Эрин Хантер - Crowfeather's Trial

“Yes!” Hope suddenly sprang up in Crowfeather, like an unexpected sunrise. We’re acting as if Nightcloud is dead, but she could still be alive. If only we can get back there in time. . . . “We have to send a patrol out tomorrow—and I’ll lead it this time.”

Even if we can only make sure that she’s not left alone out there, prey for scavengers, he thought but did not say aloud. Or thrown on that pile of rotting crow-food. The idea almost made him retch, and he struggled for self-control.

“Good,” Onestar responded with a nod of approval for Crowfeather.

After a moment’s hesitation Crowfeather suggested: “Maybe Heathertail should come, too.”

Onestar tilted his head, as if wondering why Crowfeather was asking specifically for Heathertail. Crowfeather wondered how he would explain it without giving away Heathertail’s history with the tunnels, but his leader just shrugged. “Sure. And I’ll need two or three more cats to volunteer as well.”

Crowfeather saw relief on Heathertail’s face, as Crouchfoot spoke up. “I’d like to go,” he mewed, determination in his face.

“And me,” Larkwing added eagerly. Crowfeather guessed she was trying to shake off her reputation as a Dark Forest cat.

Many more cats raised their voices then, volunteering to help rescue their Clanmate. Crowfeather saw Onestar’s chest puff with pride at the courage of his warriors; then he shook his head as he called quickly for quiet.

“We should keep the search party small,” he meowed. “A small group will have a better chance of going unnoticed by the stoats. And if our enemies somehow leave the tunnels and find their way to our camp, WindClan will be better defended if we have strong fighters here, ready to meet an attack.”

“If any stoat tries to invade WindClan territory,” yowled Emberfoot, “it’ll be the last thing it ever does.”

As the gathered cats spoke their agreement, warmth began to spread inside Crowfeather at the way the Clan was coming together. After the terrible battle against the Dark Forest, he knew that all the Clan cats felt protective of their Clanmates and their territory, ready to defend them from every threat.

Especially if that threat is not a cat!

Breezepelt raised his head, the light of resolve in his eyes. “I’m going too,” he stated, with a glare at Crowfeather as if daring him to tell him he couldn’t.

But it was Crouchfoot who objected. “You don’t have to.”

“I am going.” Breezepelt spat out each word. “Nightcloud is my mother.”

“Of course you can go,” Onestar agreed before Crowfeather could respond. “You’re more familiar with these creatures’ scent than the rest of us.”

Crowfeather gave his son a nod, and was rewarded by seeing a flicker of surprise in Breezepelt’s eyes, as if he had expected a refusal from his father. “We’ll leave at dawn,” he meowed.

That night, Crowfeather found it hard to sleep. The moss and bracken in his nest felt as if they were full of thorns and spikes, the sharp prickles reminding him all too clearly of the claws of the stoats they had fought. If he closed his eyes, he could see their sinuous white bodies glowing in the dusk and their cold, malevolent eyes, and hear their chittering cries. Once or twice he half started up, convinced that the evil creatures were invading the camp, only to realize that the attack was all in his mind.

At the same time, Crowfeather couldn’t stop worrying about Nightcloud. Making her his mate had been a huge mistake, and things were so bad between them now that they could hardly go out on the same patrol without snapping at each other—but that didn’t mean he no longer cared about her. He felt heaviness like a stone in his belly at the thought that he might never see her again, realizing that, despite everything, he would miss her. And he wasn’t the only one.

WindClan needed her! Crowfeather might not have loved her the way he should have, but he knew she was an amazing cat: courageous, intelligent, and loyal.

And what about Breezepelt? he added to himself. He needs Nightcloud . . . now more than ever, when there are so many questions about his loyalty. And if she were to die in the tunnels, would those questions ever really go away?

There were so many other concerns, too. If his mother is no longer in the Clan, who will be the one to encourage Breezepelt and defend him to the others?

As soon as Crowfeather asked himself the question, the answer came back, in the sharp tones of the black she-cat.

Who do you think, flea-brain? You’re his father—you do it!

Crowfeather was so shamed by the chiding he imagined she’d give him that he turned his face away as if avoiding her. Because this thought brought a question: Yes, he was Breezepelt’s father, but . . . how long would it take him to really feel as if that was true?

Then he let out a long sigh, and waited impatiently for the dawn.

I hope it’s soon. . . .

CHAPTER 5

Crowfeather drew his patrol to a halt outside the tunnel entrance where the stoats had appeared the day before. They had traveled across the hills in a gray, reluctant dawn, the moorland grass spiky with frost beneath their pads. A cold wind gusted down from the ridge, but the ice Crowfeather could feel inside himself, spreading from his ears to the tips of his claws, had nothing to do with the bitter weather of leaf-bare.

“Listen, all of you,” he meowed, turning to his Clanmates. “This isn’t going to be easy. We’re going to face the stoats on their own territory, and—”

“What do you mean?” Larkwing interrupted. “The tunnels are our territory!”

Crouchfoot let out a snort. “ThunderClan might not agree with you there.”

“Well, it’s our territory up to the underground river,” Larkwing retorted. “And one thing’s for sure—it doesn’t belong to these crow-food-eating stoats!”

“That’s enough,” Crowfeather snapped, raising his tail to put an end to the wrangling. He knew that his Clanmates were only arguing because they didn’t want to think about the danger they would soon be facing. Working themselves up into a rage would distract them from the dread they felt. “The point is, the stoats think it’s their territory. Remember that they didn’t follow us very far when they chased Breezepelt out of the tunnels last night. But inside the tunnels, they’ll be a lot more confident.”

“Encourage us, why don’t you?” Crouchfoot muttered.

Crowfeather ignored the comment. “Every cat needs to be very careful,” he continued. “We have to stick together, avoid the stoats if we can, and do whatever it takes to find Nightcloud.”

But where is Nightcloud? he wondered Trapped in a stoat’s den? Or lying on one of those piles of rotting crow-food? He shuddered. Then another thought occurred to him, terrifying in its own way. What will we do if we can’t find her?

The tunnel gaped in front of them, seeming darker and eerier than ever before. Glancing at Breezepelt, Crowfeather could see fear in his son’s amber eyes, but instead of worrying he might panic, he felt a renewed pang of sympathy for him.

It would be a weird cat who wasn’t unnerved, he thought. He couldn’t help but admire Breezepelt for his determination to be part of the patrol, even after his earlier encounter with the stoats.

Impulsively he turned to his son, meaning to tell him this, but Heathertail, who had padded right up to the entrance and stuck her head inside, interrupted before he could speak.

“I think I can scent Nightcloud!” she exclaimed.