Эрин Хантер - Lost Stars

Grudgingly the other cats agreed and settled themselves outside the makeshift den. Shadowpaw’s heart was racing, and he fixed his gaze on the dark tabby curve of Bramblestar’s back, all he could see among the piles of snow. But there was no movement from the den.

“How long does it take?” Dovewing asked, her whiskers twitching nervously. “I know how it was for Tigerstar, when he died and was made leader. But that was different. Usually . . . if a leader loses a life . . . how long?”

“Every time I’ve seen a leader lose a life, it’s been quick,” Jayfeather replied. “Sometimes so quick that you might not even realize that a life was lost. The cat simply breathes out the last breath of one life and gasps the first breath of the next one. Sometimes there’s a brief pause, but . . .” He hesitated, then went on more briskly, “If Bramblestar has gone to StarClan’s hunting grounds, they will greet him, give him any messages they want him to bring back to his Clan, and return him to life. He should be back any moment now.”

All the cats resigned themselves to waiting. Shadowpaw couldn’t feel anything, not even his mother’s comforting nuzzle, as he stared at the snow den. He desperately wanted to believe that Bramblestar would come back, but this wasn’t how he had imagined it would happen. And something was nagging at him, like an ant crawling through his fur.

What if the voice I’ve been hearing was wrong? What if the older medicine cats were right to doubt me this whole time? What if I don’t have a connection to StarClan at all, but am just a foolish, strange cat . . . a foolish cat who has led darkness into the Clans?

Moments dragged by, seemingly endless. Every cat was silent, their tension clear in their twitching tails and bristling fur. Every cat seemed to know that it was taking too long for Bramblestar to return, but Shadowpaw guessed that no cat wanted to be the one to say so.

Finally a gray light began to spill over the moor, showing the medicine cats’ faces growing more and more despairing. The sun rose, red and angry.

As if at a signal, Jayfeather rose to his paws and strode over to the den, moved his head from side to side to scent the air, then turned back to face the others.

“Bramblestar is dead,” he announced. “For good. StarClan has forgotten us.”

“No!” Alderheart wailed. “No, he can’t be!”

He pushed past Jayfeather into the den and crouched down beside his father’s body.

Shadowpaw watched him, stunned, then turned to Tigerstar and Dovewing, who were staring at each other, their eyes wide with consternation. “We have to leave,” Tigerstar meowed.

Puddleshine ducked into the den to check on Bramblestar one last time, while Tigerstar scraped the snow with his claws in agitation. “We should go,” he continued. “We should go now.” As Puddleshine reappeared he signaled to him impatiently with his tail. “Come on. Hurry.”

“I’d like to wait and speak to Squirrelflight,” Dovewing protested. “I know my sympathy won’t do her much good, but still . . .”

“No, it’s not safe,” Tigerstar retorted. “The ThunderClan cats might turn on us. We’re on unfamiliar territory, and if they come up from their camp, they’ll outnumber us. We need to leave now. You’re ShadowClan, Dovewing; don’t forget that.”

Dovewing stared sorrowfully at her mate, but didn’t argue. The ShadowClan cats were turning to leave when Shadowpaw heard a terrible wailing.

“No! I came back for you, and you left me!”

Squirrelflight had arrived, flinging herself into the den beside the body of her mate.

Shadowpaw felt as though he would shatter into tiny pieces, like the star over the lake in his dream.

What have I done?

Chapter 22

Bristlefrost felt as though the sun had fallen out of the sky. She couldn’t imagine ThunderClan without Bramblestar as leader: strong and brave, and wise enough to guide his Clan through every danger and hardship.

And he must have had many lives left, she thought. He should have been able to lead us for season after season.

Bristlefrost’s whole body was numb with shock; though she knew she was lying on her belly, she couldn’t feel the ground beneath her, or remember settling into that position. She watched as some of her Clanmates clustered around Squirrelflight, who sat slumped near the entrance to the warriors’ den. She had returned from the moors to give her Clan the news of Bramblestar’s death, and since then she had hardly spoken.

Bristlefrost remembered how Squirrelflight’s sister, Leafpool, had died only a few moons before, and how Squirrelflight herself had spent time in StarClan. It was hard to imagine what Squirrelflight must be feeling now, to have lost her mate. She must be so lonely. . . .

Wondering if there was anything she could do to help, Bristlefrost rose and padded closer.

“Surely StarClan will contact you, if you go to the Moonpool,” Whitewing was meowing as Bristlefrost came within earshot. “We can’t know why this is StarClan’s will, but if you go there and show deference—show that you accept what’s happened—then surely they’ll give you your nine lives and make you our leader.”

“Yes, you must go,” Sparkpelt, Squirrelflight’s daughter, urged her, pressing herself against her mother’s side. Her kits were tumbling about with Sorrelstripe’s outside the nursery, where Sorrelstripe kept a weary eye on them. “You can’t truly become our leader until you receive your nine lives.”

Squirrelflight raised her head. “What good did nine lives do Bramblestar?” she snapped. “He’s dead!”

“But you’re still alive,” Birchfall pointed out. “And your Clan needs you.”

Squirrelflight’s voice dropped to a low growl. “I’m not going anywhere until I’ve mourned Bramblestar.”

The cats around Squirrelflight exchanged anxious looks. Bristlefrost knew what they were thinking as clearly as if they had spoken aloud. Our leader is dead, when he should have survived, and our deputy is too crazed with grief to take his place.

Oh, StarClan, Bristlefrost thought. What will become of ThunderClan now?

Sunhigh was approaching when Bristlefrost plodded up the final stretch of moorland toward the snow den where Bramblestar’s body lay. Twigbranch, Rosepetal, and Thornclaw accompanied her, to bring their leader back to the camp for his vigil that night.

When the cats stooped over Bramblestar to draw him out of the den, Bristlefrost could hear their sharp intakes of breath as they realized that his body was almost frozen solid. When she and her Clanmates lifted him, she was surprised to feel how light he was, and saw her own surprise reflected in her Clanmates’ faces as they settled Bramblestar on their shoulders to carry him back to their camp. His illness had drained so much of his strength.

What cat allowed this to happen? Bristlefrost wondered, feeling like a fool. I trusted Shadowpaw. I thought his advice would save our leader. And now our leader is dead.

Despair crept up on Bristlefrost like a hunter stalking its prey as she helped carry Bramblestar’s body back to the stone hollow. When the patrol maneuvered their burden through the thorn tunnel and emerged into the camp, every cat in the Clan was out in the clearing. Several of them broke into anguished wails at the sight of their leader’s ice-crusted body.

Bristlefrost glanced around to see Jayfeather and Alderheart crouched close together at the entrance to their den. The elders, whose task it would be to bear their leader away for burial, stood waiting by the fresh-kill pile. Squirrelflight had not moved since Bristlefrost had left the camp, with several warriors still clustered around her. Even the kits were aware that something was wrong, and they burrowed into their mothers’ fur with tiny whimpers of grief.