Эрин Хантер - Tigerheart’s Shadow

Fierce met Tigerheart’s gaze, her fur bushed with excitement. “We did it!”

Cinnamon, Ant, and Pipsqueak wove around each other happily while Rascal, Mittens, and Dotty congratulated one another.

“You moved so fast!” Dotty told Mittens.

“You got such a good grip on its tail, it didn’t know what to do!” Rascal praised her.

Tigerheart shook out his fur, a purr rippling through him as he let his eyes rove over all the guardian cats. None of them had been hurt, and the foxes had fled. They had won!

He glanced toward the wide stone leg where the foxes had been nesting. “Let’s block up their den in case they find the courage to come back.”

His paws ached by the time he slumped down beside Dovewing in the cavern. Late-afternoon sunshine filled the Twoleg space with rosy light. He’d spent the afternoon with the others, hauling rocks and earth to the foxes’ den and filling it so thoroughly that no fox would ever have the patience to unearth it.

Rascal and Mittens had left the patrol early to hunt, and they slid through the entrance now, mice dangling from their jaws. They jumped from the ledge and crossed the space, where the guardian cats had gathered to celebrate their victory. Dropping their catch in the middle, they nodded to Fierce, who was washing mud from her paws.

“We met Boots and Bracken while we were hunting,” Mittens told her. “They’re bringing more prey. There will be food for every cat.”

Fierce nodded to the tabby tom, her eyes shining. “Thank you.”

Mittens picked up two mice by their tails and carried them toward Tigerheart and Dovewing. He dropped them at their paws. “Thanks for your help today.”

“Thanks for yours.” Tigerheart pointed his muzzle toward a huge pile of herbs at the side of the cavern. “Spire and Peanut gathered a lot of leaves.”

Spire was lying next to Blaze nearby, his gaze clear and happy. “Once I’ve sorted and dried them, we’ll have enough herbs for a moon.”

Blaze snuggled closer to the skinny tom. “Will you teach me which herb is which?”

“Of course.” Spire lapped the kit’s head.

Pipsqueak and Dotty stretched happily in the sunshine pooling on the floor.

“I didn’t think we could actually do it,” Pipsqueak admitted.

Tigerheart blinked at him. “When cats work together, they can do anything.”

As he spoke, Boots and Bracken jumped down from the entrance. They were carrying prey as they’d promised and dropped it beside the rest.

Tigerheart rubbed his cheek against Dovewing’s as he watched the guardian cats settle beside one another to eat. “I’m glad we came here,” he murmured.

“Really?” She blinked at him, her eyes round.

“We’ve helped these cats. And everyone seems happy.” After the unease and mistrust that had permeated ShadowClan for so long, the simple worries and joys of the guardian cats seemed a relief.

Dovewing’s gaze softened. “So… are you starting to feel like you belong here?”

Tigerheart felt his spine stiffen. That wasn’t what he’d meant. “I guess,” he told her. “For now.”

Dovewing said nothing. She just leaned against him, and Tigerheart felt the contented purr as her ribs swelled to nudge his. “I’m so happy you like it here… ,” she murmured.

Tigerheart’s belly churned. Fighting beside the guardian cats had felt good, but he’d still assumed that, eventually, they’d return to the lake… even though, lately, his Clanmates seemed more interested in fighting one another than their enemies. After all, he and Dovewing were warriors. Surely they would raise their kits to be, too?

Life here might be simpler, he thought, but, without kin—without a Clan —will our kits be anything but strays?

Tigerheart opened his eyes. Dawn light filtered through the high stretches of clear wall. Dovewing was sleeping beside him. He let himself wake slowly. In the days since he’d helped chase the foxes away, he’d grown accustomed to the slow pace of life among the guardian cats. There were no dawn patrols, no borders to mark, no dens or camp walls to repair. He could hunt when he liked, bringing food back for the others as well as for Dovewing and himself. He’d accompanied a patrol to the herb patch to gather leaves and checked the blocked fox den. There was no sign the foxes had returned; their scent was all but gone, replaced by Thunderpath smells.

Now he gazed lazily around the cluttered cavern. The guardian cats were still sleeping, except Boots, who was murmuring softly to Marigold, the old black cat who had hardly left her nest since Tigerheart had arrived. Marigold listened, her gaze distant and dull. Boots stopped talking and began gently lapping her head, working his way along her spine with gentle strokes.

Tigerheart guessed that the old cat was dying. He was glad she had the care and protection of the guardian cats. For a moment he wondered how often strays must die alone, in a chilly makeshift den, with no help for their pain. The thought stung him, and he pushed it away. He wasn’t a stray; he never would be. And he’d make sure his kits never became strays either.

He stood up and stepped from the nest, turning back to tuck a few pelts around Dovewing so she didn’t feel the chill of his absence. He padded into a stream of early-morning light and began to wash. The sound of his tongue rasping over his fur was loud in the silent cavern. Boots lifted his head and blinked at him, then returned to washing Marigold.

Fur swished nearby, and Tigerheart turned to see Spire creeping from his nest. The skinny black tom glanced back at Blaze, still sleeping among the furless pelts, then tiptoed across the cavern floor and leaped onto the ledge that led to the entrance.

Quiet as a mouse, the tom slid out the gap into the pale morning.

Why had he left Blaze? Spire normally took the kit everywhere with him. What was he up to? Curious, Tigerheart hopped onto the wooden ledge, waited until Spire had slipped out of sight, and then leaped up and squeezed through the gap in the wall. Stone dust trickled into his fur, and he shook it free as he padded out of the shadow of the gathering place. The leaf-fall sunshine was bright, the air cold, and a blue sky arced above. The lines of stone slabs, sitting upright in the dewy grass, striped the clearing with shadow. Tigerheart saw a shape move between them. Spire was weaving his way toward a tall chestnut tree at the edge of the clearing. A Thunderpath lay beside it, monsters rumbling sedately past. Tigerheart had grown so used to them, he hardly noticed. His gaze was following Spire.

Tigerheart lingered behind a stone slab and watched as Spire reached the chestnut tree. The tom sat down and stared across the stretch of grass, which was divided by a smooth stone path that led to what Tigerheart guessed was the Twoleg entrance to the gathering place. Was Spire waiting for something? Tigerheart padded closer, his pelt tingling with curiosity. Keeping quiet, he stopped behind the stone slab nearest the chestnut tree and, hidden from view, watched to see what Spire would do next.

“Is this what warriors do?” Spire asked pointedly.

Tigerheart stiffened, confused for a moment—he hadn’t expected to hear the word warrior from one of the guardian cats, though it didn’t sound quite so strange out of Spire’s mouth. But he had been sure that he hadn’t been seen or heard as he approached.

“I came outside to get a chance to think,” Spire went on.

Tigerheart padded sheepishly from his hiding place and dipped his head to the skinny black tom. “I wondered why you’d left Blaze,” he mumbled. “You usually take him everywhere.”