Crowfeather's Trial

“Surely you’ve seen how the other warriors behave toward Breezepelt?” Nightcloud continued, slowing her pace so that they dropped behind the rest of the patrol. “You need to set an example for the others, and start being kinder to him. How is the rest of the Clan going to accept him again if even his own father treats him like rotten prey?”

“It’s kind of hard to bond with a cat who only thinks of himself,” Crowfeather told Nightcloud, suppressing a sigh. “One who’s so quick to think that every cat is against him. One who is so stubborn he can’t even pretend he feels bad about the mistakes he’s made.”

“Really?” Nightcloud murmured. “That sounds awfully like another tom I know.”

That’s a load of badger droppings. Crowfeather’s pelt prickled with resentment at the comparison, though he knew that just as a cat could inherit the color of their parents’ eyes or fur, they were also likely to inherit parts of their personality and character.

Even so, neither Crowfeather nor Nightcloud was an angry, hateful cat. So how had their son turned out to be so angry all the time, always ready to fight? Where had Breezepelt’s hatred come from?

A chill ran through Crowfeather from ears to tail-tip. What if Breezepelt is simply an evil cat?

“Don’t you see how desperately Breezepelt wants approval from his Clanmates?” Nightcloud went on in a low and furious voice. “That must be because he feels so distant from his own father — a cat who is supposed to love him!”

Crowfeather glanced away, fearing that Nightcloud might see revealed on his face the thought that was running through his mind.

I’m not sure I can love Breezepelt like a son. I’m not sure if I ever did.

“I understand why it was no good between you and me,” Nightcloud continued. “You never loved me, and I couldn’t bind us together as a family.” Her voice caught, and she looked away for a moment. Then she turned back to him. “But that’s not important now. Breezepelt is what matters, and if his own father is so dismissive of him, so quick to bicker with him — well, it might give the rest of our Clanmates the impression that he can’t be trusted. And if that happens, and he still hasn’t been properly accepted back into the Clan, it might push him away again.” Her voice grew lower still, her fury fading into anxiety. “I couldn’t bear that. Could you?”

Crowfeather didn’t know how to respond. Nightcloud was right: Crowfeather hated to think that his son might even leave the Clan — or, worse, commit some act of treachery that would get him banished. But he couldn’t find the right words to respond to his former mate.

Nightcloud waited for a couple of heartbeats, then huffed out an exasperated breath and picked up her pace until she caught up with the others. Crowfeather trudged along at the rear of the patrol, wondering whether any cat would allow him to forgive Breezepelt on his own terms, and in his own time.

If I ever can forgive him.

At the foot of the hill Breezepelt waited beside the nearest tunnel entrance. Harespring led the rest of the patrol to join him, halted a tail-length away from the dark, gaping hole.

“We’ll stick together until we reach that cave where several passages lead off,” Harespring announced. “After that, we’ll split up. Crowfeather, you go with Heathertail. Nightcloud with Breezepelt. And Furzepelt, you’re with me.”

“What then?” Crowfeather asked.

“That depends on what we find,” the Clan deputy replied. “But we’ll meet back here at the entrance in… oh, in about the time it takes to do a dawn patrol. And may StarClan watch over us all.”

He turned and led the way with Furzepelt into the tunnels. Nightcloud and Breezepelt followed, leaving Crowfeather and Heathertail to bring up the rear.

Crowfeather padded along warily in the dimness. The tunnel stretched in front of them, wide and straight and lit by thin shafts of light that penetrated through chinks in the tunnel roof. His paws quickly started sticking to the damp and sandy floor, and he shivered as the raw cold probed into his pelt.

Opening his jaws to taste the air, Crowfeather couldn’t pick up any scents except for his own and his Clanmates’, and of moist moss and the occasional clump of fern growing from cracks in the rock. All he could hear was the sound of their own paw steps and their soft breath. But even though there seemed to be no danger, Crowfeather couldn’t stop his shoulder fur from rising. Uncomfortably, he remembered his glimpse of something white, and his dream of Ashfoot.

It seems quiet and safe, but I know there’s something down here…