Эрин Хантер - Battles of the Clans

Rabbittail, who was pale gray with a stunted white tail like a rabbit’s, was one of the tunneling cats who crawled into a burrow, ready to attack the enemy as they crossed over his head. He figured that if he followed the tunnel farther down the hillside, he could come up on the far side of the enemy and attack them from behind at the same time his Clanmates appeared in the middle of their ranks.

As Rabbittail tunneled, he heard the WindClan warriors begin to charge and retreat above him, their paw steps echoing through the ground like thunder. But ShadowClan held steady, ignoring the insults hurled at them. Rabbittail kept going, right underneath the line of ShadowClan warriors. All at once, the ground shuddered above him! The enemy had finally taken the bait and were charging after the retreating WindClan cats. Rabbittail twisted and turned along the narrow black paths, looking for one that would lead him up to the surface so he could launch his own attack. But he had never tunneled this far before, and the paw steps thudding overhead confused him until he knew he was walking in circles. Rabbittail was lost.

He forced himself to stand still in the cold, empty dark, and waited for his senses to tell him which way he should go. He felt a cool breeze stroke his flank, carrying a faint scent of rabbit. A breeze on its own could signify nothing more than a long, steep, unclimbable shaft reaching far underground; but combined with rabbit scent, it suggested that Rabbittail was close to the surface. He headed back the way he had come, staying quiet and scenting the air every few paces. The breeze on his face led him down a side tunnel, where the darkness began to fade to gray. He was nearly out!

Suddenly there was a scrabbling noise behind him, and an earsplitting yap bounced off the rock walls. There was a dog in the tunnels! Peering over his shoulder, Rabbittail caught a glimpse of brown-and-white fur, a pointed muzzle, and glistening black eyes before he pushed off with his hind legs and ran as hard as he could. The tunnel twisted and turned, making him lose his footing more than once as he scrabbled to change direction. He could feel the dog’s hot, stinking breath on his haunches, and flecks of saliva spattered over his back. But the gray light was growing brighter ahead of him, pulling him on and giving extra speed to his tired paws.

The sky burst open in front of him, and Rabbittail hurled himself out of the mouth of the tunnel, springing with all four feet off the ground.

But he didn’t land with familiar prickly grass under his paws. Instead, he hung in midair, trapped in a floppy brown mesh that smelled strongly of Twolegs and rabbits. A furless pink face appeared beside him, shouting so loud that Rabbittail tried to shrink down in the net, but his hind paws slipped through the holes until he was swinging on his belly with his head twisted up at an angle. Behind him, to his horror, he saw a pile of dead rabbits, their necks broken. This was no tempting pile of fresh-kill: The Twoleg must have killed them when his dog chased them into the mesh.

Rabbittail was not used to giving up. He rolled onto his side and wrenched his paws clear of the mesh. Then he sank his claws into the coarse brown tendrils and ripped hard. One of his claws was torn out and blood sprang from his foot, making the dog circle madly on the ground below him. The Twoleg bellowed and shook the net, but Rabbittail clung on with his claws and hauled at the mesh until he felt it start to give way. He thrust down with his hind legs as hard as he could, and the mesh split open beneath him, spilling him onto the grass.

The dog pounced, but Rabbittail had already leaped up and was racing across the grass. He was on the far side of the moor from the camp, but there was a gully beyond the next rise that would lead him around the peak of the hill to just below the circle of gorse bushes that sheltered the dens.

For several long heartbeats, the dog chased him; Rabbittail considered whether he should find a burrow to hide in but decided that he might get lost again—and besides, the dog was small enough to follow him, as he had already found out. Just as he thought his legs would give way from exhaustion, the Twoleg shouted and Rabbittail heard the dog slither to a halt behind him. With a reluctant whine, it spun around and trotted back to the Twoleg.

Mouse-brained, fox-hearted, useless dog! Rabbittail thought as he skidded over the top of the rise and down into the gully. Gathering his paws beneath him, he headed for the camp, still running flat out. You’d better hope that Twoleg lets you share his fresh-kill pile , he thought, because you’re too dumb to catch your own prey .

Well, I think that’s enough. Bed, all of you! And when you wake up tomorrow, practice those battle skills. As the story proves, our battle skills serve us equally well in times of peace, giving us the strength and cunning to outwit Twolegs and dogs, and other creatures too dumb to know the skill of their enemies. Rabbittail never surrendered, and didn’t let courage abandon him even when he was cornered by a dog in a place where dogs weren’t supposed to be. Aboveground or in the tunnels, WindClan cats don’t give up as easily as the other Clans think. There have been no easy victories against WindClan warriors, nor will there ever be.

In the old territory, WindClan’s moor was almost hollow with tunnels and burrows, some made by animals, others by underground streams that cut through stone and sand to leave endless holes filled with nothing but darkness. The cats who first settled there realized that the tunnels could be used to their advantage—not just for storing fresh-kill or sheltering from the weather, but as a strength against their enemies, enabling WindClan warriors to move right across their territory without being seen.

Certain cats—usually the smallest—were trained as tunnelers, clearing the secret passageways and memorizing the cobweb of paths that led underground. Some led right into other Clans’ territories, giving a secret means of access into (or escape from) enemy camps; the exit was always carefully concealed with bracken and branches, and any trace of scent wiped away with the pelt of a freshly killed rabbit. Often the tunnelers grew so accustomed to working in blackness that they lost any daylight vision, and were clumsy and nervous above the ground. But once inside their tunnels, they could run as fast as any WindClan warrior, using scent and touch and sound to navigate their way beneath the entire forest.

Tunneling apprenticeships were keenly fought over—in spite of having to live in dark and cramped spaces for their working lives, tunnelers had special status among their Clanmates. Training took twice as long as for warriors, and injuries, even deaths, were common. A few hard-learned rules kept the most experienced tunnelers alive—and gave apprentices a chance to survive their first few moons below the surface of the moor.

They learned to leave a clear scent trail, marked like a border, so they could find a way out.

They came to recognize the feel of the wind on their muzzles, knowing that it did not necessarily mean they were approaching the surface; shafts strike far underground, bringing fresh air to the lowest tunnels, but it is not always possible to climb up them. And even the least experienced tunneler stayed alert for the sound of dripping water—rivers are no place for WindClan cats, whether they’re on the surface or belowground.