Maybe not that much, Sandpaw. Have a good sneeze and you should get the sand out of your nose. So, border marks, border marks. Can you smell both sets? Good. But what’s this? A cat from another Clan has ignored the marks and stepped over your border?
No, Ravenpaw, I didn’t mean we were actually being invaded. The cat from the other Clan is me. See how I just stepped over the line in the sand? What are you going to do about it? Wha … whoa! Stop treading on my ears!
Well, yes, Dustpaw, launching an attack and knocking me back across the border is one option. But is it wise to take on a cat twice your size? Or a trained warrior with more experience than you? The purpose of a patrol is to assess the situation and report back to your Clan leader. You won’t be able to do that if your pelt is clawed to shreds at the farthest part of the territory from the camp. Any other ideas?
How about asking what I’m doing? I might have a valid reason for crossing the border, especially if I’m alone. That’s right, Graystripe: What do you want? is a good way to start. Don’t be too hostile: Remember, you are in the stronger position, because this is your territory and you have the right to defend it. Unless I have a very good explanation for crossing your border, I don’t have any rights at all. What do you think my reply might be?
Yes, Ravenpaw, I might need your help. My Clan might have been invaded, we might have serious trouble with prey, or we might have sickness that needs your herbs. All these reasons would mean that I am weak, so you can allow me into your territory but never out of sight.
If I am hostile, then meet me with hostility—which isn’t the same as aggression, Dustpaw. You’ve started with a strong challenge—What do you want?—and now you need to give me some sort of warning. Ravenpaw, what would you say?
Hmmm. If you’re going to threaten to claw a cat’s ears, you should try not to look so terrified at the prospect. Firepaw, would you like to try? Ah, yes, I like that you indicated the rest of your patrol. It’s always good to let the enemy know they’re outnumbered. Sandpaw, put that fire ant down. No, I don’t care that Firepaw might not know what it is. Now is not the right time to show him—and he certainly doesn’t need to get bitten by one.
So, you’ve challenged the trespasser, warned me that there’s a whole patrol here that can take me to your Clan leader if that’s what I wish; what next? That’s right, Graypaw, let me—the intruder—speak. If I can’t give you a convincing explanation for what I’m doing on your territory, if I don’t ask to be taken to Bluestar at once, then chase me off with no more questions. Don’t provoke a full-scale war—chasing means chasing, not catching and clawing. Just make it clear that you will defend your boundaries from any kind of invasion, even one paw across the border. A good warrior is always ready to fight, but only if it’s absolutely necessary: A good warrior will seek a peaceful, claws-sheathed solution first.
You will all make good warriors one day. Don’t look so doubtful, Ravenpaw. You need to find only a little more courage to be as good as your denmates. Your hunting skills are excellent—Dustpaw, you’d do well to watch him. Who knows? You might even lead this Clan one day!
Now, back to camp, all of you, and leave this old warrior to enjoy the sun in peace.
CODE TWELVE
NO WARRIOR MAY NEGLECT A KIT IN PAIN OR IN DANGER, EVEN IF THAT KIT IS FROM A DIFFERENT CLAN.
The strength of a Clan does not depend only on the strength of its warriors. We also need to raise healthy kits to follow in the paw steps of their Clanmates. For this reason, kits are protected by all the cats in the forest, wherever their Clan loyalties lie. But it was not always so. As you will see, it sometimes takes a tragedy to teach the simplest of lessons.
A Loss for All Clans
Graywing stood on the flattened rock overlooking the river and closed her eyes, letting the fine mist spray her face. Heavy newleaf rains had swollen the water to a fast black torrent that spat and tumbled out of the gorge. Today the rain had stopped, sending Graywing and most of the RiverClan cats out of the camp to stretch their cramped legs and see which parts of the territory were underwater.
“Don’t fall in!” warned a voice behind Graywing. “All this damp weather is bound to bring coughs and stiff joints, so we need our medicine cat!”
Graywing turned to see a sleek tortoiseshell she-cat padding over the stones toward her. “Don’t worry, Brindleclaw. I have no intention of going for a swim today.”
A ginger tom slid out of the reeds behind Brindleclaw. He scowled at the flooded river. “We’ll be living off voles for a while,” he predicted. “We can’t risk any of our warriors trying to catch fish in that.”
Brindleclaw nodded. “I’ll warn the hunting patrols to stay well clear of the river until the level has gone down. Perhaps you could take a patrol into the fields, Foxwhisker?”
The ginger warrior grunted in agreement.
Graywing jumped down from the rock. “I need to see if my supply of mallow has survived the floods. I’ll see you back at the camp.”
Brindleclaw opened her mouth to reply, then stopped, staring straight past Graywing with a look of horror in her eyes. Graywing spun around. Three tiny fluffy shapes were clinging to the side of the gorge on the WindClan side, their hind legs dangling over the foaming water below.
“Great StarClan!” snarled Foxwhisker. “What on earth do those kits think they’re doing?”
Brindleclaw was already running along the bank toward the mouth of the gorge. “It doesn’t matter what they’re doing!” she called over her shoulder. “They’re going to fall!”
As she spoke, one of the kits lost its grip on the rocks and fell like a ripe apple into the river. There was a high-pitched squeal from one of its denmates, and another bundle plunged down into the water. Graywing felt as if her paws were frozen to the ground; the only thing she could do was watch as the third kit fell. It was impossible to see where they landed; any little splashes were swallowed up in the foam as the river burst out of the narrow canyon.
“Come on!” Brindleclaw yowled. “We have to help them!” She reached the end of the open river and raced down the shore to where the water exploded out of the gorge.
“Stop!” Graywing screeched. Her paws suddenly let go of their grip on the stones and she tore after Brindleclaw with Foxwhisker on her heels. “You can’t go in!”
Brindleclaw stared at her. “What do you mean? Those kits will drown if we don’t get them out!”
Graywing felt a pain in her chest as if she had just swallowed a boulder. “They’re probably dead already,” she forced herself to say. “We can’t risk our own lives trying to save them. Besides, they are WindClan kits. They are not ours to save.”
Beside them, there was a tiny squeak from the waves, and a paw the size of a blackberry shot above the surface before disappearing again.
“They’re not dead!” Brindleclaw gasped. She bunched her haunches, ready to leap into the water, but Graywing took hold of her scruff with her teeth.
“I can’t let you do this!” she choked through thick tortoiseshell fur. “StarClan made me medicine cat to serve RiverClan, not risk my Clanmates’ lives to help other Clans.”
Brindleclaw wrenched herself free and glared at Graywing. “How can you watch those kits drown without doing anything? What kind of a medicine cat are you?”
“One that is loyal to her Clan above all else,” Graywing murmured. The pain in her chest swelled until she couldn’t breathe, and her vision blurred.
“Graywing is right,” meowed Foxwhisker. “It would have been madness to risk the life of a RiverClan warrior to save cats from another Clan. Come on, Brindleclaw.”
The two warriors crunched away over the stones. Graywing let her legs crumple beneath her until she was slumped on the pebbles, feeling them hard and cold through her pelt. The only thing she could think of was the pitiful cry from the river as the kit had been swept away.
Ivystar, the RiverClan leader, was shocked to hear about the WindClan kits, but agreed that Graywing had be
en right not to let Brindleclaw jump in. She studied her medicine cat closely as Graywing stood before her with her head bowed. “It wasn’t your fault those kits fell in,” Ivystar murmured. “I’m sure they were told over and over to stay away from the gorge.”
Graywing shook her head. “Their poor mother. Such a terrible loss for their Clan.”
“And it could have been a terrible loss for RiverClan, too, if Brindleclaw had gone in after them,” Ivystar pointed out. “Now go get some rest. I’ll tell the patrols to keep an eye out for your mallow plants.”
Graywing walked slowly to her den. Two RiverClan kits, Wildkit and Minnowkit, bounced around her.
“Did you really see those kits drown?”
“Were they all wet and horrid looking?”
“Did their eyes fall out?”
“Wildkit! Minnowkit! Stop asking such horrible questions!” their mother scolded from the nursery. “Come back here at once!”
Graywing didn’t look up. She padded to her nest and curled up with her nose under her tail. It’s not my fault that those kits died.
So why do I feel so guilty?
When Graywing opened her eyes, moonlight flooded her den and the camp was still and quiet. She sat up, shocked that she’d slept for so long. The reeds that shielded her den rattled, and she heard a soft murmur from the clearing. Wondering if a cat had been taken ill, Graywing slipped out of her nest and pushed her way through the reeds. Three cats stood in the center of the camp, their fur frosted by the dazzling white light.
“Who are you?” Graywing stammered. These weren’t RiverClan warriors, and she didn’t recognize them from Gatherings. She wondered how they had managed to get all the way into the camp without being challenged.
The tallest of the strangers, hard-muscled beneath his brown tabby coat, dipped his head. “Greetings, Graywing,” he meowed. “My name is Runningstorm of WindClan. This is Wolfheart”—he nodded to the elegant gray she-cat beside him—“and our leader, Smallstar.”
The third cat, whose tiny frame was covered in sleek black-and-white fur, looked at Graywing. His blue eyes were friendly as he mewed, “We have traveled far to see you.”
Graywing looked from one cat to the other. “I don’t understand. Has something happened to Fallowstar?”
Smallstar shook his head. “Fallowstar is fine. We are the cats who would have been.”
Graywing stared at them in horror. The image of three terrified bundles, falling one by one into the churning river, filled her eyes. “You are the kits who drowned,” she whispered.
Wolfheart bent her head. “That is so. Come, we have something to show you.”
She turned and led the way across the clearing toward the nursery. Graywing followed without having to tell her paws what to do; they seemed to be carrying her on their own.
Runningstorm nosed aside the bramble that was draped across the entrance to the nursery, protecting the precious cats inside. “Look,” he urged Graywing.
Oh, StarClan, let our kits be all right, Graywing prayed as she poked her head inside. Had the WindClan kits returned to punish her by hurting the youngest RiverClan cats?
The den smelled warm and milky, and enough moonlight filtered through the branches for Graywing to see Hayberry curled around Wildkit and Minnowkit, who snuffled gently in their sleep. Hayberry’s flank rose and fell in time with her kits’ breathing, and although her eyelids flickered when Graywing looked at her, she didn’t stir.
Graywing pulled her head out. “They’re safe,” she breathed.
Smallstar looked surprised. “Of course. Did you think we’d hurt one hair on their pelts? Kits are the most special part of a Clan. They are the warriors who will defend their Clanmates in moons to come, the hunters who will find food even in the coldest leaf-bare, the cats who will have kits of their own to pass on everything they have learned. A Clan that has no kits might as well be dead.”
“And if one Clan dies, the survival of all the Clans is threatened,” Runningstorm added. “We may be rivals, but we are linked by StarClan, stronger than rock, stronger than tree roots, stronger than the water in the river.”
“I’m sorry.” Graywing faced the shining warriors and bowed her head. “I should have let Brindleclaw try to save you. WindClan’s loss is ours, too.”
There was no reply. She lifted her head to see the three cats fading away, returning to their home in the stars.
Graywing blinked. She was lying in her nest, the moss and feathers underneath her looking as if a battle had been fought there the night before. Graywing hauled herself up and stretched one hind leg at a time. Why did she feel as if she hadn’t slept at all?
The dream!
She raced out of the den and went straight to Ivystar. “I have to take a patrol out,” she panted.
Ivystar put her head to one side. “Do we need herbs so desperately? Has a cat fallen ill?”
“No, nothing like that. Please, let me take Brindleclaw and Foxwhisker. I’ll explain everything later.”
“Very well. But be careful. The river will still be flooded.”
Graywing shot out of Ivystar’s den and went to wake up Brindleclaw and Foxwhisker. The she-cat was still icy cold toward her, but Graywing didn’t try to apologize or even tell the warriors what they were doing. They would understand soon enough....
Graywing led them along the shore heading downriver, toward Sunningrocks. She slowed as they drew near the looming gray shapes and started to sniff carefully along the river’s edge.
“Are you looking for something?” Foxwhisker asked.
Graywing looked up. “I want to find the kits who drowned yesterday,” she mewed. “They should have lived to become warriors for their Clan. We need to take them back home.”
Brindleclaw stared at her in shock. “But yesterday you said we couldn’t have anything to do with them because they weren’t RiverClan!”
Graywing nodded. “And I was wrong. Kits should be precious to all Clans. After we have taken these three back to WindClan, I will ask Ivystar to suggest an addition to the warrior code: that kits should be protected by every cat in the forest, regardless of which Clan they come from. All our futures depend on them.”
“Over there,” came a quiet meow. Foxwhisker was standing on the edge of the water, facing away from them. He jerked his muzzle toward the far bank, where a tangle of sodden fur had been washed up against a branch.
“Come on,” murmured Graywing. She and her Clanmates slipped into the water and paddled strongly through the current toward the branch. The swollen river tried to drag them away, and battered them with twigs and other debris washed down from the gorge, but they stretched their necks to keep their muzzles above the surface and churned with legs well used to swimming. Graywing reached the kits first. Through the filthy, water-dark fur, she could just make out patches of black and white in the shape nearest to her. It was Smallkit, who would have been leader of his Clan had he survived. Graywing picked him up and carried him back to the RiverClan shore. Foxwhisker followed with Runningkit, and Brindleclaw brought Wolfkit.
They laid their tiny burdens on the shore to get their breath back. Graywing touched each body with her muzzle. “Your Clan will honor you with a burial for the warriors that you would have been,” she told them. “And you will live on in the law that makes every Clan responsible for the safety of kits, wherever they are born.
“Precious kits, walk safely among the stars.”
A Kit in Trouble
No cat doubts that cats of all Clans must protect kits. But we know from bitter experience that not all kits grow up to honor the warrior code that once protected them. Every full-grown tyrant or murderer was once a tiny bundle of fluff that swelled a mother’s heart with pride. If we could see into the future, would we protect each and every kit the same?
Brackenfoot curled his lip as he pushed through the broad, sticky plants that grew along the Thunderpath that bordered ShadowClan’s territory. He didn’t share his Clanmates’ taste for mon
ster-kill, and the stench and the noise coming from the strip of black stone made him blind and deaf to everything else. He waited for the roar of the monsters to fade, then bounded onto the narrow strip of foul-smelling grass.
Archeye was sniffing at some crumpled gray and white feathers lying on the edge of the Thunderpath. “Looks like we might be able to take some pigeon home,” he commented.
It won’t taste of pigeon, thought Brackenfoot. It’ll taste burned and bitter, like licking a monster’s paw.
To his relief, Hollyflower wrinkled her nose. “There’s not enough meat left to bother with,” she told Archeye.
The still, hot air was ruffled by the sound of a growl; Brackenfoot spun around, expecting to see a curious dog that had broken away from its Twoleg. But nothing stirred on ShadowClan’s hunting grounds. Then Hollyflower yowled, “Fox!”
Brackenfoot stiffened. A red-brown creature with the familiar pointed snout was standing among the ferns on the far side of the Thunderpath, in ThunderClan’s territory. The fox’s fur bristled along its back, and it held its head low.
“Is it stalking us?” Archeye whispered.
“Foxes don’t hunt full-grown cats,” Crowclaw whispered back. “Not unless they’re starving.”
Brackenfoot peered closer. There was something trembling on the very edge of the Thunderpath, directly across from them. “It’s not interested in us,” he hissed. “It’s found some much easier prey.” The lump of fluff looked like a young rabbit or perhaps a very fat vole.
“ThunderClan won’t like having a fox stealing their fresh-kill,” Archeye commented gleefully.
“That’s not fresh-kill!” Hollyflower burst out. “That’s a kit!” She sprang onto the Thunderpath before the other cats could stop her and raced across to stand over the tiny cat. “Get away!” she spat at the fox.
Archeye glanced sideways at Brackenfoot. “I suppose we’d better join in before she loses both her ears,” he muttered.