Эрин Хантер: Eclipse

“Like this?” Icepaw squashed herself against the ground.

“Exactly.”

Icepaw blinked up at him, her eyes like pools of sky. “Thanks, Lionpaw. I’m very nervous about hunting, actually.”

Lionpaw brushed the tip of his tail over her back. “You’ll be fine,” he promised. “Just copy our mentors, and don’t expect to make a catch on your first try. It took me ages to get it right,” he added. Icepaw nodded, looking very earnest, and Lionpaw gave her ear a lick. Was this how it felt being a mentor? He liked the idea of teaching a young cat everything he knew about hunting and fighting, and watching them grow from a tumbling kit to a strong, quick-pawed warrior.

But what if the prophecy took him on a path away from being a normal warrior, mentoring apprentices and carrying out regular Clan duties? Looking down at Icepaw’s glowing eyes, Lionpaw felt as if he were being asked to give up an entire way of life—and one that suited him very well.

“Can we hunt here?” Icepaw asked again. She’d wanted to hunt in every small clearing they’d passed on their way to the Ancient Oak. Now the great tree towered above them, the ground beneath littered with leaves and acorn cups. At the edge of the glade, ferns clustered together in pools of light filtering through the branches.

Whitewing glanced at Ashfur. “Should we keep going to the lake?” she asked. “There might be prey near the shore.”

Ashfur gazed back at her, but didn’t reply.

Why isn’t he helping her? Lionpaw tried to catch his mentor’s eye.

Whitewing scanned the clearing. “Here is fine,” she decided. “Perhaps that clump of ferns?”

Lionpaw noticed her tail twitching again. If Ashfur wasn’t going to help her, perhaps he could. “There’s a bramble—”

His suggestion was silenced by Ashfur’s tail flicking across his mouth. The warrior nodded at Whitewing. “Trust your instinct.”

“Ferns.” Whitewing led her apprentice toward a leafy thicket.

Ashfur murmured into Lionpaw’s ear, “I know you’re trying to help, but Whitewing needs to build her confidence on her own.” They watched as Whitewing nudged Icepaw into a crouch and adjusted her stance with a touch of her muzzle.

“She’s doing fine.”

The ferns quivered. The pale green stems trembled from the roots rather than the tips; it couldn’t be the wind stirring them. Icepaw crouched and began to waggle her hindquarters, kneading the ground with her paws. Gently, Whitewing laid her tail over the apprentice’s back until Icepaw grew still.

Leaning forward, she whispered into Icepaw’s ear, then sat back. It was up to Icepaw now.

Lionpaw watched as Icepaw darted forward and flung herself into the ferns.

A squeal from behind the fronds was quickly silenced, and Icepaw bounced out, a small vole dangling from her teeth.

Her eyes shone with happiness.

Ashfur padded forward. “Well done!”

Whitewing fluffed out her chest proudly. “That was great, Icepaw!”

“Nice kill,” Ashfur added.

So much excitement over a tiny vole! It was probably too young to run away even if it wanted to. Lionpaw’s thoughts flicked back to the battle in the mountains. He was glad Icepaw had made her first kill so quickly, but what would they have said if they’d seen him fighting the mountain cats?

Catching a bite of prey didn’t compare to defeating a whole Clan single-pawed.

“Thrush!”

Hearing Ashfur’s whispered alert, Lionpaw glanced over his shoulder, following his mentor’s gaze. A fat thrush was pecking among the leaves beyond the wide trunk of the oak.

Silent as a snake, Lionpaw slithered around until he was behind it. Crouching onto his belly, he began to steal toward the thrush, tail lifted slightly so it didn’t stir the leaves. The thrush was searching for insects, unaware of the danger. Lionpaw felt a glimmer of satisfaction. Such a dumb bird deserved to be fresh-kill. He paused, judged the distance, then jumped.

His massive leap cleared the tree roots and carried him three foxtails across the forest floor. The thrush spread its wings in panic, struggling to take flight, but it was too late. Lionpaw landed with deadly precision, flattening the bird with its wings outstretched, and killed it with a sharp nip to the spine.

“That was fantastic!” Icepaw was staring at him from the other side of the tree, her eyes wide with awe.

Whitewing’s ears were pressed back in surprise.

Lionpaw felt something tickling his nose. One of the thrush’s soft feathers had stuck to his muzzle. He swiped it away, feeling self-conscious.

Ashfur nodded. “Impressive.”

“That was a huge leap!” Whitewing meowed. “You could have easily missed.”

No, I couldn’t. Lionpaw bit back the thought. Considering the surprise still lingering in his Clanmates’ eyes, he decided it might be better to let them think it had been a lucky strike.

Perhaps Jaypaw was right: They might not be too happy to know the truth behind his powerful kill.

As they headed back to camp, Lionpaw’s nostrils filled with the mouthwatering aroma of the thrush. It bounced against his chest, its wings dredging leaves. Icepaw padded beside him, her small catch tripping her as she tried to match his pace.

“I wish my legs weren’t so short,” she complained, her words muff led by vole fur.

“They’ll grow,” Lionpaw promised.

Whitewing and Ashfur walked ahead, each carrying a catch of their own. This late in greenleaf, all prey was welcome.

The Clan needed to gorge itself if it was to make it through leaf-bare. At least, that was what the older cats kept saying.

Lionpaw couldn’t remember leaf-bare, other than something beyond the nursery walls—a menace that worried the older cats and made the branches of the den rattle.

“That was such a great catch,” Icepaw mewed.

Lionpaw grunted his thanks. He didn’t want to swallow a feather and spend the rest of the day coughing.

“Why did you jump so soon?” Icepaw persisted. “Did you think it might hear you if you’d gone closer?”

“I just thought I’d try.” Lionpaw was sure he could have padded right up to the thrush if he’d wanted. But why waste time tiptoeing about?

“You’re such a great hunter,” Icepaw went on out of the corner of her mouth. “I thought Hollypaw was good, but you’re amazing. Where did you learn to jump like that? Do you do extra practice to get so strong? Do you think I ought to be doing more training?”

“I’m sure Whitewing will give you all the training you need.”

“I just hope she trains me as well as Ashfur trained you.”

Lionpaw watched his mentor disappear behind a bramble spilling over the track ahead. Ashfur had taught him well. He had never wished for any other teacher. But Ashfur had not been his only mentor. Tigerstar had trained him, too. And he had been born with powers Icepaw could never dream of, even if she trained day and night every moon of her life.

As the path dipped down toward the hollow and home, Lionpaw felt a pang of loneliness. It was almost as though he belonged to a Clan of his own, distanced by the prophecy from the familiar faces waiting in camp to see what they’d brought back from their hunt.

Icepaw darted ahead of him and followed Whitewing and Ashfur through the barrier of thorns that sealed the camp from the forest. Lionpaw padded after, emerging into the clearing in time to see Icepaw drop her vole onto the fresh-kill pile and turn toward her denmates.

Cinderpaw, Honeypaw, and Poppypaw were sunning themselves outside the apprentices’ den. Icepaw trotted over to them.

“Your first catch?” Honeypaw called.

Icepaw lifted her chin. “I got it first try!”

Lionpaw felt a pang of envy. He would never again feel so carefree, never again be thrilled by such a small success.