Эрин Хантер: Squirrelflight's Hope

“We’ll pad all the walls,” Squirrelflight promised. “It’ll be as warm as a mouse nest in here.”

She ducked outside, nodding to Millie and Graystripe as she passed them, and glanced around the camp. Bramblestar was sunning himself on the Highledge with Thornclaw. She didn’t look at him, afraid to catch his eye. She’d avoided him since she’d woken at dawn. Her grief had eased with sleep, and common sense had returned on waking. Of course Bramblestar loved her, and if he wanted kits less than she did, at least he’d been honest with her. She knew she’d overreacted. Why should he want exactly the same things that she did? And yet she still wasn’t ready to speak to him. She’d assigned herself to the dawn patrol and then gone hunting.

But she couldn’t stay out of camp all day, and it was sunhigh now. There were no more chores until dusk patrol. Hesitating at the edge of the clearing, she looked for something to keep her busy. Hollytuft and Flippaw were back from training, nosing eagerly through the fresh-kill pile. Jayfeather and Alderheart were heading out of camp, Jayfeather leading the way as usual despite his blindness. Outside the nursery, Daisy was chatting to Lilyheart and Rosepetal, while Rosepetal’s apprentice, Bristlepaw, nosed about in the ferns at the edge of the camp, clearly looking for mice. Squirrelflight wondered if it was time Daisy moved to the elders’ den. It must be lonely in the nursery. But she was such a help to expectant queens. What if a warrior announced she was having kits? No one should have to sleep in the nursery alone. A pang of grief jabbed Squirrelflight’s heart. I should be there by now. Her thoughts quickened. How could she have kits now that she knew that Bramblestar didn’t want them? He does want kits! she corrected herself. Just not as much as I do.

But it hadn’t been just the kits he’d been upset about. She’d contradicted him in front of the others. But they were close to fighting! Squirrelflight flicked her tail indignantly. And I have a right to my own opinion. Her plan for SkyClan could be the perfect solution. She couldn’t have held her tongue even if she’d wanted to. Bramblestar had implied that a good deputy would have kept quiet. She shook out her pelt. Was that what Bramblestar thought—that she wasn’t a good deputy? Hurt sharpened its claws on her heart once again. She closed her eyes. Chasing thoughts like this wasn’t going to help her feel better.

“Bristlepaw! Flippaw! Look what I caught!” Thriftpaw’s mew surprised Squirrelflight, and at his littermate’s call, Flippaw looked up from the mouse he was eating. Bristlepaw stuck her head out of the ferns, her eyes wide.

The dark gray she-cat was standing at the camp entrance, Dewnose beside her and a small rabbit at her paws.

Bristlepaw dashed from the ferns and skidded to a halt beside her sister. “It’s almost as big as you!” She sniffed excitedly at the rabbit as Flippaw hurried over.

“Did you catch it by yourself?” Flippaw looked impressed.

Thriftpaw glanced at her paws. “Not exactly by myself.”

Dewnose purred beside her. “Thriftpaw tracked it and caught it. I just helped with the killing bite.”

“Can we eat it now?” Thriftpaw asked.

“Put it on the fresh-kill pile and take something smaller,” Dewnose told her. “We can share the rabbit later with the elders.”

Thriftpaw glanced toward the heap of prey at the edge of the clearing. The long body of a weasel lay on top. Her eyes widened. “Is that a weasel?”

Flippaw nodded. “Mousewhisker caught it this morning.”

“But weasels are vicious,” Thriftpaw mewed, her eyes widening.

“That one was,” Flippaw told her. “Mousewhisker’s in the medicine-cat den right now covered in bites.”

Squirrelflight pricked her ears. Mousewhisker must have returned while she was in the elders’ den. “Is he badly hurt?”

“I don’t know,” Flippaw told her.

Squirrelflight headed toward the medicine-cat den.

“Imagine being wounded by prey,” Bristlepaw murmured.

“Imagine being killed by prey!” Thriftpaw mewed.

“Put your rabbit on the fresh-kill pile,” Dewnose told her again. “When you’ve had something to eat, we’re going to practice battle moves.”

Squirrelflight glanced back at the gray-and-white tom. “Can you take a look at the elders’ den when you’re finished? The roof needs mending.”

“Sure.” Dewnose swished his tail as Squirrelflight ducked through the brambles that trailed over the entrance to the medicine-cat den. Inside, cool shadows swathed the wide stretch of earth. Herb scents filled the air. Her littermate, Leafpool, glanced up warmly as Squirrelflight entered. “Well, hello.”

Mousewhisker sat stiffly in the middle of the den. Leafpool returned to lapping ointment into his wounds.

“Are you badly hurt?” Squirrelflight crossed the den and stopped beside them. “I see Leafpool is taking good care of you.”

“She is. And it’s just a few bites,” Mousewhisker told her.

“There are a couple of deep ones,” Leafpool reported. “But I’ve cleaned them and put plenty of herbs on them. They should heal quickly.” She looked earnestly at the gray-and-white tom. “But if you get any fever or the pain keeps you awake tonight, come straight to me.”

Mousewhisker nodded.

“Where did you catch the weasel?” Squirrelflight was curious. Weasels were rare in this part of the forest.

“Near the beeches,” Mousewhisker told her.

Squirrelflight realized she’d been wondering if he’d caught it on ThunderClan’s strip of moorland. “Not the moor?”

Mousewhisker looked at her, puzzled. “Why would I be hunting on the moor? That’s WindClan territory.”

“The stretch beyond the stream is ThunderClan territory now,” she reminded him, twitching her tail in irritation.

“Oh, yes.” He sounded surprised. “I keep forgetting. It feels so unnatural to hunt in the open.”

Squirrelflight stifled a sigh. Harestar had been right about the wasted land. “We all need to learn,” Squirrelflight prompted.

“Of course.” Mousewhisker peered distractedly at a bite mark on his shoulder. “I just hope hunting in the wind doesn’t make us as stunted as WindClan warriors.”

Leafpool used her paw to fold the leaf she’d mixed the ointment on. “WindClan warriors are only smaller than us because their ancestors were smaller, not because of the wind.”

Mousewhisker sniffed. “So what made their ancestors small?”

Leafpool shrugged. “Only StarClan knows.”

“It was probably the wind.”

Squirrelflight caught her sister’s eye and swallowed back a purr. Was Leafpool going to argue with that kind of logic?

“Go and rest in the sunshine,” Leafpool told Mousewhisker, changing the subject. “It’ll dry out your wounds.”

“Thanks, Leafpool.” Mousewhisker dipped his head and headed for the entrance.

“Wait,” Squirrelflight called after him. Mousewhisker turned to her questioningly. “Have you patrolled the edge of ThunderClan territory lately, beyond the abandoned Twolegplace?”

Mousewhisker frowned. “I was up that way a quarter moon ago with Larksong and Cherryfall.”

“Do you know what the land’s like beyond the border?” Her fur pricked along her spine. Bramblestar wouldn’t be happy if he knew she was asking these questions. “Are there any strays living there, or foxes?”

“Occasionally there are unfamiliar scents on the border. But if there are strays or foxes up there, they’re smart enough to know not to cross into our territory.”

“Thanks, Mousewhisker.” Squirrelflight nodded at him, and the gray-and-white tom pushed his way out of the den.