Эрин Хантер - Tigerheart’s Shadow

These cats have no idea what it is to go hungry, Tigerheart thought as he watched Cobweb shake puddle water from his whiskers and Fierce lap a few more sour mouthfuls. He wondered if they had ever been truly cold. The gathering-place den had grown chilly, but it was sheltered from wind and free of the drafts that would be slicing through gaps in the walls and dens of the ShadowClan camp now. It was easy to warm up in the furless-pelt nests.

In the past two moons, he’d learned city words like alley , street , and scrapcan ; he’d grown accustomed to monsters and had learned to dart between them with ease as they crawled between the dens. He hardly noticed the Twolegs now as he wove between their legs on patrol.

This was the only world his kits knew. They’d never seen forests and streams and real prey. He wondered how long it would be before Dovewing agreed that they were old enough to make the journey home. By the time they reached the lake, would they be able to adjust to warrior life?

His pelt ruffled uneasily at the thought and he pushed it away. There would be plenty of time for them to learn to become warriors. But what if this first glimpse of life stayed with them? What if they always found warrior ways strange?

“I’m going on hunting patrol,” he’d told Pouncekit before he’d left.

She’d blinked at him. “Don’t you mean scavenging?” she’d asked. “That’s what the others call it.”

“Scavenging is like hunting,” Dovewing had answered quickly as Tigerheart’s pelt ruffled, then added, “Tigerheart used to be the best hunter in ShadowClan.”

Pouncekit didn’t seem to hear. “Why don’t warriors scavenge like city cats?”

Tigerheart stared at her. What could he say? That warriors had more pride and more skill? That they kept their distance from Twolegs, and definitely didn’t eat their scraps? He didn’t want to insult the guardian cats. But he wanted Pouncekit to understand what it meant to be a warrior.

Dovewing spoke for him again. “There aren’t any scrapcans to scavenge from by the lake,” she told Pouncekit diplomatically. She caught Tigerheart’s eye. “Besides, hunting is much more fun than scavenging. You’ll find out when you become a warrior.”

Tigerheart had turned away heavily and followed Fierce, Cobweb, Cinnamon, and Mittens out of the gathering place. He hoped that soon he’d be able to show Pouncekit what a warrior was. Now, as the sun lifted over the Twoleg dens, Tigerheart glanced at the bright blue sky showing between the rooftops. They’d scavenged all morning, but he hadn’t once smelled prey, and his hope of finding fresh-kill for the kits was fading.

Fierce flicked her tail happily. “Cold weather like this makes Twolegs hungry,” she meowed. “Which means more leftovers for us.” She led the way to another cluster of scrapcans and jumped onto one. As she knocked it open with practiced ease, Tigerheart jumped onto the next and pushed away its cover while Cobweb and Mittens rummaged through litter at their base. Tigerheart dug deep into the trash, his paws feeling the softness of something edible. He hooked it out with his claws. A round lump of something that smelled a little like meat but he knew would taste sour.

Cobweb glanced at it, his eyes brightening. “Meat scraps!”

Mittens hooked out a soft white strip from among the litter. “Dotty will like this,” he mewed. “It’s easy to chew.”

Fierce pulled a bone from her trash and flicked it triumphantly onto the ground below. “There’s more in here.” She delved deeper and hauled out another.

Tigerheart swallowed back distaste as she tossed it over the side. Warriors leave bones for the crows. Here they were a treat.

Fierce jumped down. “Let’s take these scraps back to Cinnamon.”

They’d left Cinnamon guarding their first haul—a collection of scraps they’d fished out of a scrapcan nearer the gathering place. Tigerheart had suggested a moon ago that the guardian patrols stash the scraps they’d gathered before taking them home. It was an old warrior trick that freed up their paws for more scavenging. But the city was full of cats and foxes, and they’d often return to find that their stash had been raided. It had been Cinnamon’s idea to post a guard. Tigerheart had been pleased that one of the guardian cats had begun to think like a warrior.

He hurried back toward Cinnamon. The strange meat he’d scavenged dangled from his jaws and smeared grease on his chin. As he ducked from the alley and followed the street that led to their stash place, pigeons fluttered between the dens above him. If only he could reach one. Why hadn’t the guardian cats come up with a plan to catch them? There must be some place in the city where the clumsy birds settled within reach. Hadn’t the guardian cats worked out where it was?

As he turned in to the narrow alley between dens where they’d left Cinnamon, his fur bristled. Four strays surrounded her. They’d backed her against the wall where her stash was piled. Cinnamon spat at them, back arched and fur bushed. One of the strays reached for a scrap trailing from the pile behind her. Cinnamon lashed out with a hiss. The tom backed away, snarling. Fur sparking with alarm, Tigerheart dropped the meat he’d been carrying and leaped in front of Cinnamon.

He faced the strays and growled at them menacingly. “This is our stash,” he snarled. “Go find your own.”

As he spoke, Fierce padded into the alley. Cobweb and Mittens watched, wide-eyed, from the end. Tigerheart beckoned them closer. He might need backup. The strays were standing their ground. Greed shone in their eyes.

One of them—a lithe gray she-cat—narrowed her bright blue gaze. “Your friend wanted to share,” she told Tigerheart.

“No, she didn’t,” Tigerheart snapped.

The gray cat glanced around at the guardian cats, food dangling from their jaws, then nodded to the scraps piled behind Cinnamon. “There’s enough to share.”

Tigerheart growled. “We have other mouths to feed.”

“We might have other mouths to feed too.” The gray she-cat tipped her head.

“That doesn’t mean you can take our catch.” Tigerheart glanced at Fierce. Was she going to speak up?

“Why shouldn’t we?” the gray cat meowed.

“You didn’t catch it,” Tigerheart growled.

“Nor did you.” The she-cat glanced dismissively at the scraps. “You found it. Now we’re finding it too.”

Shame scorched beneath Tigerheart’s pelt. She was right. They’d picked these scraps out of cans. I’m fighting over crow-food! And yet this crow-food would feed the cats waiting at the gathering place. It will feed my kits. He lifted his chin. Even if it wasn’t prey, it would keep them from starving. A new, protective anger surged in his chest. It belongs to us! Did this cat have no sense of honor at all? He looked around at the guardian cats, who were watching uneasily. “You’re trying to steal from my friend,” he hissed slowly.

“Steal!” The gray cat lifted her chin. “No cat owns anything until it’s safely in her belly. Here it’s every cat for herself. You’re obviously not city-born, or you’d know that.”

“I’m glad I’m not city-born.” But my kits are. Tigerheart pushed the thought away. “I was born in a place where we feed our Clan before we feed ourselves.”

The gray cat shrugged. “But you’d let us go hungry?”

Tigerheart blinked. How was she making him out to be the bad cat? “You’re not my Clanmate. Besides, there are plenty of scrapcans in the city. You won’t go hungry.”

“‘Plenty of scrapcans,’” the she-cat mimicked. “But only if we can get to them before the foxes.”