Эрин Хантер - Rising Storm

Then the wind stirred the trees, rattling the brittle leaves. High above, the clouds shifted and a single star sent a frail beam of light through the roof of the den. In the shadows, the leader drew in a long, steady breath. Hope leaped like a fish in the medicine cat’s heart. StarClan was with them after all.

Weak with relief, the medicine cat lifted his chin, giving silent thanks to his warrior ancestors for sparing the life of his leader. As he narrowed his eyes against the shaft of starlight, he heard spirit-voices murmuring deep inside his head. They whispered of glorious battles to come, of new territories, and of a greater Clan rising from the ashes of the old. The medicine cat felt joy surge in his chest and pulsate through his paws. This star carried much more than a message of survival.

Suddenly, without warning, a wide gray wing swept across the ray of starlight, plunging the den into darkness. The medicine cat shrank back and pressed his belly to the floor as the owl screeched down and raked the roof of the den with its talons. It must have smelled the sickness that weakened the leader, and swooped in search of easy prey. But the branches were too thick for the owl to break through.

The medicine cat listened to the slow beating of wings as the owl flew away into the forest, then sat up, heart hammering, and searched the night sky once more. Like the owl, the star was gone. In its place was only blackness. Dread crawled beneath the medicine cat’s pelt and clutched at his heart.

“Did you hear that?” a tom called through the entrance of the den, his voice high-pitched with alarm. The medicine cat squeezed quickly out into the clearing, knowing the Clan would be waiting for an interpretation of the omen. Warriors, queens, and elders—those well enough to move from their nests—huddled in the shadows on the far side of the clearing. The medicine cat paused for a moment, listening to the Clan murmuring anxiously to one another.

“What’s an owl doing here?” hissed a mottled warrior, his eyes glinting in the darkness.

“They never come so close to the camp,” wailed an elder.

“Did it take any kits?” demanded another warrior, turning his broad head to the cat beside him.

“Not this time,” replied the silver queen. She had lost three of her kits to the sickness, and her voice was dull with pain. “But it might come back. It must smell our weakness.”

“You’d think the stench of death would keep it away.” A tabby warrior limped into the clearing. His paws were clotted with mud and his fur ruffled. He had been burying a Clan mate. There were more graves to be dug, but he was too weak to go on that night. “How’s our leader?” he asked, his voice tight with fear.

“We don’t know,” replied the mottled tom.

“Where’s the medicine cat?” whined the queen.

The cats peered around the clearing and the medicine cat saw their frightened eyes gleaming in the dark. He could hear the rising panic in their voices and knew they needed to be soothed, assured that StarClan had not abandoned them completely. Taking a deep breath, the cat forced the fur to lie flat on his shoulders and padded across the clearing.

“We don’t need a medicine cat to tell us the owl’s screech spoke of death,” whimpered an elder, his eyes brimming with fear.

“How do you know?” spat the mottled warrior.

“Yes,” agreed the queen, glancing at the elder. “StarClan doesn’t speak to you!” She turned as the medicine cat reached them. “Was the owl an omen?” she mewed anxiously.

Shifting his paws uncomfortably, the medicine cat avoided a direct reply. “StarClan has spoken to me tonight,” he announced. “Did you see the star shine between the clouds?”

The queen nodded, and around her the other cats’ eyes flickered with desperate hope. “What did it mean?” asked the elder.

“Will our leader live?” called the tabby warrior.

The medicine cat hesitated.

“He cannot die now!” cried the queen. “What about his nine lives? StarClan granted them only six moons ago!”

“There is only so much strength StarClan can give,” answered the medicine cat. “But our ancestors have not forgotten us,” he went on, trying to push aside the image of the owl’s dark wing as it blotted out the thin ray of light. “The star brought a message of hope.”

A high-pitched moan sounded from a dim corner of the camp, and a tortoiseshell queen sprang up and hurried toward the sound. The others continued to stare at the medicine cat with eyes that begged for comfort.

“Did StarClan speak of rain?” asked a young warrior. “It’s been so long since it rained, and it might cleanse the camp of the sickness.”

The medicine cat shook his head. “Not of rain, but of a great new dawn that awaits our Clan. In that ray of light, our warrior ancestors showed me the future, and it will be glorious!”

“Then we’ll survive?” mewed the silver queen.

“We’ll do more than survive,” the medicine cat promised. “We shall rule the whole forest!”

Murmurs of relief flickered through the cats, the first purrs that had been heard in the camp for nearly a moon. But the medicine cat turned his head away to hide his trembling whiskers. He prayed that the Clan would not ask again about the owl. He dared not share the dreadful warning StarClan had added when the bird’s wing had obscured the star—that the Clan would pay the highest possible price for their great new dawn.

Warm shafts of sun shine streamed through the canopy of leaves and flickered over Fireheart’s pelt. He crouched lower, aware that his coat would be glowing amber among the lush green undergrowth.

Paw by paw, he crept beneath a fern. He could smell a pigeon. He moved slowly toward the mouthwatering scent until he could see the plump bird pecking among the ferns.

Fireheart flexed his claws, his paws itching with anticipation. He was hungry after leading the dawn patrol and hunting all morning. This was the high season for prey, a time for the Clan to grow fat on the forest’s bounty. And although there had been little rain since the newleaf floods, the woods were rich with food. After stocking the fresh-kill pile back at camp, it was time for Fireheart to hunt for himself. He tensed his muscles, ready to leap.

Suddenly a second scent wafted toward him on the dry breeze. Fireheart opened his mouth, tipping his head to one side. The pigeon must have smelled it too, for its head shot up and it began to unfold its wings, but it was too late. A rush of white fur shot out from under some brambles. Fireheart stared in surprise as the cat pounced on the startled bird, pinning it to the ground with his front paws before finishing it off with a swift bite to the neck.

The delicious smell of fresh-kill filled Fireheart’s nostrils. He stood up and padded out of the undergrowth toward the fluffy white tom. “Well caught, Cloudpaw,” he meowed. “I didn’t see you coming until it was too late.”

“Nor did this stupid bird,” crowed Cloudpaw, flicking his tail smugly.

Fireheart felt his shoulders tense. Cloudpaw was his apprentice as well as his sister’s son. It was Fireheart’s responsibility to teach him the skills of a Clan warrior and how to respect the warrior code. The young tom was undeniably a good hunter, but Fireheart couldn’t help wishing that he would learn a little humility. Deep down, he sometimes wondered if Cloudpaw would ever understand the importance of the warrior code, the moons-old traditions of loyalty and ritual that had been passed down through generations of cats in the forest.

But Cloudpaw had been born in Twolegplace to Fireheart’s kittypet sister, Princess, and brought to ThunderClan by Fireheart as a tiny kit. Fireheart knew from his own bitter experience that Clan cats had no respect for kittypets. Fireheart had spent his first six moons living with Twolegs, and there were cats in his Clan that would never let him forget the fact that he was not forest-born. He twitched his ears impatiently. He knew he did everything he could to prove his loyalty to the Clan, but his stubborn apprentice was a different matter. If Cloudpaw was going to win any sympathy from his Clanmates, he was going to have to lose some of his arrogance.