I know you think that I’m an arrogant old cat who has made everything much, much worse by giving my Clan a leader they were not prepared for. But it was the only way to save them!
I know that WindClan will be safe under Onewhisker. He will have to prove his strength one day; every leader does. And if I was wrong, if I should have let Mudclaw succeed me because he was my deputy first, then it’s too late. What’s done is done. I didn’t come to StarClan to regret my last decision as leader of WindClan. Whatever happens, it cannot be worse than the fate WindClan would have suffered if Mudclaw had remained.
CODE NINE
AFTER THE DEATH OR RETIREMENT OF THE DEPUTY, THE NEW DEPUTY MUST BE CHOSEN BEFORE MOONHIGH.
It may seem callous to cats like you that a new deputy is named over the body of the old one. Would you prefer to grieve for one cat before passing your loyalties to another? As you are about to see, dwelling in the past is not a luxury warrior cats have; we must face the future. The time for mourning will come.
A Sign from StarClan
Redscar studied the spluttering, hunched cat in front of him and shook his head. “You can’t go to the Moonstone today, Brightwhisker. You wouldn’t make it as far as the Thunderpath.”
Brightwhisker paused to gulp in air, then protested, “But I have to go! I have to receive my nine lives and my new name from StarClan!”
“StarClan will be perfectly aware of how sick you are,” Redscar pointed out. “They won’t want you to exhaust yourself so soon. Your Clan needs you whole and well. They have already accepted you as their leader.”
The brown-and-white she-cat’s eyes clouded. “They mourn for Snowstar as much as I do. I wish I was still his deputy.”
“Snowstar will be mourned for many moons, but that can’t stop us from doing our duty. And yours,” Redscar added, “is to get rid of this whitecough so you can be fit and strong to lead your Clan.”
“Are you sure it’s whitecough? Could it be greencough, like Snowstar had?”
“It’s whitecough, definitely,” Redscar meowed. “Now, lie down and rest.”
“But I need to appoint a deputy, too,” Brightwhisker protested, lapsing into a fit of coughing.
“It can wait until you can do it without coughing in his or her face. I’ll bring you some tansy to soothe your chest and a poppy seed to help you sleep.”
When he returned, Brightwhisker was curled in her nest, her flank rising and falling evenly. She didn’t stir, so he decided not to wake her. He left the tansy leaves and the poppy seed beside a clump of moss soaked with water. Stretching the stiffness from his legs one paw at a time, he picked his way across the rutted, half-frozen clearing and headed for his nest of crow feathers and dry bracken. Darkness claimed him as soon as he closed his eyes.
“Redscar! Redscar! Come quickly!”
Redscar shot out of his nest and pushed his way into the open. Flowerstem was staring at him as if all the foxes of the forest were on her tail. “I can’t wake Brightwhisker!” she wailed.
Every hair on Redscar’s pelt stood on end. He’d left her only one poppy seed, barely enough for a whole night’s sleep.
“Come see,” Flowerstem pleaded, but Redscar was already pushing past her, heading for the leader’s den. It was dark inside, and Redscar had to blink and wait impatiently for his eyes to adjust. Slowly he made out Brightwhisker’s sleeping shape. She didn’t seem to have moved since he last checked on her.
Oh, StarClan, don’t let her be dead!
Redscar pushed his nose into her neck fur, but there was no sign of the telltale throb of life beneath the skin, and her fur was as cold as frost.
“Redscar?” Flowerstem was standing in the entrance to the den.
He turned to her and shook his head. Another leader had died, before she’d had a chance to receive her nine lives.
“Oh, no!” Flowerstem wailed.
A tortoiseshell head appeared behind her. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Mossfire!” Flowerstem turned to face her littermate. “Brightwhisker’s dead!”
Redscar padded out of the den, his paws heavy as stone. “She must have developed greencough in the night. She died in her sleep.”
Mossfire stared at him. “But … she never chose a deputy! Who will be our leader now?”
Redscar knew he had to help his Clan find a way out of this terrible darkness. “I’ll call the cats together,” he meowed.
He chose to stay on the ground rather than stand on the fallen log that the leaders had used to address the Clan. Brightwhisker had taken her place there only once, to greet her Clan for the first time since Snowstar’s death; a fit of coughing had stopped her, and Redscar had ordered her back to her den. I should have known it was greencough! There must have been something else I could have done.
Like let her appoint a deputy? a small voice inside him challenged.
Redscar pushed it away. “Cats of ShadowClan, Brightwhisker is dead. There will be time to grieve for her, but first we must choose a new leader. Are there any cats who wish to volunteer?”
His Clanmates shifted restlessly and there were worried murmurs, but no cat spoke out until Jumpfoot stepped forward. His muscles rippled under his black pelt, and his green eyes were somber. “I will lead ShadowClan, if my Clanmates wish it.”
There were several yowls of approval, but some murmurs of disagreement. “We think Mossfire should be leader,” called one of the queens. “Jumpfoot is too quick to go into battle. We want peace for our kits.”
Mossfire walked forward to stand beside Jumpfoot. She dipped her head to Redscar. “My Clanmates honor me, and I would be willing to be their leader.”
“Not all of them want you,” snarled Jumpfoot. “Who’d want a Clan full of cowards, too frightened to defend their borders?”
“Not rushing into every battle doesn’t make me a coward,” Mossfire retorted. “I can fight as well as you any day.”
“Prove it,” Jumpfoot challenged.
“This is no way to choose a leader!” Flowerstem cried.
Jumpfoot glared at her. “We’ll fight, and whichever cat StarClan favors will be victorious.”
Flowerstem looked pleadingly at Redscar, but he felt frozen. What was happening to his Clan?
Jumpfoot and Mossfire started circling each other; the other cats moved back to give them more room. Mossfire struck first, with an easy swipe that Jumpfoot sprang away from with a contemptuous hiss. “You’ll have to do better than that!”
“Very well,” spat Mossfire, and she leaped at him, front legs outstretched, claws glinting in the frosty sun. She raked a set of scratches into Jumpfoot’s flank, leaving scarlet beads of blood. With a yowl, Jumpfoot spun around and slashed at her face, then sank his claws into her shoulder and rolled her onto the ground, pummeling at her with his hind legs.
Redscar turned away. He could not believe StarClan wanted two warriors to fight like this in order to lead their Clan. He winced as he heard Mossfire gasp with pain and the sound of ripping fur as she retaliated. There was a thud as Jumpfoot went down and a gasp from the watching cats. Then another, softer thud as Mossfire crumpled beside him.
“Mossfire! No!” That was Flowerstem.
The stench of blood told Redscar what he would see. He turned around. The two cats were lying still as their lives ebbed away from blows struck too close, too hard. Redscar felt numb. He had failed, again.
Three elders were already shuffling forward to rearrange the bodies for their Clanmates’ vigil. It would last all night, and then what? ShadowClan still had no leader. The cats were silent, moving slowly as if their limbs had frozen, none quite meeting another’s eye. The blood of these cats stains all our paws.
Flowerstem alone seemed to have her voice; she wove among the stunned cats, comforting them, sending them to the fresh-kill pile to eat: “We have to keep up our strength. There is still sickness in the air; no more cats must die.” Quietly she asked two of the senior warriors to take out hunting patrols with all the appr
entices. “There is no need for them to spend all day looking at these fallen warriors. Keep them busy, but battle training would not be appropriate, I think.” Her Clanmates nodded and led the younger cats silently out of the clearing.
Then Flowerstem approached Redscar. Her eyes looked dull with shock, but she spoke calmly. “Is there anything I can do for you, Redscar? Fetch herbs or water?”
Redscar shook his head. There was nothing any cat could do. “I’ll be in my den,” he told her and headed for the thicket of hawthorn that screened his nest and his store of herbs. He stumbled into his nest, feeling many seasons older than he had when he last lay down, and closed his eyes.
“Redscar? Redscar, wake up.”
He opened his eyes. He was lying in a clearing among beech trees, their branches black and sharp against the snow-colored sky. The grass beneath him was crisp and cold; he jumped up, shivering.
“Redscar, you must find a new leader for ShadowClan.”
“Snowstar?”
The gray cat nodded. “I have been watching my Clan, and I grieve for every one of my cats. Most of all, for Brightwhisker, who would have been a great leader, and for Jumpfoot and Mossfire who let ambition cloud their senses and sharpen their claws. You must put this right, my friend.”
“What can I do?” Redscar wailed.
“You will choose a new leader,” Snowstar meowed. “And that cat must choose a deputy at once. A Clan must never be left like this again, a headless creature that wades into blood because it cannot see. At the next Gathering, the new leader must introduce a new rule for the warrior code: Deputies must be replaced by moonhigh, so a leader will never be alone for more than half a day. Now tell me, who would you choose as your next leader?”
Redscar started to protest that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, choose, but the look in Snowstar’s eyes silenced him. “Flowerstem,” he meowed. “She watched her sister die in front of her, but her only thoughts were to make the Clan feel safe and keep them occupied before tonight’s vigil.”
“A wise choice. So tell the Clan.”
Redscar stared at him. “Why should they listen to me? I’ve done nothing for them, nothing.”
Snowstar narrowed his eyes. “You’re their medicine cat. They will listen to you, if you use the right words.” The beech trees were looking paler now, blurring against the white clouds. Snowstar was fading, too. “Go now, Redscar,” he called. “Appoint Flowerstem as the new leader of ShadowClan!”
Redscar blinked and he was back in his nest with a crow feather tickling his ear. He shook his head irritably. The Clan was in turmoil. They must think their warrior ancestors had given up on them.
No words, but maybe an action?
He padded into the clearing. The camp was quiet and deserted, apart from the bodies of Mossfire and Jumpfoot lying in the shelter of some dry bracken. He slipped out of the camp and trotted to a place where an oak tree grew on ground that was less marshy than the rest of the territory. Mossfire and Jumpfoot would be buried near here. At the foot of the tree, sheltered from the wind, grew a bunch of delicate white flowers, the color of snow and the shape of raindrops.
Checking there were no cats around, he nipped one of the snowdrops off at the base of its stalk. Laying it on the ground, he pulled off the smooth white petals, leaving just the stem. Then he curled it up and pushed it into a clump of moss that he dug up from underneath a tree root. Picking up the moss in his teeth, he headed back for the camp. No cat would question a medicine cat fetching moss; it was used for bedding as well as to carry water.
When he returned to the camp, there were more cats around. The hunting patrols had come back with a fair haul of fresh-kill, and pale sunlight had tempted their Clanmates out to eat. Redscar nodded to one or two as he crossed the clearing. As he passed the fallen log used by the leaders to address the Clan, he relaxed his grip on the moss and felt the snowdrop stalk spring out. Quick as lightning, he dropped the moss and kicked it with his paw so that it rolled underneath a hawthorn, out of sight.
“Look!” he cried, gazing down at the pale green stem lying at his paws. It was as slim as a whisker, still quivering from where it had uncurled. “Did any cat bring this into the camp?”
His Clanmates gathered around. “It’s a snowdrop stalk. They only grow by the oak tree, right?” meowed one of the apprentices.
Redscar lifted his head and faced them. His paws were shaking but he sank his claws into the earth to keep them still. “It’s a sign from StarClan,” he announced. “They want us to know their choice for the new ShadowClan leader.”
“Who?” gasped a she-cat plump with kits.
Redscar touched the stalk with his paw. “Flowerstem.”
There was a gasp, then murmurs of agreement.
The ginger-and-white she-cat was pushed to the front of the cats. She looked dazed. “I don’t know what to say,” she began.
“Just say you will lead us, as StarClan wishes,” meowed Redscar.
Flowerstem looked down at the snowdrop stalk, then over her shoulder at her motionless sister. “To honor Mossfire’s memory and Jumpfoot’s, yes, I will.” She dipped her head as joyful yowls rose around her.
Maybe StarClan had needed Redscar’s help to send this sign, but it was what Snowstar wanted. And he would tell Flowerstar to choose her deputy before the moon reached its height, in front of the bodies of her fallen Clanmates, and Brightwhisker, so that their spirits could hear and approve her choice.
“Thank you, Snowstar,” he whispered.
CODE TEN
A GATHERING OF ALL CLANS IS HELD AT THE FULL MOON DURING A TRUCE THAT LASTS FOR THE NIGHT. THERE SHALL BE NO FIGHTING AMONG CLANS AT THIS TIME.
Even though the Gatherings started with the very beginning of the warrior code, the full-moon truce did not become part of the code until much later. Now the truce is respected by every cat, whether it is because they value the chance to exchange news in peace with their close neighbors, or because they are afraid of what their warrior ancestors might do if they break the code. Come with me to Fourtrees long ago, when the ancestors first looked down on the full-moon gathering and bound the Clan cats to the full-moon truce.
The Vanishing Moon
The four giant oaks cast thick shadows across the moon-washed clearing as Finchstar crouched at the top of the slope. Behind him, his Clanmates waited, the air clouded with their breath. Several cats dotted the hollow already, circling to keep warm as they exchanged cautious greetings with warriors from rival Clans.
“Come on, ThunderClan!” Finchstar called. He stood up and began to run down the slope, stretching his tail up so his Clanmates could follow.
“Good,” muttered Daisyheart, his deputy, as she bounded beside him. “If I’d stayed still much longer I’d have turned into an icicle.”
Frost crackled under Finchstar’s paws as he jumped onto the flat stretch of grass. Two WindClan elders nodded to him and a RiverClan warrior called a greeting as he wove his way through the cats to the Great Rock.
“How’s the prey running, Finchstar?” SkyClan’s leader, Hawkstar, asked as he leaped onto the top of the smooth silver boulder.
“Fast,” he replied. “It doesn’t like being out in this weather any more than we do!”
“Our rabbits run so quickly, they’re nothing but muscle and bone when we catch them,” Dovestar, the WindClan leader, put in. “So tough to chew!”
The RiverClan leader, Reedstar, said nothing. He was sitting on the far side of the rock, as far from Hawkstar as he could get without falling off. Their Clans had been at war over a strip of shoreline for almost three seasons; one battle had led to the death of SkyClan’s former leader, Dewstar, and his Clanmates were far from forgiving their rivals across the water.
Finchstar looked down at the clearing. “ShadowClan not here yet? It’s not like Ripplestar to be late.”
Dovestar lifted his haunches off the stone and settled down again with his tail curled up. “I’ll stick to this rock if we don’t start soon. It?
??s colder than ice.”
Reedstar shifted, sending his shadow flickering over the edge of the boulder, crisp in the moonlight. “Maybe the frost has delayed them?”
The tip of Hawkstar’s tail twitched. “Something’s wrong,” he murmured. “My pelt’s been itching all day.”
“Fleas,” muttered Reedstar.
Finchstar glared at him. It was full moon, the one night they were supposed to put their rivalry aside and share news for the good of all the Clans.
There was a hiss like wind at the edge of the clearing. Finchstar pricked his ears and stared into the moon shadows. Was that a branch waving in the breeze, or something more?
Why does Fourtrees suddenly feel unsafe?
“ShadowClan! Attack!”
The shadows exploded, spitting and yowling. The cats in the clearing whirled to face them, but before they could brace themselves, ShadowClan warriors fell on them, claws and fangs bared. Within a heartbeat, the hollow thrashed and rippled like a river full of salmon. The leaders of the Clans stood on the edge of Great Rock, staring down in horror. Then Reedstar leaped down, quickly followed by Hawkstar and Dovestar. Finchstar heard them screech orders to their senior warriors, splitting them into battle groups to defend the elders and apprentices who had come to the Gathering.
A ginger-and-white face flashed up at Finchstar from the turmoil at the foot of the rock.
“Help us, Finchstar!” Daisyheart wailed, before she whipped around to claw a ShadowClan warrior over his ears.
Finchstar bunched his haunches, ready to jump down, when a shadow fell across him. He looked up. Ripplestar stood beside him on the Great Rock, his yellow eyes glowing as they watched the battle.