Erin Hunter - Forest of Secrets

One or two cats had begun to whisper uneasily, but as Bluestar raised her head again they stopped.

“The new deputy will be Fireheart,” she announced clearly. As soon as she had spoken she rose to her paws again and padded back around the rock on legs that seemed made of stone.

The whole Clan froze. Fireheart felt as though a thorn had pierced his heart. He was to be deputy? He wanted to call Bluestar back and tell her there must be some mistake. He was barely a warrior!

Then he heard Cloudpaw’s shrill voice raised gleefully. “I knew it! Fireheart’s the new deputy!”

Close by, Darkstripe snarled, “Oh, yes? Well, I’m not taking orders from a kittypet!”

A few of the cats padded over to Fireheart and congratulated him. Graystripe and Sandstorm were among the first, and Cinderpaw, purring enthusiastically and throwing herself at him to give his face a thorough licking.

But other cats, Fireheart noticed, slipped quietly away, and did not speak to him at all. It was clear that they were as startled by Bluestar’s choice as Fireheart was himself. Was this what Spottedleaf had meant in his dream, when she told him that StarClan was calling him? Calling him to new responsibilities within his Clan? “Do not be afraid,” she had told him.

Oh, Spottedleaf, Fireheart thought desperately, as fear and uncertainty flooded his mind. How can I not be afraid?

“Well, Clan deputy,” Whitestorm meowed softly in his ear. “What would you like me to do now?”

Fireheart realized his offer was genuine, and he flashed the great white warrior a grateful glance. He knew Whitestorm could have expected to become deputy himself, and his support would be valuable to Fireheart in the days to come. “Yes…now…” he began, frantically trying to think what the most urgent priorities would be. With a jolt, he realized that he was trying to imagine what Tigerclaw would have done. “Food. We all need to eat. Cloudpaw, start taking fresh-kill to the elders. Get the other apprentices to help the queens in the nursery.” Cloudpaw shot off with a flick of his tail. “Mousefur, Darkstripe, find yourselves two or three warriors each and go out on a hunting patrol. Split the territory between you. We’ll need more fresh-kill right away. And keep a lookout for those rogues or Tigerclaw while you’re at it.”

Mousefur moved away with a calm nod, collecting Brackenfur and Willowpelt as she went. But Darkstripe glared at Fireheart for so long that Fireheart began to wonder what he would do if the dark warrior really refused to obey him. He met the pale blue gaze steadily, and at last Darkstripe turned away, meowing to Longtail and Dustpelt to follow him.

“All Tigerclaw’s sympathizers,” Whitestorm observed as he watched them go. “You’ll need to keep an eye on them.”

“Yes, I know,” Fireheart admitted. “But surely they’ve shown that they’re more loyal to the Clan than to Tigerclaw? I hope they’ll accept me if I don’t tread on their tails.”

Whitestorm gave a noncommittal grunt.

“Anything for me to do?” asked Graystripe.

“Yes.” Fireheart gave his friend’s ear a quick, friendly lick. “Go back to your nest and rest. You were badly wounded yesterday. I’ll bring you a piece of fresh-kill.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks, Fireheart.” Graystripe returned the lick and vanished into the den.

Fireheart padded over to the pile of fresh-kill, where he found Cinderpaw clawing a magpie out of the dwindling heap. “I’ll take this to Bluestar,” she offered. “I need to check her wound. And then I’ll take some prey for Yellowfang.”

“Good idea,” Fireheart meowed, beginning to feel more confident as his rapid orders seemed to be restoring things to normal. “Tell her if she needs any help to collect herbs, she can have Cloudpaw, once he’s seen to the elders.”

“Okay.” Cinderpaw chuckled. “You certainly know how to make your apprentices work, Fireheart.” She bit down into the magpie and dropped it at once with a retch of disgust. The flesh of the dead bird fell away from the bones to reveal a writhing mass of white maggots. A foul stench hit Fireheart and he winced.

Cinderpaw backed away, passing her tongue around her mouth over and over again as she stared at the rotting carcass. Her dark gray fur was fluffed up and her blue eyes wide. “Crowfood,” she whispered. “Crowfood among the fresh-kill. What does it mean?”

Fireheart couldn’t imagine how the rotten magpie had gotten there. No cat would have brought it in; even the youngest apprentice knew better than that.

“What does it mean?” Cinderpaw repeated.

Fireheart suddenly realized she wasn’t thinking about any practical reasons for how maggot-ridden prey had ended up in the pile. “Do you think it’s an omen?” he croaked. “A message from StarClan?”

“It might be.” Cinderpaw shivered, and stared at him with huge blue eyes. “StarClan haven’t spoken to me yet, Fireheart, not since the ceremony at the Moonstone. I don’t know if it’s an omen or not, but if it is…”

“It must be for Bluestar,” Fireheart finished. His fur prickled as he realized this was the first sign of Cinderpaw’s new powers as an apprentice medicine cat. “You were going to take the magpie to her.” He felt a thrill of horror at the thought of what the omen might mean. Was StarClan trying to say that Bluestar’s leadership was rotting away from the inside, even though Tigerclaw’s outer threat had gone? “No,” he meowed firmly. “That can’t be right. Bluestar’s problems are over. Some cat’s been careless, that’s all, and brought crowfood back by mistake.”

But he didn’t believe his own words, and he could tell that Cinderpaw didn’t, either. “I’ll ask Yellowfang,” she mewed, shaking her head in bewilderment. “She’ll know.” Cinderpaw quickly snatched a vole from the heap and began limping rapidly across the clearing.

Fireheart called after her, “Don’t tell any cat except Yellowfang. The Clan mustn’t know. I’ll bury this.”

She flicked her tail to show she had heard, and vanished among the ferns.

Fireheart glanced around to make sure that no other cat had overheard their conversation, or seen the decaying magpie. Bile rose in his throat as he gripped the bird by the tip of one wing and dragged it to the edge of the clearing. He didn’t begin to relax until he had scraped up enough earth to cover the vile thing.

Even then, he could not get it out of his mind. If the rotting, maggot-filled crowfood was indeed an omen, what new disasters did StarClan have in store for ThunderClan and their leader now?

By sunhigh, the Clan had settled down again. The hunting patrols had returned, all the cats were full-fed, and Fireheart was beginning to think it was time he went to Bluestar’s den to see if she would talk to him about leading the Clan.

He was distracted by movement in the gorse tunnel. Four RiverClan cats appeared, the same four who had joined in the battle the day before: Leopardfur, Mistyfoot, Stonefur, and Blackclaw.

Leopardfur bore a newly healed wound across one dappled shoulder, and Blackclaw’s ear was torn at the tip, proof of how they had fought with ThunderClan to drive out the rogue cats. Fireheart wished he could believe that they had come only to find out if the ThunderClan warriors were all right. But deep down he knew their mission had to do with Graystripe’s kits. Struggling to hide the heaviness in his heart, he padded across the clearing and dipped his head to Leopardfur—not the respectful signal from a warrior to a deputy, but a courteous greeting between equals.

“Greetings,” meowed Leopardfur, her eyes registering surprise at Fireheart’s new attitude. “We need to speak to your leader.”