Эрин Хантер - Crowfeather's Trial

In the middle of the devastation, Onestar and Bramblestar padded up to each other, each of them dipping his head in gratitude and respect to the other.

“Cats of ThunderClan and WindClan!” Onestar called out. “You have fought well today. The battle is won.”

“And the stoats are gone for good, I hope,” Bramblestar added.

Meanwhile Kestrelflight, Leafpool, and Jayfeather, who had waited out the battle among the gorse bushes, began to move among the injured cats, examining their wounds and applying treatment with the herbs they had brought.

Crowfeather looked around for Breezepelt and spotted him standing a couple of fox-lengths away, licking a wound on his shoulder. Before Crowfeather could join him, he saw Lionblaze limping toward him. Crowfeather held back while his two sons confronted each other.

“Thank you for helping me,” Lionblaze began, halting a pace or two in front of Breezepelt. His gaze and his tone were wary. “But why did you? You said I should never have been born. You wanted me dead.”

Breezepelt looked up at him, equally awkward. His eyes were guilty as he replied. “I should never have listened to the Dark Forest cats,” he mewed stiffly. “You’re a Clan cat, and my loyalty should be to the Clans.”

Crowfeather realized that this was as close as Breezepelt was ever going to get to an apology for attacking Lionblaze during the Great Battle. He felt his muscles tense as he waited for Lionblaze’s response, aware for the first time of how much he wanted his two sons to get along. Come on, he urged Lionblaze silently. Accept his apology!

Clearly, Lionblaze knew how hard it was for Breezepelt to say even so much. “You fought well,” he meowed reluctantly. “I’m glad we were on the same side this time.”

The two toms stared at each other and exchanged an awkward, jerky nod before each of them quickly turned back to his own Clan.

Crowfeather felt an unexpected surge of affection for Breezepelt. He was such a surly, difficult furball sometimes, but he was trying so hard to redeem himself. If Breezepelt could do it, so could he. I can tell my son how I feel about him.

Crowfeather headed toward his son, who turned to gaze at him. Breezepelt opened his jaws, clearly about to speak, but before he could utter a word, his legs folded under him and he collapsed limply to the ground.

Crowfeather darted to Breezepelt’s side. He saw blood pooling beneath him, and, gently turning him over, saw a nasty bite on his belly, as if the stoat had torn his flesh away. The wound had been concealed when Breezepelt was standing upright. Blood trickled through his matted fur. Crowfeather lost his breath as he realized how serious this could be.

“Help!” Crowfeather forced air into his lungs again and yowled. “Kestrelflight, over here!”

But it was Nightcloud who arrived first, crouching beside her son’s body and calling his name while she frantically licked his ears. Breezepelt didn’t respond.

Crowfeather stared down at his son, digging his claws into the ground. You can’t die now, he thought helplessly. Oh, StarClan, no—not when we’re starting to understand each other at last!

CHAPTER 31

Night had fallen by the time Crowfeather and Nightcloud reached the WindClan camp, carrying Breezepelt’s unconscious body between them. Crowfeather might almost have thought that his son was dead, except for the faint rise and fall of his chest and the blood that was still trickling from his belly wound and many others.

Kestrelflight had already made a nest for Breezepelt in the medicine-cat den, and prepared a thick wad of cobwebs to begin staunching the flow of blood. Crowfeather and Nightcloud hovered anxiously at the entrance to the den.

Several of the other WindClan warriors were resting close by; some of them licked their wounds, while others lay stretched out with their eyes closed. None of them looked as badly injured as Breezepelt.

As Kestrelflight began to lick the dirt from Breezepelt’s lacerated body, the unconscious cat let out a whine of pain. Crowfeather and Nightcloud exchanged an anxious glance, then crowded into the den to get closer to their son’s nest.

Kestrelflight looked up, a harassed expression in his eyes. “You’ll have to wait outside,” he mewed. “I can’t treat Breezepelt if I’m continually tripping over the two of you.”

Crowfeather began to retreat, but for a moment Nightcloud stood frozen, staring at her unconscious son. Crowfeather nudged her gently. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let Kestrelflight do his job.” After a heartbeat Nightcloud followed him out, though they both still watched from the entrance to the den.

Kestrelflight’s not usually so snappy, Crowfeather thought. That must mean he’s really worried about Breezepelt. He felt as if a heavy, rotting lump of crow-food had lodged in his belly. What if I’ve made peace with Breezepelt just in time to lose him?

Crowfeather remembered a time when Breezepelt was still in the nursery. There had been an outbreak of whitecough in the WindClan camp, and Breezekit’s had turned into the deadly greencough. Crowfeather had spent each night barely sleeping, wrapped around the tiny kit as though his love and attention could cure his son. When Breezekit woke up one morning with the cough almost gone, Crowfeather’s relief had been so intense that he couldn’t remember having felt anything like it since.

I shouldn’t have forgotten that, he thought. I was a good father to him once. I shouldn’t have doubted myself so much.

While Crowfeather and Nightcloud waited, Heathertail limped up to stand beside them. “How is Breezepelt?” she asked, fixing Crowfeather with a worried gaze.

Crowfeather simply shook his head, while Nightcloud replied, “Not good.”

Heathertail’s claws worked for a moment in the ground, her head and tail drooping. Crowfeather caught a questioning look from Nightcloud, and responded with a nod. Yes, this will be the mother of our son’s kits. Breezepelt was lucky, he reflected, to have such a strong warrior in his life, so loyal to him and to their Clan.

Nightcloud brushed her tail down Heathertail’s side. “Kestrelflight is doing everything he can,” she mewed. “Now it’s in the paws of StarClan.”

Heathertail nodded, then took a deep breath and stood quietly waiting beside her Clanmates.

Just as Crowfeather was beginning to feel that he couldn’t hold on to his patience for another heartbeat, Kestrelflight rose and came out of the den. “Breezepelt is seriously injured,” he began.

Tell us something we don’t know, Crowfeather thought irritably.

“But will he be all right?” Nightcloud asked.

After a long moment, Kestrelflight nodded. “Provided he gets plenty of rest, he should get better.”

Nightcloud let out a long sigh of relief. “Thank StarClan!”

“If you want,” the medicine cat continued, “ one of you can spend the night with him so you’ll be there when he regains consciousness. That way I can see to treating the other injured cats.”

Crowfeather glanced at Nightcloud; he would be happy to stay with their son, but Breezepelt would probably rather see Nightcloud when he woke.

But before either of them could speak, Heathertail stepped forward eagerly. “I’ll stay.” Then she too glanced at Nightcloud, ducking her head in embarrassment. “If that’s okay with you, of course,” she added.

Crowfeather expected Nightcloud to object, knowing how possessive and protective of Breezepelt she had always been. At first she was clearly fighting with the urge to admonish Heathertail, her whiskers twitching irritably, but then she stepped back a pace with a glance at Crowfeather. He gave her a nod of approval, knowing how hard it would be for her to release her hold on Breezepelt.