Эрин Хантер - Crowfeather's Trial

“That’s enough!” Onestar’s voice rang out commandingly and his eyes were glittering with anger. “I have told all of you, many times, that I trust Breezepelt, but you choose to question my decision—and at a vigil, of all places?”

Murmurs of disagreement rose from some of the warriors. Crowfeather felt a prickle of uneasiness beneath his pelt. He appreciated that his leader was supporting Breezepelt, but would Onestar’s trust end in splitting the Clan?

He remembered, again, how the wind in the medicine cat’s vision hadn’t been enough to drive back the flood. Maybe Kestrelflight’s vision was a sign of a threat from within the Clan.

But Crowfeather had no time to think that through now. “All of you flea-brains are wrong!” he meowed, turning on his accusing Clanmates. “Breezepelt can be prickly, and I’ve had my problems with him, too, but I’ve never questioned his love for his mother. When she and I argued, Breezepelt always took her side. He supported her in any way he could. The two of them always took care of each other. He would never hurt Nightcloud,” he asserted.

As he spoke, he realized that Onestar was staring at him with a mixture of surprise and approval. Fine, he thought. You told me to support Breezepelt, and now you’ve got what you wanted.

“Then why isn’t Breezepelt here?” Weaselfur challenged him.

“Because he’s grieving, you mouse-brain!” Crowfeather snapped. “Think about it. Because he thinks he has no support from the cats in this Clan, and he’s right—you’re all accusing him of things he would never do.”

“Not all of us!” Heathertail called out. “I agree that Breezepelt would never hurt his mother—or any WindClan cat. He’s a protector—he saved me when the stoats attacked me in the tunnels. I’ve seen how hurt he is about what happened to Nightcloud. You should all be ashamed of yourselves for spreading these rabbit-brained ideas!”

She glared at Crouchfoot as she spoke, and Crouchfoot let out a snarl in return, his shoulder fur bristling up. “You only say that because you like him!” he cried. “And Crowfeather is his father. Of course you don’t want to see him as a bad cat—but that doesn’t mean he isn’t bad!” Several other cats let out yowls of agreement.

Onestar raised his tail for silence. “ Enough! We need to remember,” he began, “that whatever happened in the past, we are all WindClan cats now. Our unity is more important than anything else. I have forgiven Breezepelt for his part in the Great Battle, and I don’t want to hear another word of accusation against him. This is a vigil, and we are here to honor one of our own. It is not a time for arguing.”

Every cat—even Weaselfur and Leaftail—seemed chastened by their leader’s words. An awkward silence followed, most cats staring at the ground or their own paws. Gradually the outward signs of hostility faded, but Crowfeather could see that beneath the surface the tension was still there.

Suddenly he was glad that Breezepelt hadn’t attended the vigil. Even if the cats hadn’t accused him to his face, he would have felt their distrust and ill will in every hair on his pelt. He’s right to feel as though he doesn’t belong, Crowfeather thought. I don’t know what it would take to prove his loyalty to some of these cats. Maybe it isn’t even possible.

As the time for him to speak drew closer, Crowfeather struggled to find the right words. How do I honor Nightcloud? Perhaps these cats suspect my motives as well, he thought. They’re all watching to see if I’ll mourn the death of a mate I never truly loved, or defend a son I barely know.

But when Crowfeather’s turn came, the words were there. “We will miss Nightcloud,” he mewed simply, “and Breezepelt will always love her.”

CHAPTER 11

It was a few days after Nightcloud’s vigil, and every one of Crowfeather’s muscles ached with tension as he padded across the tree-bridge to the Gathering island. He swore he could hear hostile voices in the lapping of the black water a tail-length beneath his paws, and the silver glitter of moonlight on the lake seemed to mock the darkness in his heart.

This is far worse than going to Nightcloud’s vigil.

He wished that Onestar hadn’t chosen him to attend the Gathering, and even more that he hadn’t chosen Breezepelt to come with him. He isn’t ready. Breezepelt had stopped using his every waking breath to declare war on the stoats, but he was still clearly grieving. He barely ate anything, and he seemed morose, unable to talk much to any cat—even Heathertail. Now Crowfeather’s son was trailing along behind his Clanmates, enveloped in a fog of misery. When they thrust their way through the bushes into the central clearing, he stayed at the back in the shadow of a holly bush, looking down at his paws with a sullen expression on his face. Crowfeather wondered whether he should go and stand beside him, but then he remembered that Onestar would be announcing the circumstances of Nightcloud’s death at the Gathering.

I shouldn’t draw more attention to Breezepelt right now. I just hope he understands why. I don’t want him to feel any more rejected.

Besides, Crowfeather was still mulling over his dream of the night before, when he had met Ashfoot again, then followed her pale gray shape through the tunnels until he’d caught up with her on the banks of the dark underground river.

“Are you . . . a ghost?” he had asked her.

“I never thought you were a stupid cat, Crowfeather,” his mother mewed, dismissing his question with an irritated flick of her tail. “I’m what you see in front of you, and I can’t continue to StarClan until I’ve given you a message.”

Crowfeather’s heart raced with anticipation. Can she really tell me something that will put this whole mess right? Can she tell us what to do about the stoats, or how to settle our differences with ThunderClan? Then he remembered what he really wanted—more than peace within the Clan, more than peace with the stoats, more than anything.

Can she tell me how to help Breezepelt?

“What message?” he asked urgently.

But his mother’s response was only a single word. “Love.”

“Love what?” Crowfeather spat out, hugely disappointed. Has death made her mouse-brained? How can she possibly think that love can help me? “Love is no friend of mine. I loved you; I loved Feathertail; I loved Leafpool. Do you see a pattern here? Every cat I’ve loved, I lost.”

Ashfoot blinked at him, undaunted. There was tenderness and understanding in her gaze. “That shouldn’t have made you close your heart,” she murmured. “I wish I’d said more to you while I was alive, but this is my last chance. . . . Love.”

“Love who?” Crowfeather yowled in desperation, but already the dream was fading, Ashfoot’s form blurring until all he could see was her gaze fixed on him, bright with affection. “Nightcloud is dead, and Breezepelt—”

The brilliant light of a sunny leaf-bare morning had pulled Crowfeather out of his slumber, and once awake he’d wondered what he had meant to say in his dream. Breezepelt is beyond my love? Breezepelt won’t be helped by my love?

He’d closed his eyes again and tried to concentrate, to cling to the last remnants of his dream, but they’d slipped away from him like mist through his claws. His pelt was bristling with frustration as he gave up at last and rose from his nest.

Now, sitting with his Clanmates beneath the branches of the Great Oak, Crowfeather felt his pelt grew hot with embarrassment at the memory of his dream. I’m glad no cat can see into my mind. They’d think I’m going soft. I’m not a medicine cat—that means my dreams are just fluff and nonsense, like any cat’s. But at the same time, Crowfeather couldn’t entirely dismiss what his mother had told him in the dream. It had to be significant, that he kept dreaming of her, when she hadn’t been seen in StarClan. . . . Could it be a vision? Could it mean something?