
She stayed where she was while the meeting broke up. With her eyes still fixed on the ground, she was aware of Firestar leaping from the Highrock and padding over to her.
“Well, Leafpaw,” he began. When she lifted her head, she was relieved to see warm affection in her father’s eyes, and felt even more ashamed of herself. “What’s all this about fishing?”
Leafpaw knew she would have to tell the truth. “Mothwing taught me how,” she explained. “She said it was ok, because we’re both medicine cats . . .”
“You are medicine cat apprentices,” Firestar meowed. “And it sounds as if you both have a lot to learn. You know that it’s against the warrior code to take prey from another Clan. Even medicine cats have to respect that.”
“I know.” Guilt swept over Leafpaw again, making her feel like a naughty kit. She just hoped that RiverClan had not found out what Mothwing had done, and punished her for her generosity. “I’m sorry.”
“I shall have to punish you, you realise that?” Firestar went on. His tail-tip touched her shoulder gently as he added, “I can’t have any cat saying I favour you because you’re my daughter.”
“Oh, come on, Firestar.” Cinderpelt had limped up to join them, and was regarding her Clan leader with amusement in her blue eyes. “I remember a couple of cats who took ThunderClan prey across the river to RiverClan, when the Twolegs poisoned the fish. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”
“No. And Greystripe and I were punished for it,” Firestar retorted. Then he sighed. “Leafpaw, I know it’s hard to see other cats hungry and do nothing about it. But the warrior code is what makes us what we are. If cats can break it when they feel like it, where does that leave us? Whatever is going to happen to the forest—whatever is happening now—we can’t forget everything we believe in.”
“I’m sorry, Firestar,” Leafpaw repeated. She managed to stand up straight and look her father in the eye.
“Let her come with the patrol to WindClan,” Cinderpelt meowed before Firestar could speak. “It’ll be good experience for her.”
Leafpaw looked hopefully at her Clan leader.
“Honestly, Cinderpelt.” Firestar sounded exasperated. “There are cats who would say that’s a reward, not a punishment. Oh, very well,” he added. “We’re leaving right away. I’ll just go and get the others.”
He touched Leafpaw’s shoulder once more before padding away with his tail high.
“Thanks, Cinderpelt,” Leafpaw meowed. “I know I was stupid. It’s just that . . . well, when Mothwing said it, it sounded ok to take the fish.”
Cinderpelt snorted. “Like Firestar said, you’ve both got a lot to learn.”
“I don’t know if I ever will!” Leafpaw burst out. “There are warrior rules, and medicine cat rules, and it’s all so confusing!”
“It’s not just about rules,” Cinderpelt murmured sympathetically, touching her nose to Leafpaw’s muzzle. “Your sympathy for other Clans, and your willingness to see that sometimes rules have to be ignored, will make you a great medicine cat in the end.”
Leafpaw’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really. ‘Medicine cat’ means nothing on its own, without an understanding of what should be done—which isn’t always what you first think. Remember what I’ve told you about Yellowfang? She never followed the rules, but she was one of the best medicine cats the forest has ever seen.”
“I wish I’d known her,” Leafpaw murmured.
“So do I. But I can pass on to you what she taught me. To truly be a medicine cat lies in a cat’s heart, and all its five senses. You must be braver than warriors, wiser than a Clan leader, humbler than the tiniest kit, more willing to learn than any apprentice . . .”
Leafpaw gazed up at her mentor. “I’m not sure I can be all that,” she whispered.
“Well, I am sure.” Cinderpelt’s voice was low and intense. “For we do not achieve this by ourselves, but by the strength of StarClan within us.” Suddenly the intensity was gone and the humour back in Cinderpelt’s eyes. She swatted Leafpaw lightly with her tail. “Come on. Firestar will never forgive us if we aren’t ready for the patrol on top of everything else.”
Sunhigh was long gone and a brisk wind was breaking up the clouds by the time Firestar led his patrol towards Fourtrees. Before they were very far from the camp Leafpaw could hear the roar of Twoleg monsters as they forced their way even further into ThunderClan territory. In contrast, the usual forest sounds—the calling of birds, the rustle of prey in the undergrowth—were silent. Even though leaf-fall had well and truly arrived, Leafpaw knew there should be much more prey than this. The small creatures that the cats depended on for their survival were gone, frightened away by Twolegs or even killed as the monsters tore up their forest homes.
As they drew closer to Fourtrees the roar of the m
onsters died away, and Leafpaw could make out the faint scrabblings of prey among the bushes, but it was still much less than usual. She swallowed nervously as she imagined a harsh and hungry leaf-bare.
A yowl from Thornclaw jerked her out of her thoughts. “Look!”
There was a flash of movement in the thick undergrowth beside the stream. Two cats—a dark brown tom and a tabby—leaped across the stream and streaked up the slope towards Fourtrees. One of them had a small piece of prey, a vole or a mouse, in its jaws.
“WindClan cats!” Sandstorm meowed, her pale ginger fur bristling. “That was Mudclaw and Tornear, I’m sure of it.”
Dustpelt and Ashfur sprang after the fleeing warriors, but Firestar called them back sharply. “We mustn’t look as if we’re attacking WindClan,” he told them. “I’m coming in peace, not fury, to speak with Tallstar.”
“You mean you’re letting them go?” Ashfur asked disbelievingly. “With our fresh-kill in their mouths?”
“It’s more proof that they’re stealing prey,” Firestar pointed out. “Tallstar won’t be able to ignore what we have to tell him now.”
“But they’ll warn Tallstar,” Dustpelt protested. “Wind Clan could ambush us before we get anywhere near their camp.”
“No. Tallstar isn’t like that. If he fights us, he’ll do it in the open.”
The two warriors exchanged doubtful glances before falling in behind Firestar. Leafpaw could see that Dustpelt was still smouldering with anger, but he expressed it with no more than an irritable twitch of his tail-tip.
The patrol crossed the stream, the water still churned and muddy from the WindClan warriors’ paws, and climbed the slope to Fourtrees. Leafpaw’s heart started beating uncomfortably as Firestar led them around the top of the hollow. Remembering her doomed visit with Sorreltail, she wondered whether they would be able to speak to Tallstar at all.
As they approached the border, the breeze carried a strong scent of cats towards them. Leafpaw looked out over the windblown grass to see a ragged group of WindClan warriors racing over the crest of the moorland. In the lead she recognised the Clan leader, Tallstar, by his black-and-white pelt and long tail. He must have spotted the ThunderClan patrol, for he slackened his pace and signalled with his tail. His warriors slowed to a walk and spread out to form a long line facing the ThunderClan cats.
“See?” Dustpelt hissed. “They’re ready for us.”
On an unspoken command, the WindClan cats stalked up to the border and halted a couple of tail-lengths from the ThunderClan patrol. They were even thinner than Leafpaw remembered, the sharp lines of their ribs plainly visible. Hostility burned in their eyes, and it was clear that not one of them wanted the ThunderClan visitors to set paw on their territory.
“Well, Firestar?” Tallstar growled. “What do you want with us this time?”
CHAPTER 9
Stormfur stared in amazement. The cave was at least as broad as the waterfall that screened it from the outside world, and stretched far back into the mountainside, until the furthest recesses were lost in shadow. He could just make out a narrow passage leading off on either side of the wall opposite the sheet of water. The roof, far above his head, was shadowed too; here and there, stones like fangs emerged to point straight down at the cave floor.
The only light came through the rushing water, pale and wavering, so that it was like standing in the depths of a pool. As the cats ushered them further into the cave, Stormfur heard more running water beneath the roar of the falls, and saw a stream trickling over a mossy rock to fall into a shallow pool on the floor of the cave. Two or three cats—a skinny elder and a couple who looked young enough to be apprentices—were crouched beside it to drink. All of them looked up warily at the arrival of the newcomers, as if they were expecting danger.
Just beyond the pool was a pile of fresh-kill and, as Stormfur watched, a couple more of the mountain cats came in and deposited prey. It was the first thing he had seen that looked at all familiar, and his belly growled with hunger at the sight of the rabbits.
“Do you think they’ll let us eat?” Squirrelpaw muttered close to his ear. “I’m starving!”
“For all you know, they think we’re fresh-kill,” Crowpaw hissed from Squirrelpaw’s other side.
“They haven’t done anything to harm us yet,” Brambleclaw pointed out.
Stormfur tried to share his optimism, but Crag and Brook had vanished, and for a few moments none of the other cats came up to speak to them. Instead, the cats who had been drinking sidled over to their guards, and the elder whispered something, all the while darting glances at him. The two apprentices murmured excitedly to each other. The roar of the waterfall drowned their voices, though Stormfur noticed that the mountain cats seemed to have no trouble hearing one another.
Trying to ignore the muttering—most of which seemed to be directed at him, though he told himself to stop being so paranoid—Stormfur identified what looked like sleeping places beside the cave walls: shallow scoops in the earth floor, lined with moss and feathers. One cluster of sleeping places lay close to the entrance and the other two were further back, at opposite sides of the cave. He wondered if one set was for warriors, one for apprentices, and one for elders. Spotting a couple of kits scuffling outside the entrance to one of the passages, he guessed that led to the nursery. Suddenly he saw the dark, noisy, frightening cave in a different way: This was a camp! The Tribe shared some of the ways of the Clans in the forest; Stormfur began to feel much more hopeful of getting food and rest, and help for Tawnypelt, who had sunk shivering to the floor.
Then he spotted Crag again, emerging from the far passage and padding across the cave floor towards the tight group of forest cats. He was followed by another cat, long-bodied and skinny as a WindClan warrior. So much mud plastered his fur that Stormfur couldn’t make out what colour it was underneath, but his eyes were a deep and glowing green, and a few white hairs around his muzzle betrayed the fact that he was older than the cats they had seen so far.
“Greetings,” he meowed in a deep voice that seemed to echo around the cave. He made the odd gesture with one paw extended that Crag and Brook had used outside. “My name is Teller of the Pointed Stones, though you will find it easier to call me Stoneteller. I am the Healer of the Tribe of Rushing Water.”
“Healer?” Brambleclaw glanced uncertainly at his friends. “Do you mean the medicine cat? Where is the leader of your Clan—I mean, Tribe?”
Stoneteller hesitated for a moment. “I am not sure what you mean by a medicine cat, and there is no other leader of this Tribe. I interpret the signs of rock and leaf and water, and that shows me what the Tribe should do—with the help of the Tribe of Endless Hunting.”
Stormfur picked out the bit of Stoneteller’s speech that he understood. “Then he’s medicine cat and leader,” he muttered to Brambleclaw. “That’s pretty powerful!”
In reply, Brambleclaw dipped his head politely. “We come from a forest a long way from here,” he began, repeating his own name and the names of his friends. “We have a difficult journey ahead of us, and we need food and shelter before we can go on.”
More of the Tribe cats crowded around as he spoke, openly curious. Stormfur picked out kits and apprentices by their sizes, and noticed that the warriors seemed to divide into two groups, one with massive shoulders and powerful muscles, the other more slender, with wiry strength and long limbs for speed. He noticed too how anxious they all looked; they seemed to be on edge, as if they were poised to flee.
A brown tabby she-cat, her eyes fixed on Stormfur, murmured, “Yes! This is the one—it must be!”
Stormfur started. Brook had said something similar, when they first met beside the pool. He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but the Tribe’s Healer had turned to the young brown tabby. “Be silent!” he hissed. More smoothly he went on to the Clan cats, “You are welcome to our cave. Here is caught-prey in plenty.” He flicked his tail towards the fresh-kill pile. “Eat your fill, and rest. We have
much to say to one another.”
Brambleclaw looked at the other Clan cats. “We might as well eat,” he meowed quietly. “I don’t think they’re going to hurt us now.”
As Stormfur followed him towards the pile, he felt once more dozens of eyes burning into his fur. It wasn’t his imagination—they were definitely watching him more closely than the others. His fur prickled from nose to tail-tip as he settled down to eat.
As he bit into the rabbit he had chosen, he heard a gasp from somewhere behind him and a shocked voice whispering, “They don’t share!”
Glancing up, he saw a young grey cat giving him a hostile stare, while an older tabby bent her head to him and murmured, “Shh. It’s not their fault if they haven’t been properly taught.”
Stormfur didn’t know what they meant. Then he spotted two of the Tribe cats who were eating side by side; each of them took a bite from the piece of fresh-kill they had taken, then exchanged pieces before they settled down to finish it off. Embarrassment flooded over him as he realised how rude he and his friends must look to the cats of the Tribe.
“We don’t do that,” he meowed directly to the young cat who had spoken at first. “But we do share.” He flicked his tail towards Feathertail, who was gently coaxing Tawnypelt to eat a mouse. “None of us would let our friends go hungry, and the hunting patrols always feed the Clan before taking food for themselves.”
The grey cat backed away a pace or two, looking confused, as if he hadn’t intended the newcomers to hear his comments. The tabby dipped her head with a friendlier look. “Your ways are strange to us,” she meowed. “Perhaps we can learn from one another.”
“Perhaps,” Stormfur agreed.
He began gulping down his rabbit again. After a few moments one of the bolder kits pattered right up to the group of Clan cats, urged on by his littermates. “Where do you come from?” he asked.
“A long way away,” Squirrelpaw mumbled with her mouth full. Swallowing the bite of prey she added more clearly, “Across these mountains and lots of fields and then a forest.”