Эрин Хантер - Crowfeather's Trial

Crowfeather jerked awake. Darkness surrounded him; the moon had set, though he could see the top of the moor and the pile of memorial stones outlined against a sky that showed the first pale traces of dawn. Around him he could make out the curled-up bodies of his sleeping Clanmates and hear their faint snores and snuffles.

After his terrible dream, Crowfeather’s mind felt heavy and yet restless. He was sure that he wouldn’t sleep again, and he couldn’t bear to go on lying still in his nest. His whole body demanded movement, but if he paced up and down in camp he would just wake his Clanmates. Instead he crept out of the warriors’ den and up the slope to the edge of the camp, with a nod to Larkwing, who was on watch.

Outside the camp, padding to and fro on the frosty grass, Crowfeather could at last be alone with his troubling thoughts.

He was missing Nightcloud more than he’d ever thought he could. And he couldn’t work out what he felt about Breezepelt. Sometimes he annoys me out of my fur, but at other times it’s as if—almost as if—I’m starting to love him.

Crowfeather remembered too the curious sadness he had felt at the Gathering when he’d seen the animosity between Lionblaze and Breezepelt. They’re both my sons, even though neither of them probably wants me for a father. And I don’t even know what’s going on with Jayfeather.

He sent his thoughts out across the moor to the tunnels, where Breezepelt, Heathertail, and Weaselfur would be still investigating the stoats. I hope they’re all okay—even Weaselfur. Crowfeather wanted to believe that Breezepelt genuinely meant to prove himself, though he couldn’t entirely banish the nagging fear that his son wasn’t the loyal WindClan cat he pretended to be. That one day his emotions would get the better of him and lead him into reckless behavior—or worse, down a dark path from which there would be no return.

And that’s what my dream was about, Crowfeather realized. Deep down, I still don’t trust my own son. I don’t trust that he won’t fall prey to some snake-tongued cat who can encourage him to give way to his bad instincts. If that happens, what difficulties could it cause for WindClan—or even for all the Clans?

The thought knotted Crowfeather’s muscles and made him dig his claws deep into the earth. Why does everything have to be so difficult? For StarClan’s sake, we fought off the Dark Forest cats. So why do disagreements within the Clan seem to matter so much?

Crowfeather was beginning to realize that outside threats like the Dark Forest could destroy a Clan, but it was emotion that would destroy a single warrior from within. I want things to be simpler, he thought. All this messy emotion only weakens a cat. I’d rather live my life without it.

A paw step behind him distracted Crowfeather from his musing. He whirled, his claws at the ready, then relaxed as he saw that the newcomer was Kestrelflight.

“Are you okay?” the medicine cat asked.

“Fine,” Crowfeather responded, retracting his claws. “You startled me, that’s all. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“No, it wasn’t your fault,” Kestrelflight told him. “I’ve been awake for a while—and it looks like you have, too.”

Crowfeather nodded. “I had a dream . . . ,” he began. He was reluctant to reveal the details, but a heartbeat later he found himself pouring out the story of how he had found himself back in the Great Battle, how Breezepelt had blinded him, and how he had tried in vain to fight with Hawkfrost.

“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an actual prophecy,” he finished. “But I can’t help feeling it means something. Maybe my mind is dwelling on cats like Hawkfrost, and that horror Mapleshade, because it’s . . . warning me?”

“Warning you about what?” Kestrelflight asked.

Crowfeather was reluctant to answer. He knew that many of his Clanmates didn’t trust Breezepelt, and if he—Breezepelt’s own father—expressed his doubts, he might make everything worse.

But if I can’t trust our own medicine cat, who can I trust?

“About Breezepelt,” Crowfeather confessed at last. “I’ve been feeling better about him lately, and at the Gathering he vowed to get rid of the stoats, but I still can’t shake off the worry that he can’t be trusted.”

Kestrelflight let out an amused purr. “ I’m the medicine cat,” he pointed out. “It’s usually me who gets the visions.”

His words reminded Crowfeather of Kestrelflight’s latest vision: water pouring out of the tunnels, the wind driving it back, then fading away, allowing the surge of water to engulf everything.

“When you had your vision at the medicine cats’ meeting,” he meowed thoughtfully, “StarClan must have been warning us about the stoats in the tunnels, but . . . surely the vision seems more complicated than that? Do you think there could be more to it? That the stoats are just the first problem we’ll face?”

Kestrelflight let out a weary sigh. “I’ve been wondering the same thing, ever since it happened,” he replied. “The stoats could have crept onto our territory at any time while we were recovering after the Great Battle, but even so, they’re the sort of enemy that the Clan should have been able to deal with easily.”

Crowfeather nodded. “That’s true. That skirmish shouldn’t have gone so badly. We should never have lost Nightcloud.”

“That’s what makes me wonder what the vision of water means,” Kestrelflight continued. “At first I thought that the way the wind drove back the water meant that WindClan would win a victory, but there was a second surge, and no wind to defeat that. Does that mean WindClan will be defeated? And what will that mean for the other Clans? Will we have to face the teeth and claws of another enemy, whether that’s the stoats or some other hostile force lurking in the darkness?”

“I’ve wondered the same,” Crowfeather admitted. “Well, what the second surge means—and if it implies we should be working with the other Clans.” A chill ran through Crowfeather from ears to tail-tip as he considered the medicine cat’s words. He asked himself whether this hostile force in the darkness could be Breezepelt’s rage and bitterness, lurking within him.

But the wind in Kestrelflight’s dream did have an effect on the first flood that threatened to drown their camp. Maybe that meant there was a chance of victory.

And a breeze is a type of wind. . . . Hope and excitement warred with disbelief inside Crowfeather, swelling just as the dawn light grew in the sky above the moor. What if the wind in Kestrelflight’s vision didn’t mean the whole of WindClan, but just referred to Breezepelt? A breeze is a soft, weak wind, for sure, but . . . what if Breezepelt is to play a role in saving us?

Could there be a better redemption?

CHAPTER 13

“Rear up on your hind paws,” Crowfeather instructed, demonstrating the move as he spoke. “Then you can get in two blows at your enemy—one with each forepaw—before you land and dart away.”

“That’s cool!” Hootpaw exclaimed.

The sun was rising over the moor, though the grass was still white-furred with frost, and the air was crisp and cold. Crowfeather found the heaviness of the night before vanishing as he focused on the training session. He had agreed to take Hootpaw along with his own apprentice, Featherpaw, since Hootpaw’s mentor, Gorsetail, was leading the patrol that climbed the moor daily to visit the pile of memorial stones. So far, the session was going much better than the last time Crowfeather had tried to train the apprentices together.