Эрин Хантер - Crowfeather's Trial

Crowfeather had expected a furious denial, or perhaps a wail of despair from his son. Instead, as the hope died in Breezepelt’s eyes, the black tom seemed to shrink, drawing into himself. Crowfeather’s heart was wrenched at the change in him.

“I don’t want you to blame yourself,” he meowed. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Several heartbeats passed before Breezepelt responded. “No, I don’t blame myself. It’s their fault.” His voice was deadly quiet. “ They killed her.”

“Who?” Crowfeather asked, bewildered, unsure what Breezepelt was talking about. ThunderClan? Onestar?

“The stoats. Those vicious mange-pelts in the tunnels.” There was a savage glare in Breezepelt’s eyes, and he tensed his muscles as if he could see his enemy in front of him. “Nightcloud was a great fighter, and so brave. The stoats must have hurt her badly, or she could have fought the fox, or run away.”

“Breezepelt, I’m so sorry,” Heathertail mewed, stroking the tip of her tail down his flank.

Breezepelt seemed hardly aware of her. “We can’t put it off any longer,” he told Crowfeather. “We must kill every last stoat. After what they did to Nightcloud, they have to pay! I don’t care what it takes.”

“Calm down,” Crowfeather told him sternly. “Yes, it’s terrible what the stoats have done, but they’re stupid, crow-food-eating creatures—hardly cold-blooded killers. We’ll get the stoats out, and prevent that horrible scene in Kestrelflight’s vision, but you mustn’t do anything rash.”

His son gave him a glare as cold as the wind that swept across the moor in leaf-bare. “I don’t care about Kestrelflight’s vision,” he hissed, “and I don’t care what you call them. I just want the stoats dead. Nightcloud was the only cat who really cared about me, and they murdered her. I’m going to make them regret ever laying their filthy paws on my mother.”

For a moment Crowfeather was frozen into silence, stunned by the force of Breezepelt’s anger. He knew that he should reassure Breezepelt, tell him that he had a father who cared for him, too—but for some reason the words were stuck in his throat.

Breezepelt was scaring him a little bit. Is this how the rest of the Clan sees him? Angry and unpredictable?

Before he could find what he needed to tell his son, Leaftail sidled up to them, a suspicious look in his amber eyes. “Did you just say you don’t care about Kestrelflight’s vision?” he asked.

Oh, StarClan.

Crowfeather wanted to tell Leaftail to leave Breezepelt alone, because he had just learned of his mother’s death. But before he could speak, Breezepelt turned on the tabby tom with a snarl of anger.

“I don’t care! I need to kill the animals in the tunnels. That’s the only thing that matters.” With a lash of his tail he strode off into the warriors’ den.

By now more cats were gathering around, listening to the exchange in curious silence.

“That proves it, then,” Leaftail announced, his gaze raking across the crowd. “If Breezepelt were truly loyal to WindClan, he would respect his medicine cat. Every cat knows how important Kestrelflight’s vision was! How can we prevent the flood if we don’t work together?”

A murmur of agreement rose from some of the other warriors, while the rest exchanged doubtful glances. Irritated, Crowfeather let his voice rise above the sound.

“Don’t be such a sanctimonious cleanpaw. Of course Breezepelt cares about the vision,” he snarled. “But he just learned that Nightcloud is dead—that’s why he’s angry. How would any of you flea-brains feel if those animals had killed your mother? You think you’re so much better than him? Please! Give him time to deal with his grief.”

For a moment the cats around were silent, exchanging shocked, incredulous glances. “Wait, Nightcloud is dead? How do you know?” Leaftail challenged Crowfeather.

“I found signs she was gravely injured in the tunnels, and then she was attacked by a fox,” Crowfeather replied. “If she’d been healthy, the fox would have been no match for Nightcloud, but with her wounds . . . She must have been too weak. I just told Breezepelt, and he’s not taking it very well. You should all understand that.”

Crouchfoot twitched his whiskers into a sneer. “Maybe Breezepelt is taking it so badly because he knows he could have done more to save his mother. After all, he was the only one with her in the tunnels.”

Again Crowfeather could see that many of his Clanmates agreed with Crouchfoot, as they gazed after Breezepelt with unsympathetic eyes. But Heathertail’s shoulder fur bristled with indignation as she faced them.

“I can’t believe you said that!” she spat at Crouchfoot. “Breezepelt is just as loyal to WindClan as any of you—maybe more. Like you said, he was with her in the tunnels, putting his life on the line for all of us—and where were you ?”

“I was on the second patrol!” Crouchfoot began indignantly, but Heathertail ignored him.

Spinning around, she headed after Breezepelt, only to halt as Crowfeather stepped into her path. He felt a warm glow of appreciation at the way she had defended his son, but he knew Breezepelt well enough to see that he wouldn’t welcome any cat right now, not even Heathertail. “Give him some space,” he advised her. “He’s angry now. Don’t give him the opportunity to say things he doesn’t mean.”

“Yeah, don’t bother,” Leaftail put in. “We’re all sorry Nightcloud’s dead, but Breezepelt can’t be trusted. There’s something dark inside him. He fought on the side of the Dark Forest, after all. Maybe he deserves all this bad stuff that’s happening to him.”

Heathertail’s eyes widened in fury and disbelief. “You . . . you heartless flea-pelt!” she snarled. “How could you say that? He just lost his mother!” She gave a single lash of her tail, then turned and ran up the side of the hollow and out of the camp.

The rest of the cats watched her go, then turned to look at Crowfeather. Clearly, they were waiting to see what he would do.

Crowfeather wanted to join Heathertail in speaking up for his son, but his Clanmates’ hatred of the Dark Forest cats hung in the air like the reek of fox beside the pool where Nightcloud died. He felt burning in the depths of his belly, and a lump in his throat that stopped him from speaking.

Fighting on the side of the Dark Forest was wrong, but Breezepelt is still my son, even if we have never been close. How long can he be expected to go on paying for his past mistakes?

He stood gazing at his paws, then gave his head a helpless shake. He knew that Breezepelt had been loyal to WindClan ever since the Great Battle, but it hadn’t done him any good. His Clanmates would always look at him with suspicion. Maybe he’s doomed to always be an outsider.

Worry about Breezepelt threatened to overwhelm Crowfeather. His son had suffered more than any cat could be expected to take: the loss of his reputation, the attack by the stoats, and now the death of his mother. I don’t want him to turn out even more angry and wounded than he already is.

But Crowfeather had no idea how he could reach Breezepelt or comfort him. He realized that what he wanted was to go and discuss their son with Nightcloud. She would be able to comfort Breezepelt. But she’s gone now. Breezepelt only has me . . . his father.

A huge weight seemed to descend on Crowfeather’s shoulders as he admitted that he had no answers to offer Breezepelt, only more questions and doubt. And he had no answers to give his Clanmates, either. They were determined to distrust Breezepelt, and he wasn’t sure they entirely trusted him , either. Nothing he could say would change that.