Эрин Хантер - Legends of the Clans

Pinepaw followed his mentor at a run along the wall and joined the rest of the patrol in a patch of shadow cast by a huge, straight-backed monster. Doefeather looked around at her Clanmates and nodded. “A highly successful mission,” she declared with a purr. “Those kittypets have learned we won’t stand for trespassing!” She set off along the side of the den, following the path that led back to the fence. “Come on, let’s go tell Oakstar that our boundary is safe once more!”

The sun scorched Pinepaw’s red-brown pelt as he stood beneath Highrock with his head bowed. Oakstar stood over him, less than a mouse-length taller than Pinepaw at his shoulder. Pinepaw thought back to the days when his father had seemed to loom over him, bigger than a badger. I’m becoming more like him all the time, he thought. Perhaps I will follow in his paw steps one day and lead our Clan.

“The raid on Twolegplace was a success,” Oakstar declared, purrs rumbling in his chest. “It is easy to dismiss our kittypet neighbors as a flea-bite nuisance, rather than a real threat. But they are as capable of stealing our prey as any cat, and if we do not tolerate other Clans setting foot across our borders, we should not allow kittypets to trespass either.” He looked down at Pinepaw. “I am especially proud of the way my son acted during the raid. Mistpelt told me he worked alone, with all the bravery of a full warrior.”

Pinepaw tried not to squirm. How could he explain that he didn’t actually fight any kittypets; rather, he let them know he would leave them in peace as long as they didn’t try to interfere with the invasion.

Oakstar bent his head and touched his muzzle lightly to Pinepaw’s ear. “From this moment, you will be known as Pineheart,” he announced. “ThunderClan honors your courage in the invasion of Twolegplace, and your sense of strategy when under attack. May StarClan light your path, always.” He touched his muzzle to the top of Pineheart’s head and murmured, “I am so proud of you, my son.”

“Pineheart! Pineheart!”

Pineheart lifted his head to listen to his Clanmates as they cheered his new name. His future unrolled before him like a shining sunlit path. He had never felt more fortunate than at this moment, knowing how lucky he was to have been born in the forest, the son of a great leader, with the life of a warrior stretching ahead. No cat was more committed to his Clan, more grateful to StarClan, or more certain that his dying breath would be dedicated to keeping his territory and his Clanmates safe.

Pineheart strode through the gorse tunnel and carried the dead squirrel across the clearing. Around him, the trees clattered their empty leaf-bare branches, and a cold wind lifted the fur along his spine. But there were tiny green buds appearing on the trees, and the mornings no longer dawned with frost that made clouds of the cats’ breath as they set out on patrol.

Pineheart thought he would never be happier to see the end of leaf-bare. He had been forced to watch his Clanmates starve around him as first floods then snow destroyed what little prey there was. Goosefeather’s idea of burying fresh-kill to preserve it had failed dismally when rain turned the clearing to mud and rotted the food before the cats could take a single mouthful. As the deputy of ThunderClan, Pineheart had felt painfully helpless, and as terrified as a kit.

Now Pineheart was aware of cats watching him and murmuring, the voices growing louder as the rest of his patrol entered the camp laden with prey. Look! Feast your eyes, then your bellies! Pineheart thought, unable to speak with his jaws full of fresh-kill. The hungry moons have passed!

He heard Larksong warning her kits to take tiny mouthfuls. “Don’t rush, or you’ll give yourself bellyache. Flamenose caught this squirrel just for you! You must thank your father when you have finished eating.”

Cloudberry took a piece of prey over to Mistpelt. “Your belly has been empty for so long, too much food will make you ill,” the medicine cat told the only surviving elder. “Why don’t we share this mouse that Mumblefoot brought?”

Mistpelt grunted in agreement, and Pineheart felt a pang of sorrow for his former mentor. She had watched her denmate Nettlebreeze starve to death, along with many others in the long, harsh leaf-bare. Pineheart knew his bones stuck out as much as his Clanmates’, and all the cats had added more moss to their nests because lying down was so uncomfortable.

But the weather had turned at last. The snow was melting so fast that every tree in the forest dripped like rainclouds. The air felt warmer, and there was a faint scent of greenness in the brittle undergrowth. Today was the first properly successful hunting patrol Pineheart had led since the previous leaf-fall, with every cat making a catch. The fresh-kill pile had returned, and he listened to his Clanmates’ paws squelching in the mud as they crowded around to take their share.

Pineheart didn’t add his squirrel to the pile. Instead he carried it straight to Highrock and brushed past the brambles to duck inside the leader’s den. He may have grown scrawny, but he was still one of the tallest cats in ThunderClan, and his ears brushed the roof of Doestar’s cave.

“Fresh squirrel, just for you!” he declared, setting it down in front of the cream-and-white she-cat. Curled in her nest, she blinked at him with clouded, unfocused eyes.

Cloudberry’s apprentice, Goosefeather, stood up. “Look what Pineheart brought!” he meowed. He nudged Doestar with one paw. “Come on, don’t you want to try it?”

Doestar turned her head away. “Put it on the fresh-kill pile,” she rasped.

Pineheart crouched beside her. “There is plenty of food to feed the Clan,” he told her. “I caught this for you.”

The leader shifted so that she was looking up at Pineheart. “The fresh-kill pile is full?”

Pineheart nodded. “Every cat on my patrol caught something. New-leaf is here, Doestar! Everything is going to be okay.” He pushed the squirrel closer and Doestar bent to take a bite. Goosefeather met Pineheart’s gaze over the leader’s head, and nodded in satisfaction.

Pineheart left Doestar eating and backed out of the cave. In the clearing, his Clanmates had gathered in little groups to share the fresh-kill. The pile had vanished, but Pineheart forced down the jolt of alarm in his belly. We will catch more tomorrow, he told himself. And the day after, and the day after that. ThunderClan does not have to starve anymore .

Mumblefoot padded alongside him and brushed his tail against Pineheart’s flank. “We did well today,” the old warrior murmured. “Thank StarClan that they have spared us.”

“Not all of us,” Pineheart mewed, looking through the leafless branches to the mounds of earth halfway up the ravine, beyond the walls of the camp. As well as Nettlebreeze, they had lost Harepounce, Stagleap, Hollypelt, and Flashnose; all starved to death in the bitter rains and endless, preyless leaf-bare moons.

A scuffle beside the apprentices’ den dragged Pineheart back to the present. Rabbitpaw and Moonpaw were squabbling over the ears of a rabbit. Pineheart trotted over and placed his paw on the contested scraps. Before the great hunger, prey ears would have been buried in the dirtplace or used as playthings for kits. Long moons of starvation had turned them into highly prized treats.

“Two ears, two of you,” he declared, pushing a scrap of skin and fur toward each apprentice. “And we are not starving anymore. There is plenty for every cat!”