Эрин Хантер - Moth Flight’s Vision

Night flashed Moth Flight a look. “I hope you can hunt for yourselves,” she growled. “I’m not feeding WindClan or SkyClan cats.”

River Ripple blinked calmly at his Clanmate. “It doesn’t matter what Clan they’re from; their hunger is no different from yours.”

Night snorted and stalked away.

Dawn Mist whisked her tail. “Don’t worry about her,” she whispered to Moth Flight. “She enjoys being bad-tempered.”

Drizzle pricked her ears. “Yesterday she said that I was as dumb as a water vole. But I’m not.”

“Of course you’re not!” Pine Needle’s whiskers twitched mischievously. “You’re dumber .”

“Hey!” Fluffing her fur out indignantly, Drizzle leaped at her brother. Pine Needle ducked out of the way and hared across the camp.

“I’ll get you for that!” Drizzle hurtled after him.

“When they’re not eating, they’re fighting.” Dawn Mist rolled her eyes. “I’d better fetch them more prey.” She headed toward a gap in the reeds where the river lapped the edge of the clearing. Without pausing, she slid into the river and disappeared beneath the surface.

Moth Flight glanced at Micah. The RiverClan cats seemed more like otters than cats. Micah was gazing around the camp.

Shattered Ice lay in a patch of sunshine at the far end of the clearing. Swift, a dark brown tom, washed himself beside the camp wall.

River Ripple flicked his tail toward Dappled Pelt’s den.

“She’s been looking forward to your arrival.”

Micah dipped his head to the RiverClan leader and headed toward the tree stump. Moth Flight hurried after him, her nose twitching as the stink of fish grew stronger. She could see that the gaps between the roots of Dappled Pelt’s den had been woven with reeds. Feathers were threaded between them and fluttered in the soft breeze.

Dappled Pelt stuck her head out from under an arching root.

“You’re here at last!” she purred. “Come in! I’ve just finished sorting my herbs.”

As the RiverClan medicine cat ducked back into the shadows, Moth Flight followed her down the short slope that led into the den. She shivered. The reed walls screened out the bright sunshine and the shadows felt cold and damp. Reeds were strewn over the floor. They shifted beneath Moth Flight’s paws.

She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the half-light. “You’ve got plenty of space!” She paused in the center and looked around.

There was room enough for four nests here, though she could only see two, both woven from rushes. She looked up and saw shadow where the roof disappeared into the rotting stump. A

spider was spinning a web at one corner. “You’ll always have cobwebs to dress wounds!” she mewed, delighted. Perhaps I should catch spiders and try to persuade them to nest in my den!

Micah slid under the root and padded inside. “Does it flood?” He glanced over his shoulder.

“Not unless the whole island floods,” Dappled Pelt told him.

Moth Flight blinked, alarmed. “Has that ever happened?”

“It happened once, during a storm that came after moons of rain.” Dappled Pelt patted a stray rush into the nest beside her.

“River Ripple says if there’s rain like that again, we’ll shelter in the forest until it passes.”

Micah was peering into the shadows behind Dappled Pelt, where an earth wall formed the back of the den. “Is that where you keep your herbs?”

Moth Flight followed his gaze. Small holes had been hollowed from the mud, and green leaves stuck out here and there.

“There’s a different hole for each herb.” Dappled Pelt’s eyes shone proudly.

“Doesn’t the damp air make them rot?” Moth Flight was used to the dry winds that scoured the moor.

“It’s airy enough,” Dappled Pelt told her. “The breeze from the river keeps it cool, which seems to preserve fresh leaves, and I find that fresh leaves are more effective than dried leaves.”

Micah frowned. “It’s a shame,” he murmured. “Leafbare brings more illness. But by then, all we’ll have left in our supplies are dried leaves.”

“Seeds and berries keep their strength.” Dappled Pelt reached into one of the holes and pulled out a pawful of dark berries. She dropped them at Moth Flight’s paws.

As Dappled Pelt drew out one herb after another, telling them where they could be gathered and what they treated—juniper for bellyache, poppy to ease pain—Moth Flight tried hard to remember them, sniffing their pungent leaves, rolling their seeds beneath her paw, fixing the scents in her mind. She couldn’t wait to get home and start scouring the moor.

Micah nosed past Dappled Pelt and sniffed a wide, furry leaf. “What’s this?”

As Dappled Pelt turned to see, a yowl split the air outside the den.

“Help!”

Moth Flight froze as Night skidded down the slope into the den. Her eyes were wide with terror. “You have to come! I just pulled Drizzle from the river—she’s not breathing!”

Dappled Pelt darted past her Clanmate. Micah hared after her.

Panic flashing beneath her pelt, Moth Flight followed.

Dappled Pelt was already skidding through a gap in the camp wall as Moth Flight reached the clearing. Micah raced at her heels. Moth Flight gave chase, blood roaring in her ears. She leaped through the gap and pulled up sharply as the river loomed in front of her.

Dawn Mist was standing at the water’s edge, her eyes hollow with dread. Water dripped from her fur and she trembled like frightened prey. A sodden scrap of fur lay at her paws.

Drizzle! Moth Flight’s heart leaped into her throat.

Dappled Pelt dropped into a crouch beside the unmoving kit.

Micah leaned close. “Is she dead?”

Dappled Pelt jerked her nose toward Dawn Mist. “Keep her warm. She’s in shock.”

Micah hurried to Dawn Mist’s side and pressed against her.

Moth Flight’s paws seemed frozen to the ground as she stared at Drizzle. The tiny kit’s flank wasn’t moving. “She’s not breathing!” She stared at Dappled Pelt. Why did the RiverClan medicine cat look so calm?

Dappled Pelt’s gaze flitted over Drizzle’s body, then she lifted her forepaws and rested them on the she-kit’s chest.

Moth Flight watched, eyes stretched wide, as Dappled Pelt began pumping the kit with rapid jerks of her paws. “What are you doing?” How could squashing the poor kit help?

Dappled Pelt ignored her. She paused and leaned down, sniffing at Drizzle’s muzzle. Then, straightening, she began to pump the kit’s chest again.

Drizzle’s body shuddered with each jolt, her paws flapping limply, like the paws of a dead rabbit.

Dappled Pelt paused again and sniffed at Drizzle’s nose.

Dawn Mist let out a low moan. “She’s dead!”

“No,” Dappled Pelt, growled fiercely. “Not yet.” Once more she rested her paws on Drizzle’s chest and began pumping.

Suddenly, with a splutter, Drizzle jerked and began coughing up water. Dappled Pelt quickly rolled the kit onto her side, stroking her chest fiercely as Drizzle brought up more water.

“Drizzle?” Dawn Mist’s mew was no more than a breath.

Drizzle stopped vomiting and blinked at her mother. “What happened?” she croaked weakly.

Pine Needle stuck his nose out from behind a clump of reeds. “Is she okay?” His eyes were bright with terror.

Dawn Mist beckoned him closer. “She’s fine.” She looked anxiously at Dappled Pelt. “Isn’t she?”

“Yes. Now that she’s coughed up the water, she’ll be able to breathe again,” Dappled Pelt told her briskly.