Эрин Хантер - Legends of the Clans

“Get your paws off!” Bluefur hissed as her belly rippled under Spottedpaw’s forelegs.

Spottedpaw sprang back as if she had been bitten, almost colliding with Featherwhisker, who was crouched just behind her.

“Sorry,” Bluefur grunted. “I just didn’t expect it to hurt this much.”

“Did I hurt you?” Spottedpaw mewed.

Featherwhisker touched her flank with the tip of his tail. “No. Queens can be a bit crabby when kitting.” He glanced sideways at Bluefur. “Some are crabbier than others.”

“You’d be crabby if you’d been kitting since dawn!” Bluefur retorted, then winced as another spasm wracked her body.

“Is she all right?” White-eye called anxiously from the other side of the nursery.

“She’s fine,” Spottedpaw replied. Though it would be easier if there weren’t so many cats in here! Mousekit and Runningkit were staring huge-eyed from their nest, as if they couldn’t believe they had joined the Clan the same way. Spottedpaw tried to shift in front of them so that Bluefur had more privacy.

“Here comes the first one,” Featherwhisker announced from beside Bluefur’s tail. “Spottedpaw, when it arrives, nip the kitting-sac with your teeth to release it.”

A dark wet shape slithered onto the feathers and Spottedpaw craned her neck to break the delicate sac and release a tiny muzzle, already gulping for air.

“A tom!” Featherwhisker meowed.

Bluefur tried to sit up. “Is he okay?” she mewed weakly.

The little shape beside Spottedpaw’s nose lay ominously still.

“Quick, Spottedpaw!” Featherwhisker ordered. “Lick him fiercely!”

Spottedpaw ran her tongue over the tiny creature as if she could pummel life into him.

“Is he breathing?” Bluefur wailed.

“He is now,” Featherwhisker meowed. He nuzzled the kit into Bluefur’s belly.

Bluefur curled around him and licked his head. “He’s beautiful,” she murmured.

“He truly is,” Spottedpaw agreed, marveling at the miniature perfection of Bluefur’s son.

There was another ripple across Bluefur’s belly, and one more shape slid into the nest.

“A she-kit,” Featherwhisker announced as he pushed the little cat to join her brother. He ran his paw over Bluefur’s flank. “One more, I think.”

Bluefur’s eyes rolled with exhaustion. Spottedpaw bent down to her head. “You can do it!” she whispered. “You’re being incredible!” She held Bluefur’s gaze as the she-cat strained once more. “That’s it!”

“Well done!” Featherwhisker cried. “Another she-kit! And all three look healthy and strong.”

“You did it!” Spottedpaw mewed softly into Bluefur’s ear. “Three perfect ThunderClan warriors! Or medicine cats,” she added, earning a faint purr of amusement from the worn-out queen.

There was a rustle of branches and a sandy-gray head appeared through the wall of the nursery. “How is she?” Thrushpelt called.

“Bluefur’s fine,” Featherwhisker told him. “She had three healthy kits. Two she-kits and a tom.”

Thrushpelt clambered into the den and crouched down to rub his muzzle on Bluefur’s ears. Spottedpaw wriggled back to let them speak alone. It looked like the she-cats of ThunderClan were right: Thrushpelt was the father of these kits. Yet they had never been affectionate in front of other cats the way that White-eye and Halftail or Robinwing and Patchpelt were.

“What are you going to call them?” White-eye asked, scrambling out of her nest to peer at the tiny bundles.

“The dark gray she-kit will be Mistykit,” Bluefur purred. “And the gray tom, Stonekit.”

“What about this one?” mewed Thrushpelt, touching the tiny gray-and-white kit with the tip of his tail.

“Mosskit,” Bluefur meowed firmly.

Featherwhisker twitched his ears. “So you’re not letting the father decide on any of the names?” he purred playfully. “You always were determined, Bluefur.”

There was a light in his eyes beyond mere teasing, however. Spottedpaw felt her fur begin to tingle. Did Featherwhisker suspect that Bluefur was hiding something about these kits? Could there be a chance that Thrushpelt wasn’t their father? But if not, who could it be? Which warrior in ThunderClan would want to keep a secret like that?

Spottedpaw forced her mind to stop chasing after wild imaginings. Right at this moment, nothing mattered more than these three perfect new Clanmates. She gazed down at them, feeling warm to the tips of her toes. I will protect you with my life, she vowed silently. Whatever happens, I will be your medicine cat. It will be an honor to serve you.

She let out a long purr. Being a medicine cat was better than she had ever imagined!

Spottedpaw stopped to catch her breath and wondered why she had ever wanted to be a medicine cat. Goosefeather had coughed himself hoarse and was demanding freshly soaked moss, which meant a slippery walk to a rivulet that had formed from recent rain near the top of the ravine. Spottedpaw had lost count of how many bundles of moss she had carried back from the tiny stream; she was close to telling all the elders to sit in the clearing with their mouths open next time it rained, to save her some time.

As she trudged back down the path, she saw Tawnyspots emerge from the dirtplace.

“Must have eaten a dodgy blackbird!” he mewed.

But Spottedpaw looked at his hollow flanks and the way each step made him flinch, and knew he was much sicker than that. Cats had started wondering how long he would be able to stay as deputy, and how soon Sunstar would appoint Thistleclaw instead. Spottedpaw braced her shoulders to push through the gorse and reminded herself to count out the herb supplies again, to see if there was any way of boosting them with the leaves that were available now.

“Spottedpaw! Did you bring me back a treat?” Mosskit bounced up on paws that seemed too big for her.

“And me! And me!” mewed Mistykit, trotting after her sister. Her stubby tail stuck straight up in the air and her dark gray fur was fluffed up around her ears. “Come on, Stonekit! Spottedpaw’s brought us a treat!”

Spottedpaw put down the sodden lump of moss as the little cats bounced around her. Bluefur’s kits were a moon old now, and growing fast in spite of the cold.

Stonekit stuck his nose into the moss and jumped back, shaking droplets from his muzzle. “Wet moss is a yucky treat!” he complained.

“That’s because it’s not meant for you,” Spottedpaw meowed, picking up the moss before any more kits attacked it, and carrying it to the elders’ den. Goosefeather was lying on his side in his nest, breathing laboriously. He started lapping at the moss at once, lashing his tail when Mumblefoot tried to crouch alongside to share it.

“I’ll get some more,” Spottedpaw promised wearily.

As she headed back across the clearing, she passed Thrushpelt, who was staggering under the weight of a plump squirrel.

“Good catch!” Spottedpaw called.

“Is that for us?” squeaked Mistykit, racing over to sniff at the squirrel. A piece of fur stuck to her muzzle and she sneezed.

“That’s a real treat!” mewed Stonekit.

“Of course it’s for you,” Thrushpelt purred. “Is there any cat more important to feed than you?”

Mosskit shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she replied with a serious expression in her blue eyes. “The warrior code says kits and elders have to be fed first. And that’s us!”

Bluefur padded over from the tree stump, where she had been talking to Rosetail. “Actually, I just fed them,” she mewed to Thrushpelt. “You can put that squirrel on the fresh-kill pile.”