Эрин Хантер - Thunder Rising

“What border would that be?” Thunder asked drily. “They change so often around here, I’ve lost track.”

“Don’t get clever,” Clear Sky snarled. “You do know, if you leave now, you don’t come back.”

“I don’t want to come back,” Thunder responded.

Beckoning to Frost with his tail, he headed out of the camp, setting a slow pace so that the injured cat could keep up. Falling Feather padded along with them.

Thunder forced himself not to look back. I don’t care if Clear Sky is watching me leave or not. He’s nothing to me now. But even as he thought this, he knew it would take longer than the walk from camp for his wounds to heal. He’d trusted Clear Sky—he’d left Gray Wing to be with him!—and for what?

The three cats walked on in silence, pushing through the ferns.

“Why are you doing this?” Frost asked eventually, when they had left the clearing behind them. “We were never friends.”

Thunder snorted. “I might think you’re an annoying mange-pelt,” he replied, “but I still don’t want to see you dead.”

“You’ll be disappointed then,” Frost growled. “This wound isn’t going to heal.”

“No cat has tried to heal it,” Thunder meowed. “But there are cats on the moor who know everything there is to know about healing herbs. You’ll be chasing prey for many seasons yet, Frost.”

“That’s right,” Falling Feather agreed. “Thunder, I almost wish I was coming with you.”

Thunder tried to hide his surprise. “Then come,” he mewed in a soft voice.

The white she-cat shook her head. “I made my choice. The forest is where I belong now.”

She halted as they reached the edge of the trees. The moorland slope swelled up in front of them, warm in the light of the setting sun. Bees buzzed among the wild thyme and a white butterfly zigzagged past in front of their noses.

“We’re going up there?” Frost asked, sounding intimidated.

Thunder nodded. In spite of his earlier doubts, he was certain now that the only place he could go was back to the moorland camp and Gray Wing. He would have to tell them how sorry he was, and try to make it up to them however he could. And I have to warn them about what Clear Sky is doing .

“How fast do you think you can walk?” he asked Frost, seeing how the white tom was already wincing with pain.

“Fast enough.” Frost’s voice was grim. “I’ll get there, don’t worry.”

“Good-bye,” Falling Feather meowed. “And good luck.”

“Thanks,” Thunder responded, dipping his head.

As the sun shed scarlet light across the moor, Thunder and Frost began the long climb to the top of the ridge. About halfway up, Thunder halted and glanced over his shoulder. Falling Feather had disappeared; all he could see was the green barrier that marked the edge of the forest.

Beyond a clump of ferns, he made out the shape of a cat and spotted the flash of a gray pelt. So my father came to see me leave, after all, he thought. But even as he watched, the older cat sprang out of sight and disappeared into the gloom of the forest, where he belonged. Where he should stay , Thunder thought.

“Come on,” he meowed to Frost. “The faster we walk, the sooner we arrive.”

He began to lead the way from Clear Sky’s camp. Thunder had tried to fit in there, tried to be everything his father had wanted him to be. But I failed , he thought. Or had he? Whatever had brought Clear Sky and Gray Wing out of the mountains with the other cats, some part of the hunger and desperation had sown a rotten seed in Clear Sky’s heart. Even now, Thunder knew his father hadn’t been born bad. But he’s changing. And that can’t be good for any cat. Whatever I shared with my father, it’s over , Thunder thought, guilt and regret mingling in his heart.

Now all that was left was to find Gray Wing and the others and tell them everything. It would be hard, but Thunder knew he had to share every awful detail.

He started to pick up speed.

“Hold on!” Frost called after him. “I can’t run as fast as you, remember.”

Thunder sat on his haunches and waited, his gaze grazing the moorland ahead of them. Out there was the other cats’ camp. Out there was Gray Wing. Out there was hope.

A loud yowl roused Ripple from a dream of scampering after butterflies over sunlit grass. As he struggled back to consciousness, he recognized the Call of Awakening ringing clearly across the Park. Blinking sleep away from his eyes, he slid out of his sleeping place, a mossy nest under the low-growing branches of a bush.

Dawn light filled the sky, and one spot on the horizon was flushed with pink and gold, showing where the sun would rise. Ripple turned toward it, his fur beginning to bristle in happy anticipation.

Soft grass stretched all around him, broken by clumps of bushes and the bright flowers the Twolegs planted. Here and there a tree let fall its blossoms, scattering the ground with tiny white petals like stars. Ripple couldn’t imagine anyplace more beautiful.

Now his friends and elders were appearing from their own nests. Each turned like Ripple to face the light, and as the blazing sun edged its way into sight, they raised their voices in a loud caterwaul to welcome the new day. Ripple stretched his neck and let his yowl ring out clearly, watching the last shadows flee the powerful rays.

Once the sun had completely cleared the horizon, the cats turned away and began to wash. Ripple found a warm patch of grass beside a clump of scarlet Twoleg flowers, his nose wrinkling at their strong scent. He knew how important it was to wash thoroughly, remembering the correct order.

Paws first, then face and ears… chest and belly next, he told himself, rolling over to reach his soft belly fur. Now back and tail…

There was an order to everything for the Cats of the Park. From kithood, they knew when and how to wake, to wash, and to perform every one of the small acts that made up their lives. It was peaceful, and good.

Hunger ached deep inside Ripple as he struggled to reach the awkward spot at the base of his spine, and he hurried to finish his washing with long strokes of his tongue.

With a last swift lick at his tail, Ripple sprang to his paws and joined the end of the orderly line of cats heading across the Park for their Morning Meal. After a few paw steps he realized that his mentor, Arc, a sleek and elegant black tom, had fallen into step beside him. When Ripple was just a kit, Arc had chosen to teach him, and the older cat had educated Ripple in all the ways of the Cats of the Park.

“Greetings, Arc,” Ripple meowed with a respectful dip of his head. “Isn’t it a lovely morning?”

“It is,” Arc agreed. “The sun is warm above our heads, and the grass is soft under our paws. Ripple, you should give thanks to the sun and the earth for the way they care for you. We’re lucky that our life is so comfortable.”

“I do give thanks,” Ripple responded, puzzled. “Every day. I know how lucky we are.” Why does Arc feel he has to tell me this?

“Don’t let these gifts make you soft,” Arc warned him, his tone suddenly somber. He flicked his dark tail, gazing across the sunlit grass. “Always be aware, life can be hard, even for us.”

Now Ripple was even more confused. Why would Arc want to spoil this bright morning with such dark words? Life has never been hard for us!

He dismissed the matter from his mind as he approached the row of bowls at the edge of the park. Twolegs laid out food every morning and evening at the far side of the Park. There was plenty for every cat; no need for pushing and shoving as they clustered around the bowls, each making sure that the cat beside him had enough space. Ripple began to eat, remembering not to gobble or gulp the food down. He wondered where the Twolegs hunted this weird prey that ended up as hard little nuggets. It wasn’t very tasty—not as good as the occasional mouse that Ripple caught in the Park—but it filled his belly and kept his limbs strong and his pelt glossy.