His voice trailed off as Clear Sky narrowed his eyes, then glanced around at the other cats. Frost stiffened as that blue gaze flicked over him. Thunder realized that most of them were listening, thoroughly awake now; Nettle and Fircone had hopeful expressions on their faces.
“Does Thunder speak for all of you?” Clear Sky asked. “Is this what you think too—that what we’re doing here is a waste of time?”
Silence fell as the other cats glanced at each other but didn’t reply. Am I the only one brave enough to say all this? Thunder thought in frustration. He didn’t know whether to think that the other cats had betrayed him, or to feel a thrill of exhilaration.
“Can’t we agree to look after what we have?” Thunder plunged on. “Can’t we forget about expanding our territory?”
Clear Sky took a pace forward to loom over Thunder. “It’s too late to stop what’s begun,” he meowed. Thunder thought that he could make out a flicker of regret in his father’s face. “Tell me, this forest fire . . . ,” Clear Sky went on. “If it meant so little, why are there places where the land is still scarred? I’ve seen patches of earth where no grass has returned, and pools still choked with ash. No cat could drink that water.”
“But they won’t always be like that,” Thunder protested. “There’s fresh growth too—we’ve all seen it.” Looking at his father’s implacable expression, he began to wonder if he should have started this conversation. But it was too late now, and he realized he meant every single word. I’m not just saying this because some other cats asked me to. Thunder had felt the same himself for a long time, and it hadn’t helped when his father had returned broody and mysterious after his solitary walk. Whatever’s started, it has to stop. For the camp, for Clear Sky—and for myself. I didn’t leave Gray Wing to live in fear. I’m sure this can’t be what my father truly wants. “I’m only trying to help,” he continued. “I just thought—”
Clear Sky silenced him with a wave of his tail. “Frost, come here,” he mewed.
The big white tom looked up from where he was still licking his wound, then rose to his paws and limped painfully to Clear Sky’s side. Thunder thought that he was moving more slowly than the last time they had been on patrol together.
“Show every cat your injury,” Clear Sky ordered.
Frost’s eyes widened in surprise. Clearly reluctant, he turned so that he was exposing his injured leg to the gaze of his denmates. The fur hadn’t grown back over the wound, and the exposed flesh was red around a weeping sore.
“This is an injury from the forest fire,” Clear Sky proclaimed in a loud voice. “An injury that has not healed.”
Frost lowered his head in shame.
“It’s not Frost’s fault that he was burned in the fire,” Thunder meowed.
“No.” Clear Sky spun around to glare at him. “But see how the forest fire really damaged us? Now one of our group puts us all in danger. Frost can’t carry out his patrols properly.”
Thunder had never liked the way Frost behaved, but he couldn’t bear to see the white tom humiliated like this.
“Frost has been hunting and patrolling,” he protested, his pelt prickling with apprehension as he contradicted his leader. “He still contributes to our group. And his wound just needs care to get better. Isn’t that right?” He looked around at the other cats, waiting for one of them to come out in support of Frost, but they all stared hard at the ground or busied themselves with grooming. Cowards! Thunder thought.
As he was looking around, Thunder felt a sudden shove in his back. It was Clear Sky, forcing him down to the ground so that his nose was less than a mouse-length from the wound on Frost’s leg. The scent of rotting flesh flooded over him, and bile rose in his throat. Some of the cats mewed with anxiety, but still they did nothing.
“If you care so much, why don’t you lick his wound clean?” Clear Sky asked.
I won’t be treated like this!
Wriggling free, Thunder turned to face his father. “What has happened to you?” he demanded. “Why don’t you care about Frost anymore? You always say that you’re acting in the best interests of all of us.”
“That’s right.” To Thunder’s surprise, Quick Water rose to her paws and faced Clear Sky. Finally one of the other cats was standing up to have their voice heard! Quick Water had known Clear Sky all his life. If any cat can reason with my father, it’s her. “What are you doing?” she asked in a quiet, certain voice. “You’re our leader, not our tormentor. Think of Quiet Rain—would she want to see this?”
“Leave my mother out of it,” Clear Sky snarled.
Quick Water ignored his interruption. “Is this why she wished you good luck when we left the mountains?” she asked.
Instead of exploding into anger, Clear Sky took a deep breath, letting his gaze travel over all his cats. “I owe you all an apology,” he mewed, stepping back. “Clearly you don’t understand what I’m trying to do. I should have explained it better.” Turning to Thunder and Frost, he continued, “Frost must leave us. It’s time for him to go, before he spreads disease among us. This is for the greater good.”
Frost’s jaws opened in a gasp of shock, as he gazed incredulously at Clear Sky.
“Thunder, I want you to escort him to the boundary and leave him . . .” Clear Sky seemed to hesitate, then plunged on. “Leave him where the maggots will find him. Do you understand?”
Thunder felt his neck fur beginning to bristle. I want no part of this. “No, I’m not sure I do understand,” he replied, letting a trace of anger creep into his tone. “Where the maggots will find him? Are you asking me to abandon Frost somewhere to die alone, with no cat to take care of him?”
Clear Sky didn’t respond, but from the icy look in his blue eyes Thunder realized that was exactly what he was asking.
“No!” Frost wailed as he took in for the first time what his leader meant to do to him. “Please, Clear Sky, don’t send me away! I can still hunt—I caught a vole yesterday. And I’ve done all my patrols. I’ll die out there! Please give me another chance.”
Thunder watched, appalled as this once-proud cat begged his leader for his life. This can’t be what it means to belong to a group of cats. Once Frost had roamed free as a rogue cat; perhaps it would have been better for him to have stayed like that. Perhaps it would be better for me.
Thunder’s thoughts winged back to Gray Wing and Hawk Swoop. Why had he ever left them? But I could never go back and ask to join them again, not after everything that’s happened . . . or could I?
When Thunder imagined telling Gray Wing about how he had stood by when Wind Runner was chased off, and when Misty was killed, he knew that he would never be able to stand the disappointment in the older cat’s eyes.
I’ve let every cat down—including myself. But no more. It ends here.
Thunder leaped up onto a tree stump, his gaze raking across the cats in the clearing.
“What are you doing?” Clear Sky hissed.
“Yes, get down, you stupid furball,” Quick Water meowed.
What? Thunder gaped at the she-cat. I thought you were on my side!
“I won’t do this,” he announced, recovering himself quickly. “I won’t lead Frost to his death. I can’t help any of you, but I can help myself and Frost.” He suddenly understood what he had to do. “We’re leaving. And neither of us is coming back.”
Yowls of protest or agreement rose from the cats who surrounded them, and furious arguments broke out. Not bothering to listen, Thunder bunched his muscles to leap down from the stump.
But before he could jump, a familiar stink hit Thunder in the throat, heavy and menacing, and he spotted a fox prowling into the clearing, its pointed snout raised and its tail straight out behind it.
“Now see what you’ve done!” Clear Sky growled, dragging him down from the tree stump. “Bringing danger into the camp with your noise.”
He gave Thunder a shove. Off balance, Thunder stumbled straight into the path of the fox. In the midst of his dang
er, a thought flashed through his mind. Did Clear Sky do that on purpose? He remembered the time Clear Sky had come back to camp, stinking of foxes and in a foul mood. The fox’s eyes lit on Thunder and in a flash it was running at him. Some cat let out a yowl of distress. Thunder had just enough time to recall Gray Wing’s story of how he and Clear Sky had once tackled a fox. One had jumped on its back, while one clawed its face. But it looks as if I’m on my own here!
As the fox bounded toward Thunder, he reared up on his hind legs and swiped at the creature’s muzzle, a double blow with both sets of claws. At the same moment Leaf and Falling Feather appeared, one on each side of him, their paws raised to strike.
But there was no need. The fox let out a bark of pain, whipped around and vanished into the undergrowth.
“Thanks,” Thunder gasped to the two cats who had come to support him. His heart was pounding as if he had run all the way to the moorland camp and back.
“No need,” Leaf mewed; Thunder was surprised to see respect dawning in the black-and-white tom’s eyes. “You managed fine on your own.”
“Yes,” Clear Sky agreed, padding up to join them. “Some cat taught you well.”
“Not you,” Thunder retorted coldly. He knew that whatever bond he had felt with his father was truly gone. I’ll never trust Clear Sky again.
Clear Sky made no reply.
Thunder looked around at the other cats, but none of them were meeting his gaze. Nettle and Fircone, who had been so eager for him to talk to Clear Sky, were slinking away with their heads lowered.
So that’s how it is, Thunder thought.
“Come on.” Falling Feather touched Thunder on the shoulder with her tail-tip. “Let’s get this over with. I’ll come with you and Frost as far as the border, just in case that fox is still hanging around.”
“What border would that be?” Thunder asked drily. “They change so often around here, I’ve lost track.”
“Don’t get clever,” Clear Sky snarled. “You do know, if you leave now, you don’t come back.”
“I don’t want to come back,” Thunder responded.
Beckoning to Frost with his tail, he headed out of the camp, setting a slow pace so that the injured cat could keep up. Falling Feather padded along with them.
Thunder forced himself not to look back. I don’t care if Clear Sky is watching me leave or not. He’s nothing to me now. But even as he thought this, he knew it would take longer than the walk from camp for his wounds to heal. He’d trusted Clear Sky—he’d left Gray Wing to be with him!—and for what?
The three cats walked on in silence, pushing through the ferns.
“Why are you doing this?” Frost asked eventually, when they had left the clearing behind them. “We were never friends.”
Thunder snorted. “I might think you’re an annoying mange-pelt,” he replied, “but I still don’t want to see you dead.”
“You’ll be disappointed then,” Frost growled. “This wound isn’t going to heal.”
“No cat has tried to heal it,” Thunder meowed. “But there are cats on the moor who know everything there is to know about healing herbs. You’ll be chasing prey for many seasons yet, Frost.”
“That’s right,” Falling Feather agreed. “Thunder, I almost wish I was coming with you.”
Thunder tried to hide his surprise. “Then come,” he mewed in a soft voice.
The white she-cat shook her head. “I made my choice. The forest is where I belong now.”
She halted as they reached the edge of the trees. The moorland slope swelled up in front of them, warm in the light of the setting sun. Bees buzzed among the wild thyme and a white butterfly zigzagged past in front of their noses.
“We’re going up there?” Frost asked, sounding intimidated.
Thunder nodded. In spite of his earlier doubts, he was certain now that the only place he could go was back to the moorland camp and Gray Wing. He would have to tell them how sorry he was, and try to make it up to them however he could. And I have to warn them about what Clear Sky is doing.
“How fast do you think you can walk?” he asked Frost, seeing how the white tom was already wincing with pain.
“Fast enough.” Frost’s voice was grim. “I’ll get there, don’t worry.”
“Good-bye,” Falling Feather meowed. “And good luck.”
“Thanks,” Thunder responded, dipping his head.
As the sun shed scarlet light across the moor, Thunder and Frost began the long climb to the top of the ridge. About halfway up, Thunder halted and glanced over his shoulder. Falling Feather had disappeared; all he could see was the green barrier that marked the edge of the forest.
Beyond a clump of ferns, he made out the shape of a cat and spotted the flash of a gray pelt. So my father came to see me leave, after all, he thought. But even as he watched, the older cat sprang out of sight and disappeared into the gloom of the forest, where he belonged. Where he should stay, Thunder thought.
“Come on,” he meowed to Frost. “The faster we walk, the sooner we arrive.”
He began to lead the way from Clear Sky’s camp. Thunder had tried to fit in there, tried to be everything his father had wanted him to be. But I failed, he thought. Or had he? Whatever had brought Clear Sky and Gray Wing out of the mountains with the other cats, some part of the hunger and desperation had sown a rotten seed in Clear Sky’s heart. Even now, Thunder knew his father hadn’t been born bad. But he’s changing. And that can’t be good for any cat. Whatever I shared with my father, it’s over, Thunder thought, guilt and regret mingling in his heart.
Now all that was left was to find Gray Wing and the others and tell them everything. It would be hard, but Thunder knew he had to share every awful detail.
He started to pick up speed.
“Hold on!” Frost called after him. “I can’t run as fast as you, remember.”
Thunder sat on his haunches and waited, his gaze grazing the moorland ahead of them. Out there was the other cats’ camp. Out there was Gray Wing. Out there was hope.
Thunder Rising: Bonus Scene!
PROLOGUE
A loud yowl roused Ripple from a dream of scampering after butterflies over sunlit grass. As he struggled back to consciousness, he recognized the Call of Awakening ringing clearly across the Park. Blinking sleep away from his eyes, he slid out of his sleeping place, a mossy nest under the low-growing branches of a bush.
Dawn light filled the sky, and one spot on the horizon was flushed with pink and gold, showing where the sun would rise. Ripple turned toward it, his fur beginning to bristle in happy anticipation.
Soft grass stretched all around him, broken by clumps of bushes and the bright flowers the Twolegs planted. Here and there a tree let fall its blossoms, scattering the ground with tiny white petals like stars. Ripple couldn’t imagine anyplace more beautiful.
Now his friends and elders were appearing from their own nests. Each turned like Ripple to face the light, and as the blazing sun edged its way into sight, they raised their voices in a loud caterwaul to welcome the new day. Ripple stretched his neck and let his yowl ring out clearly, watching the last shadows flee the powerful rays.
Once the sun had completely cleared the horizon, the cats turned away and began to wash. Ripple found a warm patch of grass beside a clump of scarlet Twoleg flowers, his nose wrinkling at their strong scent. He knew how important it was to wash thoroughly, remembering the correct order.
Paws first, then face and ears . . . chest and belly next, he told himself, rolling over to reach his soft belly fur. Now back and tail . . .
There was an order to everything for the Cats of the Park. From kithood, they knew when and how to wake, to wash, and to perform every one of the small acts that made up their lives. It was peaceful, and good.
Hunger ached deep inside Ripple as he struggled to reach the awkward spot at the base of his spine, and he hurried to finish his washing with long strokes of his tongue.
With a last swift lick at his tail, Ripp
le sprang to his paws and joined the end of the orderly line of cats heading across the Park for their Morning Meal. After a few paw steps he realized that his mentor, Arc, a sleek and elegant black tom, had fallen into step beside him. When Ripple was just a kit, Arc had chosen to teach him, and the older cat had educated Ripple in all the ways of the Cats of the Park.
“Greetings, Arc,” Ripple meowed with a respectful dip of his head. “Isn’t it a lovely morning?”
“It is,” Arc agreed. “The sun is warm above our heads, and the grass is soft under our paws. Ripple, you should give thanks to the sun and the earth for the way they care for you. We’re lucky that our life is so comfortable.”
“I do give thanks,” Ripple responded, puzzled. “Every day. I know how lucky we are.” Why does Arc feel he has to tell me this?
“Don’t let these gifts make you soft,” Arc warned him, his tone suddenly somber. He flicked his dark tail, gazing across the sunlit grass. “Always be aware, life can be hard, even for us.”
Now Ripple was even more confused. Why would Arc want to spoil this bright morning with such dark words? Life has never been hard for us!
He dismissed the matter from his mind as he approached the row of bowls at the edge of the park. Twolegs laid out food every morning and evening at the far side of the Park. There was plenty for every cat; no need for pushing and shoving as they clustered around the bowls, each making sure that the cat beside him had enough space. Ripple began to eat, remembering not to gobble or gulp the food down. He wondered where the Twolegs hunted this weird prey that ended up as hard little nuggets. It wasn’t very tasty—not as good as the occasional mouse that Ripple caught in the Park—but it filled his belly and kept his limbs strong and his pelt glossy.