Эрин Хантер - Path Of A Warrior

Around the cave, cats jumped up and hurried toward the fresh-kill pile. Unlike Clan cats, who ate whenever they liked, Tribe cats ate only one meal a day, together. When Tawnypelt had been here as a young warrior, she had been glad the Clans didn’t wait to eat together: When she wanted a mouse, she wanted a mouse. But now, as she looked around at the cats settling down to share a meal, it seemed … nice.

Breeze hurried up to Tawnypelt and placed a vole in front of her. Glancing beside her, she saw that other to-bes were bringing Dovewing and Shadowkit prey as well.

“Would you like to share prey with me, Dovewing?” Stoneteller asked. She purred in agreement, and they each took a bite of the prey before them, then exchanged, Stoneteller’s mouse going to Dovewing, her sparrow to him.

“I like the way they do that here,” Shadowkit said. “Will you share with me, Tawnypelt?”

“Of course,” she said affectionately, and they each took a bite and then exchanged their prey. I like it, too, Tawnypelt decided, looking around at the cats peacefully eating and sharing their meal.

What must it be like, all being from the same Tribe? There were a few rogues in the mountains, Tawnypelt knew, and that was why the Tribe patrolled their borders, but there were no divided Clans continually arguing over territory, distrusting kits who were neither one Clan nor the other.

No deaths in battle here, Tawnypelt thought. It was a hard life in the mountains, she was sure: vicious eagles swooping from above, unforgiving peaks and sheer cliff faces. But cats did not kill cats.

Darktail would never have come here. This territory is too harsh for him—he wanted the rich prey of the lake.

If Darktail had never come, ShadowClan would never have been torn apart. Dawnpelt and so many others would not have died. Without Darktail’s death, no cat would have sought to avenge him.

If we were cats of the Tribe, Rowanstar would still be alive.

The tender sparrow suddenly felt dry in Tawnypelt’s mouth.

A gust of cold air blew through the waterfall, a fine mist of cold water falling over the cats. Shadowkit squeaked in surprise.

“A storm’s coming,” Stoneteller said, “and it is just warm enough to bring rain, not snow. Stay away from the cave entrance until it passes.”

The cats were finishing their meal and breaking into smaller groups, the kit-mothers gathering their kits and heading for the nurseries. Other cats were settling down in the nests dug in the dirt floor at the edges of the cave.

“We should sleep, too.” Dovewing yawned. Tawnypelt’s paws ached with tiredness; it had been a long day.

“I think that Shadowkit should sleep in the Cave of Pointed Stones so that I can watch over him,” Stoneteller said.

Dovewing looked at her kit, her gaze uneasy. “He’s used to sleeping with me in the nursery,” she said slowly.

“Perhaps we could all sleep in the Cave of Pointed Stones?” Tawnypelt suggested, and Dovewing let out a sigh of relief.

“Of course,” Stoneteller agreed, then added, “but a kit with such strong visions will travel far from his mother one day.”

Dovewing’s eyes widened with alarm. Tawnypelt brushed her tail across Dovewing’s back. “But not yet,” she whispered, and Dovewing twitched her ears gratefully.

We lose our kits soon enough, Tawnypelt thought, thinking of Dawnpelt and Flametail, gone to StarClan. And Tigerstar, who had been a full-grown cat for a long time now. Let Dovewing keep hers just a little longer.

They settled on nests of eagle feathers and moss in the Cave of Pointed Stones, steering clear of the crack in the ceiling through which rainwater streamed. Tawnypelt shut her eyes. Outside, thunder rumbled, and inside, the water dripped steadily. She could hear the waterfall pounding outside, more powerful than ever. The steady rushing rhythm lulled her to sleep.

“No! No!” High-pitched screeching— a kit in trouble— jolted Tawnypelt out of her sleep.

“Shadowkit?”

“Shadowkit!”

She and Stoneteller jumped from their nests and rushed toward the kit. Moonlight showed Shadowkit, fur on end, standing in his nest, his eyes stretched wide with horror. Beside him, Dovewing seemed frozen in alarm.

“We have to get them out!” he yowled. “Every cat has to get out of the cave! Now!”

Chapter Seven

“Get out! Get up! Now!” Shadowkit’s frantic yowls echoed through the main cave as he burst out of the tunnel from the Cave of Pointed Stones.

Tawnypelt pounded after him, Dovewing and Stoneteller close behind.

“You have to get out of the cave!” Shadowkit screeched, running to the closest nest and leaping on the huddled figure inside. The cat in the nest— Lark , Tawnypelt thought—gave a startled squeak and pushed him away.

All around the edges of the cave, confused voices rose from different nests.

“What’s going on?”

“Who is that?”

“Shadowkit? Are you having a bad dream?”

“Go back to sleep!”

Tawnypelt was nearly close enough to grab the kit by the scruff, but suddenly he reversed course, wriggling underneath her and racing from one nest to another, pummeling the cats with his paws. “You have to leave the cave! Now! You’re in terrible danger!”

They’re not going to listen to a kit. Tawnypelt ran forward and shook the cat in one of the nests. “He’s not just dreaming,” she said. “You have to wake up.”

She could hear Dovewing waking another cat. “I’m sorry, but we have to get moving.”

Stoneteller’s voice rose above the commotion in the cave. “Every cat on your paws. Shadowkit has had a vision that we are in danger.”

Obediently, the Tribe cats began to climb out of their nests, blinking and yawning in the near darkness. A to-be ran off down a side tunnel and returned with a few kit-mothers, their kits whining sleepily around their paws.

“A vision?” Bird meowed. “Why would a cat from the Clans have a vision about us? The Tribe of Endless Hunting doesn’t have anything to do with the Clans.”

“We don’t really have to leave the cave, do we?” Pine yowled anxiously, and several cats chimed in.

“It’s pouring!”

“Listen to the thunder out there! Can’t we wait until the storm lets up?”

A flash of lightning lit up the cave, and every cat flinched. The rain outside intensified.

“Shadowkit was sent here for a reason,” Stoneteller meowed solemnly, raising his voice to be heard over the storm. “Even though I don’t quite understand either, I think we need to listen to him. We must leave the cave.” He led the way toward the cave mouth, his head ducked low against the water blowing in. Behind him, the cats looked at one another in shock, then slowly began to follow.

The Teller of the Pointed Stones never leaves the cave, Tawnypelt remembered, a sense of relief washing over her. Stoneteller must really believe in Shadowkit’s vision. I was right to bring him.

Something pressed against her side, and she looked down to see Shadowkit gazing up at her.

“Let’s keep him between us,” Dovewing said from his other side, sounding grim. “I don’t like the look of that storm.”

As they stepped through the cave mouth, cold water drenched Tawnypelt’s fur, making her gasp in shock. With the storm, the waterfall had increased terribly in size: the narrow path of rocks that usually ran behind the water was soaked, heavy water pounding steadily against it. A harsh wind blew through the waterfall, cutting through the cats’ wet pelts and chilling them to the bone.

Tawnypelt scrambled to stop herself from falling as her paws slipped. Instinctively, she and Dovewing moved closer together, almost pinning Shadowkit between them to keep him from being blown off the path.