Эрин Хантер - A Forest Divided

Thistle met Gray Wing’s eye solemnly. “I’ll protect her,” he promised, then scampered over the grass after his family.

Gray Wing stood and watched until they reached the bracken edging the woods. His heart ached as they disappeared between the trees. Please, Clear Sky, take them in. He glanced toward the distant pines, then looked across the moor. Beyond its rose-tipped crest, the setting sun would be drenching Highstones. Longing filled his heart, and he broke into a run. Charging up the moorside, he dodged through swath after swath of heather until he emerged at the top. Beyond, he saw the wide, flat boulder that jutted out over the steep drop down to the Thunderpath. He hurried forward and climbed onto it. The smooth, wind-chilled stone stung his paws as he padded across. He lay down and hung his head over the edge and gazed across the rolling fields that stretched toward Highstones. They’d traveled that way from the mountains.

What would Stoneteller have said about the lives they’d made here? There was much to be proud of: new kits, new homes. As his belly rumbled once more, Gray Wing wondered if he should hunt again. But he couldn’t drag his gaze from Highstones shining golden in the dying sunshine. What would Stoneteller have thought of the battles they had fought and the deaths they had caused by coming here? As the sun sank behind him and Highstones disappeared into shadow, Gray Wing closed his eyes and let sleep draw him deep into dreams.

Gray Wing opened his eyes. Scents swirled around him, thick with memories. A chill nipped his ears with a cruelty he’d forgotten.

Water thundered behind him, and he turned to see the waterfall that veiled the entrance of his old home from the crags outside. Light shimmered through it and rippled over the cave walls.

“Hello?” His mew echoed in the deserted cavern. He scanned the dimples in the wide stone floor where his Tribemates had made their nests, which were empty but for twigs and leaves lying shriveled in each hollow. “Where are you?” Worry pricked Gray Wing’s pelt. He stretched his ears, listening. Far away, he thought he heard faint mews. Distant paw steps scuffed the stone, but he could see no cat.

Had his Tribemates traveled beyond his vision? Were they spirit cats now?

“Quiet Rain! Snow Hare! Where are you?” His heart lurched as guilt scorched his pelt. He should never have left them. Had they starved without him? “What have I done?”

Purring rumbled at the back of the cave.

Hope flashed in Gray Wing’s heart. He peered eagerly into the shadows and caught sight of a tail whipping away into the tunnel.

He hurried after it, blinking as darkness swallowed him. His paws ached on the freezing stone.

His whiskers brushed the walls, and his tail snagged on the jagged roof. “Who’s there?” he called anxiously into the blackness.

Suddenly, the tunnel opened around him and he emerged into a cave lit by moonlight, which seeped through a hole in the roof. Sharp claws of rock jutted up from the stone floor and down from above. Some touched, like paws meeting, and they glistened as water trickled down them. It pooled on the floor, sending light flickering against the walls.

An ancient white cat watched him from beyond the pools, her tail twitching softly behind her.

“Stoneteller?” Gray Wing blinked. Was she all that was left of the Tribe?

She didn’t answer, but touched one of the pools with a forepaw, sending ripples shivering across its surface.

Gray Wing padded closer. “I’m so sorry,” he began. “I never stopped to think how the Tribe would survive without us.”

“Hush.” Stoneteller lifted her green gaze to meet Gray Wing’s. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But the cave!” Gray Wing wailed. “It’s empty! And it’s my fault. If only I’d stayed—”

“Gray Wing.” Stoneteller’s mew was firm. “You cannot decide the fate of every cat. You do not hold power like that.”

“Then why did you bring me here?” Surely it was Stoneteller who had summoned him to see the empty cave. “What’s happened to the Tribe?”

Stoneteller looked down into the pool as the ripples faded. “All will become clear soon enough,” she murmured. “For now, you must let go of the past. The future is the only thing you can change.”

A shriek jerked Gray Wing awake. He blinked at the dark valley stretching below him. The mountains beyond Highstones were no more than shadows against the starry night sky.

The Tribe! He jumped up. Where are they?

The shriek sounded again. It tugged him from his thoughts.

The moor was bathed in moonlight, the grass turned white by frost.

“Back off!” He heard a vicious yowl from beyond a patch of gorse. Gray Wing recognized it at once.

Slate! He leaped from the stone and charged over the top of the moor, skidding on the grass as he swerved around the gorse.

Slate was backed against its sharp spines. A fox snapped at her hind legs, then her muzzle, its sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. Slate hissed and shrank deeper against the thorns. Blood darkened her pelt. Eyes blazing, she slashed at the fox’s face with a forepaw, but it dived for her tail.

She whipped it clear just in time. The fox’s jaws slammed shut on thin air. Yelping with rage, it lunged for her neck.

“Leave her alone!” Gray Wing plunged forward, pelt bushed. Snarling, he leaped onto its back.

Caught by surprise, the fox staggered and fell. Gray Wing clung on, digging his foreclaws in hard.

He could feel bones through its mangy pelt. Cats were not the only creatures starving on the moor.

Slate growled. “It tried to take my prey.”

Gray Wing caught the scent of fresh-kill through the fox’s stench. He turned his gaze to meet

Slate’s. The fox bucked beneath him, with far more strength than Gray Wing had expected. Hunger had clearly made it bold—and desperate. It jerked back its muzzle to snap at Gray Wing’s neck. He felt his fur rip. Pain scorched through him. He let go with a shriek and slithered to the ground, struggling to find his paws on the frosty grass.

The fox turned on him. Its stinking breath bathed Gray Wing’s muzzle as its savage jaws opened for a killing bite. Then fur flashed at the edge of his vision. With a yowl, Slate sent the fox tumbling backward.

Gray Wing leaped to his paws. Slate and the fox were tumbling over the grass. Muscle thudded on earth as they grappled with each other. The air shivered with their screeching. Gray Wing hurled himself at them as the fox’s jaws clamped shut on Slate’s ear.

Hissing with rage, he shoved the fox away. He heard Slate shriek in pain, but he was on his hind legs, batting the fox backward, swiping with one paw after another. He felt its fur rip beneath his claws until the fox’s muzzle was wet with blood. The fox’s eyes flashed with anger. With a yelp it turned and fled, streaking across the grass like a shadow.

Gray Wing turned to Slate. “Are you okay?”

She sat, her head low, her flanks heaving. “It got my ear.”

Gray Wing rushed to her side. The tang of blood filled the air. It welled on Slate’s ear, and he could see the tip had been ripped away. “It’ll heal,” he soothed.

His own pelt felt damp; his neck fur was drenched with his own blood. “Foxes don’t normally fight that hard for prey,” he growled. “I thought it would run when it saw there was two of us.”

Slate was still panting. “Thanks for coming.” She lifted her head, pain darkening her amber gaze.