Эрин Хантер - Code of the Clans

“It’s red!”

The moon was washed with scarlet, darker around the edge.

Mossheart had never seen it look like that before.

“It’s the color of blood,” Quailfeather pointed out quietly.

Perhaps StarClan is already waiting for us, Mossheart thought.

Prickleface took the lead as they entered Mothermouth and began the long, echoey walk into darkness. Suddenly the blackness up ahead faded and a watery pink light started to filter along the stone walls. Prickleface quickened his pace, and soon they were running along the tunnel and exploding into the chamber where the Moonstone stood. The crystal reflected the scarlet moon tonight, giving off a reddish gleam that shone in the cats’ eyes.

Swiftfoot nodded to the Moonstone. “You know what to do,” he told his companions. “We have to ask StarClan if there is a way to stop the fighting.”

Mossheart lay down and pressed her muzzle against the base of the stone. It was ice-cold and she winced, but gradually it grew warm and she felt it begin to throb gently, as if she were curled against the belly of her mother. She was safe here, safe and loved.

No blood would ever be shed in the Moonstone chamber…

“ShadowClan! Attack!” Mossheart jumped as Silvermask yowled right next to her ear. She looked around and realized she was back

in the clearing by the Thunderpath, surrounded by a ShadowClan patrol rushing to hurl themselves on WindClan cats running toward them. She was watching yesterday’s battle from the very start.

“You can’t stop them, you know.”

Mossheart looked down. A small brown tom stood beside her, his brown coat flecked with ginger. “Spottedpaw! You’re not fighting!”

The apprentice looked up at her. “How can I? I’m dead, remember?”

“But this is yesterday!” Mossheart protested.

“No it’s not. It’s every day,” Spottedpaw mewed. “This battle, and battles like it, will happen over and over, for all the moons to come, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. We fight to protect our territories, our kits, our reputation among the other Clans. It’s what warriors do.”

“But you died because of it!”

Spottedpaw looked sad. “Yes. I wish I hadn’t. I wanted to be the best warrior ShadowClan had ever seen.”

Mossheart touched her muzzle to his fluffy ear. “I’m sorry, little one,” she murmured.

Spottedpaw was beginning to fade. “You can’t stop the fighting,” he repeated. “But maybe you can stop the dying. That WindClan warrior didn’t need to kill me. I knew I was beaten. If he’d let go of me, I’d have run away. He didn’t have to keep biting me, harder and harder…”

His blue eyes glowed for a moment after his body vanished, then they went out like setting suns. Mossheart closed her eyes as grief swept over her. What a bitter, bitter waste.

When she opened her eyes, she was back in the chamber, lying by the Moonstone. Her body was cold and cramped, so she stood up and stretched each leg in turn, arching her back and kinking her tail right over her ears.

“Well?” prompted Swiftfoot, who was sitting in the shadows with the other medicine cats. With a shock, Mossheart realized she was the last to wake up.

“I… I dreamed of Spottedpaw, the ShadowClan apprentice who died yesterday,” she began. She stopped when she saw the other cats nodding to one another.

“We all dreamed of fallen Clanmates,” meowed Quailfeather.

“Each one said the same: that we could never stop battles from happening, but that they knew they had lost their fight before they were killed. They didn’t have to die for the other cat to win.”

“Victory without death,” murmured Prickleface. “Do you think the Clans would accept it?”

“They have to,” meowed Swiftfoot. “StarClan has told us all the same thing: that a warrior does not have to kill to be victorious.”

“What if he is fighting for his life?” put in Kinktail, looking worried. “Against a fox or a rogue?”

Swiftfoot nodded. “There will be exceptions,” Swiftfoot determined, “because some battles can only end in death. But for

Clans fighting Clans, killing is not the answer.”

“When should we tell our leaders about this?” Mossheart asked.

“Why don’t we wait until the next Gathering?” Quailfeather suggested. “It’s only a quarter-moon away. We can tell them about our dreams and suggest a new law for the warrior code. The leaders can’t disagree with all five of us.”

“That’s right,” Swiftfoot meowed. “And from now on, I think we should meet every half-moon to share tongues with StarClan together. None of us wants to see our Clanmates die, and all of us would be happy never to treat a battle wound again. Perhaps boundaries don’t exist for medicine cats the way they do for our Clanmates. We should work together whenever we can, to preserve the peace and health of all the Clans.”

He led them back into the tunnel that led to the ridge and fresh air and starlight. When they emerged, the moon had cleared and shone as white as ever. The cats began to head down the slope, their paws whispering over the short grass. Mossheart was convinced she could hear another set of paws close by, even though she wasn’t near any of the other cats. Then she caught a trace of scent and knew who was running beside her.

Thank you, Spottedpaw whispered. Your law will save the lives of many, many cats. StarClan will honor all of you forever.

-

A WARRIOR REJECTS THE SOFT LIFE OF A KITTYPET.

The life of the Clans is as far from the life of a kittypet as you could imagine. We hunt for our food, choose our own boundaries and fight to defend them, and raise our kits to follow traditions laid down by cats long since faded from our memories. Many Clan cats would say this makes us better than you; I would not necessarily claim that. There are good and bad cats everywhere—and good and bad within every cat. If every Clan cat was pure of heart and unfailingly loyal, we wouldn’t need the warrior code at all.

“Hey, Lionpaw! Have you seen Pinestar?”

Lionpaw looked up from grooming his pelt. “I thought Pinestar went out with a hunting patrol,” he told his mentor.

Sunfall narrowed his eyes. “I thought so, too, but the hunting patrol’s just come back and Pinestar’s not with them.”

Lionpaw gave up on his tufty fur and padded over to the bright orange warrior. “Would you like me to look for him?” he offered.

Sunfall shook his head. “I want you to come with me on a patrol to check the border along the river,” he explained. “The dawn patrol picked up some RiverClan scents as far in as the trees.”

Lionpaw felt the hair along his spine bristle. Those mangy

RiverClan cats! Why couldn’t they stick to their own territory?

But when they went on patrol they found only the faintest hint of RiverClan scent under the trees, which could have been blown there by the wind, so they left their neighbors alone. When they returned to the camp, Pinestar was back. He greeted his deputy as soon as the patrol pushed its way through the gorse tunnel.

“Sunfall, is all quiet on the borders?”

“Yes,” Sunfall replied. “Did the prey run well for you?”

Pinestar nodded. “StarClan was good to me.”

Lionpaw was surprised. Pinestar didn’t smell of fresh-kill, just flowers and crushed grass. Sunfall had told him he’d done well on the patrol today; Lionpaw hoped Pinestar would invite him on a patrol soon so he could show the leader how much he had learned.