Crookedstar’s Promise

Stormkit felt his fur glow with the warmth of his mother’s praise. He blinked water out of his eyes and looked around the clearing. This was the home of RiverClan, the greatest Clan of all. He hadn’t seen it before the flood, so the smooth brown mud that covered the ground and the heaps of battered wet reeds that cluttered every corner were more familiar to him than the densely woven walls and open spaces that were emerging. Timberfur and Cedarpelt were carrying bundles of freshly picked dry reeds across the clearing to Softpaw and Whitepaw, who were weaving them into the tattered apprentices’ den. Farther along the river’s edge, Shellheart and Ottersplash were gathering more stems. Fallowtail was helping Brambleberry clear the last of the muddy debris from the medicine den. Owlfur and Lakeshine were dragging deadwood and bark that had been washed through the reeds and into the clearing.

A whole moon had passed since the stormy night when Stormkit and Oakkit had been born, but the camp still showed signs of being swept away. Fortunately the elders’ den had held firm and only needed a little reweaving here and there. And the nursery, a ball of tightly overlapping willow branches and reeds, had been found downstream, wedged between the stepping-stones. It had been easy enough to drag it back to camp and lodge it among the thick sedge bushes. A few patches had repaired it, though it was still damp inside from the soaking. Rainflower tucked fresh moss into their nest every evening, but Stormkit still woke each morning with a cold, wet pelt.

The rest of the camp was harder to fix. It had taken half a moon’s digging and levering to roll the fallen tree to the edge of the clearing where the old warriors’ dens had stood. Once the broken branches and shattered bark had been cleared away, new dens could be woven against its thick trunk. Until then, RiverClan’s warriors slept in whatever shelter they could find, making nests in the thick sedge walls around the camp or in the nooks and crevices of the fallen tree. No cat could remember what it was like to be warm. Newleaf might be showing in early buds and birdsong, but leaf-bare frosts still gripped the banks of the river every night.

Hailstar had been sleeping in the open, despite the cold. He insisted that his den be the last one rebuilt. “When my Clan is safe and warm, then I will sleep soundly, but not before,” he had vowed.

Oakkit wound around Stormkit, soaking water from his brother’s pale tabby pelt into his own bracken-colored fur. “I told you to be careful.”

“I wouldn’t have fallen if that magpie hadn’t dived at me,” Stormkit growled through chattering teeth. The cold water seemed to have reached his bones.

“You wouldn’t have fallen off if you’d stayed in the clearing.” A deep mew sounded from behind them.

Stormkit spun around.

Hailstar was staring down at him, his thick gray pelt ruffled against the cold. Amusement lit the RiverClan leader’s yellow eyes. “Shellheart!” He called to his deputy, not taking his eyes from Stormkit.

Shellheart slid out from the rushes, his wet pelt slicked against his strong frame. He glanced at Stormkit. “Is everything okay?”

“Your kit will be a brave warrior,” Hailstar meowed. “If he doesn’t drown himself before he starts his training.”

Shellheart’s tail flicked as Hailstar went on. “We’d better send a patrol to catch that magpie. It’s beginning to think it owns RiverClan territory.”

Shellheart dipped his head. “Should we drive it off or catch it?”

Hailstar wrinkled his nose. “We’d better catch it,” he growled unenthusiastically. Few cats in RiverClan liked adding birds to the fresh-kill pile. “We must eat whatever we can find.” The flood had killed so many fish—battered them on the rocks or left them stranded on land—that river prey was scarce.

“I’ll organize a patrol,” Shellheart meowed.

“Wait till Rippleclaw’s patrol returns,” Hailstar ordered. With so much rebuilding still to do in camp, Hailstar rarely sent out more than one patrol at a time.

“I hope they’ve caught something edible this time,” Tanglewhisker muttered.

“I’m sure they will have,” Birdsong meowed. “It’s been a moon since the flood. The fish must be coming back by now.”

Echomist turned away from her kits. “If only we’d buried some of the fish washed up by the flood, and preserved them like ThunderClan does with their prey in leaf-bare.”

Hailstar shook his head. “Fish don’t keep like forest prey. Our warriors will need the strength of StarClan to repair the damage done by the flood as well as keep the fresh-kill pile well stocked.”

Stormkit stuck out his tail. “Let us help with the rebuilding, then.”

Volekit hurried forward, his gray fur spiking with excitement. “Oh, yes, please!”

“We’ll be really useful!” Petalkit fluffed out her tortoiseshell pelt.

Echomist swept her tail around her kits, pulling them away. “Don’t be frog-brained. You’ll get under everyone’s paws.”

Stormkit plucked at the ground. “No, we won’t!”