Эрин Хантер - Crowfeather's Trial

Later that morning, Breezepelt returned from the dawn patrol and strolled immediately up to Crowfeather. “When do we leave?” he asked.

“Leave?” Crowfeather asked, caught off guard. He was finishing up a vole and preparing to take Hootpaw and Featherpaw on a hunt. With Nightcloud missing, Hootpaw was temporarily his second apprentice. The two apprentices tousled with each other in the grass, laughing and taunting each other. It reminded Crowfeather how close they were to still being kits. And how little sense they have.

“To find Nightcloud,” Breezepelt explained. The irritated tone in his voice seemed to add “obviously.” “I was thinking of her when we passed the memorial stones this morning. WindClan lost so many warriors in the Great Battle. . . . Nightcloud must know we need her more than ever. If she were able to come back on her own, I know she’d be here.” He looked at Crowfeather urgently.

“Ah.” Crowfeather swallowed the last of his vole and took a deep breath. “Well . . . I spoke to Onestar this morning.”

“And?” Breezepelt asked.

And he proved himself to be a furball, Crowfeather thought. But I shouldn’t think that of our leader. “He’s . . . reluctant to involve ThunderClan.”

Breezepelt looked confused. “Okay. So?”

“Like I said, we’ve already looked at all the WindClan entrances,” Crowfeather explained. “And really, Nightcloud could find her way home from any of them, even if she were injured. Now I think—if she survived—she must have come out on ThunderClan territory.”

Breezepelt looked blank for a moment, but then his eyes lit with understanding. “You think ThunderClan has her?”

No, no, no! Crowfeather shook his head hard. The last thing we need is Breezepelt charging into ThunderClan, demanding his mother. . . . “No, but I think she may have come out on their territory and evaded their patrols. Or else she came out on their territory and wandered elsewhere, off any Clan’s territory.”

Breezepelt nodded. “That makes sense. So what does Onestar want to do? Talk to Bramblestar? Sneak onto their territory?”

Crowfeather looked away. He wasn’t sure how to tell Breezepelt the truth: that Onestar seemed to want to do nothing.

“Crowfeather?” Breezepelt asked.

Crowfeather’s eyes lit on Hootpaw and Featherpaw, whose roughhousing had gotten more intense. “You two there, cut it out! You’re not flea-brained kits anymore!” he yelled.

The two apprentices disentangled, looking at Crowfeather with mingled embarrassment and amusement.

“Sorry, Crowfeather,” Featherpaw said. “Will we be leaving soon?”

“Very,” Crowfeather replied. “Get ready.”

“Leaving for where?” Breezepelt asked. When Crowfeather turned back to his son, he could read the disappointment in his eyes. And then his expression turned hard. “We’re not going on any patrol, are we?”

Crowfeather flicked his ear awkwardly. “Not today . . .”

“When, then?” Breezepelt asked, taking a step toward Crowfeather, his expression challenging. “When exactly are we finding my mother? What did you and Onestar decide?”

The tom’s voice was rising, attracting attention from the other warriors who were collected around the fresh-kill pile, chatting and relaxing as they ate their morning meal. Crowfeather saw Harespring look over at the two of them with dread in his eyes. Even Emberfoot, who’d defended Breezepelt in the past, looked concerned about the anger in his voice.

They’re staring. Embarrassment prickled beneath Crowfeather’s pelt. And—as it often did—he felt that embarrassment turn into annoyance with Breezepelt.

“We can’t just go traipsing over into ThunderClan’s territory,” he meowed scornfully. “You know that, Breezepelt.” He lowered his voice. “Especially not when you practically start a battle with ThunderClan warriors the moment you catch sight of them! Don’t you think your spat with Berrynose and the others will come up the minute we ask for ThunderClan’s help?”

“You think this is my fault?” Breezepelt exclaimed incredulously—and loudly . “I trusted you! I trusted you to speak with Onestar without me, and you bungled it all up! We’re losing time!”

“I know,” Crowfeather hissed, his throat hot. “But we have—”

Have to be careful, he’d meant to say. Or have to think of a way to convince Onestar.

But it didn’t matter, because Breezepelt whirled away and stomped off before he even got past the first word.

Watching him go, Crowfeather felt his embarrassment and anger fade into disappointment. He saw the other warriors watching Breezepelt too, disapproval in their eyes.

But he’s not wrong, Crowfeather thought, turning back to collect the apprentices. We have to figure out a way to find Nightcloud—before it’s too late.

The sun’s light was pure, blinding white, but the air was frigid, and Crowfeather’s, Featherpaw’s, and Hootpaw’s paws crunched against the hardened snow that clung to some parts of the moor. The sky was pure blue, dotted with silver-gray clouds.

“I can’t wait for newleaf,” Hootpaw mewed as he and Featherpaw trailed Crowfeather. “Leaf-bare is the hardest season.”

This leaf-bare certainly is, Crowfeather thought. And it has nothing to do with the cold or lack of prey. “Hard or not, a cat must know how to survive in all seasons,” Crowfeather replied. “So today we’ll focus on working together to catch prey.”

He explained how changes in the terrain presented new challenges in leaf-bare. Snow that crunched beneath paws could serve as an alert system for the prey they chased—or, cats could use it to their advantage.

“Let’s try a new technique,” Crowfeather went on. “Hootpaw, I want you to wait behind this bush, where the snow is piled. When prey approaches the bush, you move your paws to crunch the snow—that will startle the prey, and it’ll run toward us. Then Featherpaw—it’s your job to surprise it and make the killing blow.”

The apprentices eagerly agreed, and Hootpaw settled down, hidden behind the bush in the hardened snow. Crowfeather crawled into a small indentation in the ground to watch. All three cats grew silent.

It seemed like a long time before a tiny brown mouse, fluffed up in the cold, darted into the bush from a nearby hole. Crowfeather watched, not making a sound, as Hootpaw’s eyes widened and then he scrambled to his paws, scrabbling them on the ground to make a satisfying crunch. Unfortunately, Hootpaw was so excited, or so cold, that he stood awkwardly and slid on the snow. As his paws went out from under him, Hootpaw fell on his back in the snow, making the expected crunch—but not in the intended way at all.

The mouse was still startled, though, and began to dart back to the hole. Crowfeather turned expectantly to Featherpaw, only to find her doubled over with amusement, her eyes dancing as she stared at Hootpaw.

As the mouse passed near Featherpaw, she made a halfhearted attempt to grab it, but her attention was still clearly on Hootpaw.

“Pay attention!” Crowfeather snapped.

The mouse slipped easily back into its hole. When it was gone, both Featherpaw and Hootpaw dissolved into laughter.

“I’m sorry!” Featherpaw mewed. “It’s just . . . Hootpaw looked so ridiculous!”

Hootpaw, who was still lying on his back, shook his head. “It was an accident! The snow was so slippery. . . .”

Crowfeather got to his feet and stalked toward them, his neck fur ruffled with annoyance. “Do you think this is a game ?” he asked.

Both apprentices abruptly stopped laughing, looking up at him with regret.