Эрин Хантер - A Forest Divided

The touch of a paw on her forehead roused Slate. She opened her eyes to see the tabby tom bending over her again, concern in his green eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he meowed, “and to be honest, you don’t look too good, either. You’ve lost a lot of blood. I know a cat who can help, but you need to stay alive while I go to fetch him. Okay?” He blinked encouragingly. “Promise?”

Slate forced herself to nod in response, but she had no interest in staying alive. What can the world possibly have to offer me now?

“I don’t mean to offend you,” the gray tabby mewed, “but that wasn’t much of a nod. I’m not sure I believe you.” He thought for a moment, then went on. “Right, new plan. I’ll send my mate and kits to keep an eye on you while I get help. They will make sure that no dangerous animals come near, too.

Okay?”

This time he didn’t wait for Slate to respond, just bounded off across the moor.

Slate knew the tom was being kind, but she wished he would just leave her alone. What did it matter if she died? She could join Cricket, then. She closed her eyes again, inviting the blackness to take her, sinking into it with a sigh of relief as her senses whirled away.

But Slate could not stay in the comforting darkness for long. She was roused by the sensation of being prodded all over by tiny paws. Forcing her eyes open, she saw two bright-eyed kits staring at her: a white she-cat and a gray tom.

“She’s dead,” the white kit mewed, sounding disappointed.

“She’s not,” the little gray tom retorted. “See, she’s looking at you.”

The white kit let out a gasp of excitement. “Her eyes are open!” Taking a step forward, she peered more closely at Slate and added, “Hello. Do you want to be friends?”

“Get away from her!” A sharp voice sounded in the distance; Slate couldn’t see the cat it was coming from. “We don’t know what kind of diseases that rogue might have.”

Instantly the kits backed away and were replaced by a wiry brown she-cat; like the tom, she looked vaguely familiar to Slate. She halted several tail-lengths away and looked Slate up and down, her yellow eyes unimpressed.

Slate flexed her claws in annoyance at the she-cat’s rudeness. I don’t know why I should care.

All I want is to die in peace… but I’d like to claw that sneering look off her face. She was offended, too, that the she-cat had called her a rogue.

Now I remember who these cats are, she thought. They’re part of the group Cricket was always complaining about. Cricket had been outraged by the way these cats had appeared on the moor and settled down there and in the nearby forest, making it harder for the local cats to find prey. And they’d called the cats who had always lived here rogues .

“They want to fight all the time,” Cricket had said scornfully. “They’re violent prey-stealers, and I don’t want anything to do with them.”

Slate raised her head and glared back at the brown she-cat. “Hello,” she meowed pointedly. “I can hear you, you know.”

The she-cat narrowed her eyes. “So you’re alive,” she snorted, not sounding happy about it. “You don’t have the sickness, do you?”

No, just this gaping wound in my belly, Slate thought. Aloud, she replied, “No, I don’t have the sickness. My name is Slate,” she added.

The brown she-cat whisked her tail. “I’m Wind Runner.”

“And the kits?” Slate asked.

Wind Runner eyed her warily. “You don’t need to know their names.”

Lovely, Slate thought. What a delightful cat to share my dying moments with. She cast a disdainful look toward Wind Runner. The brown she-cat was ignoring Slate now, instead clawing up moss. When she had a mouthful, she trotted off with it in her jaws. A few heartbeats later she returned, with the moss dripping wet.

“Here,” she growled, dumping the moss beside Slate’s head. “Drink.”

Slate stretched out her tongue and lapped at the moss. The water was cool and fresh, and Slate thought she had never tasted anything so delicious in her entire life.

While she was drinking, Wind Runner scraped together a bundle of grass, leaves, and more moss, and tucked it under Slate’s head to prop her up.

“What happened?” she asked brusquely.

Slate was bewildered by the contrast between Wind Runner’s kind actions and the roughness of her speech. “It was a fox,” she replied at last. “It attacked me and my brother, Cricket.” Her voice shook as she added, “Cricket was killed.”

Wind Runner looked stricken at the news. “I’ve noticed that fox lurking around the edges of our camp,” she meowed. She turned toward her kits, who were play wrestling a little way away on the moor, and beckoned them with her tail. “Come closer!” she yowled.

The kits broke apart and scrambled to their paws. “You told us to get away from that sick cat,” the white she-kit reminded her mother.

Wind Runner twitched her tail-tip in exasperation. “Come a little closer, then, but not too close,” she meowed. “Do you have kits?” she asked, turning back to Slate as the kits scampered up.

“I’ve never seemed to have the time,” Slate replied. She hadn’t met a tom she wanted to have kits with, either, but she didn’t feel like telling Wind Runner that.

She expected Wind Runner to say something comforting about how Slate would have kits someday, but instead the brown she-cat just snorted.

“You’re lucky in a way,” she continued after a moment. “Kits are exhausting. I haven’t slept a single night through since they were born.”

“They must be very needy, then,” Slate mewed.

Wind Runner shook her head, her hard yellow gaze growing soft and affectionate. “No, it’s my problem,” she admitted. “I love them too much.”

She’s not unkind at all, Slate thought, rapidly revising her opinion of the she-cat. Just tough on the outside—but there’s more to her than meets the eye.

Before she could say any more, the gray tabby tom reappeared, followed by a long-furred black tom with white on his ears, chest, and paws. He was carrying a bundle of leaves in his jaws.

“Oh, you’ve kept her awake,” the gray tom meowed, bounding up to Wind Runner and pressing his muzzle to her shoulder. “That’s great.” Turning back to Slate, he added, “I’m Gorse Fur. Wind Runner’s my mate. And this”—he waved his tail at the long-furred tom—“is Cloud Spots. He knows a lot about herbs and treating wounds, and he’s come to help you.”

Slate closed her eyes as Cloud Spots padded up and began to examine her. She was vaguely aware of him sniffing at her wound and touching her belly with gentle paws, but she kept drifting away into unconsciousness. This time, though, the darkness wasn’t as alluring. Perhaps she wasn’t going to join her brother in death yet after all.

Finally Slate came back to full consciousness to hear Wind Runner, Gorse Fur, and Cloud Spots talking together, the sharp tones of an argument in their voices. She opened her eyes and turned her head toward them, struggling to make out what they were saying.

“What did you expect?” Cloud Spots was asking Wind Runner. “That you’d just leave her lying here in the grass? She’s lost a lot of blood. I’ve patched her wound with cobweb and put on a poultice of chervil to fight infection, but she’s very weak. She needs watching.”

“Then you should take her back to the hollow,” Wind Runner snapped.

The hollow? What does she mean? Slate wondered, confused.

“I can’t move her that far,” Cloud Spots retorted. “Her wound would break open again. Wind Runner, your camp is just the other side of that gorse thicket.”