Crowfeather's Trial

Now Crowfeather blinked at his son with approval of the choice he had made. Even though he had just clawed Heathertail with his tongue, he couldn’t think of any she-cat he would rather see as his son’s mate.

His anger fading, he turned back to Heathertail. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Heathertail replied. “And I’m sorry for dashing off like that. I thought you would be right behind me.”

“Sorry” catches no prey, Crowfeather thought, acknowledging her apology with a curt nod. “As long as you’re okay.”

Larkwing was already giving a careful sniff at Heathertail’s hindquarters. “No, she’s not okay,” she meowed. “Those StarClan-cursed mange-pelts have torn out all her fur!”

Crowfeather padded over to take a look. Huge clumps of Heathertail’s pelt had been wrenched out, and blood was trickling from so many wounds he couldn’t count them. He could also see two claws missing from one of her hind paws, and he remembered how she’d been stumbling as she came out of the tunnel. None of her injuries looked life-threatening, but the loss of blood alone was going to weaken her badly.

Crowfeather realized that shock, or relief at being rescued, must have been keeping Heathertail on her paws. But pretty soon the rush would wear off and the worst of the pain would hit her, and then she would need poppy seed to help her sleep.

Taking another look at the tabby she-cat’s injuries, he was surprised that she was still standing. Heathertail is one tough cat!

“She really ought to go back to camp and see Kestrelflight,” Larkwing pointed out. “We should all go, and come back another day with more warriors — enough of us to deal with those stoats.”

“Are we sure they were stoats?” Crouchfoot asked. “They were all white!”

“I’ve never seen white stoats before,” Larkwing added. “Do you think they’re ghosts after all?”

Crowfeather rolled his eyes. “Great StarClan, is every cat bee-brained?” he asked. “If they were ghosts — which they’re not — how could they touch us?”

Larkwing and Crouchfoot just looked at each other; they didn’t argue, but Crowfeather didn’t think he had managed to convince them. But at least Crouchfoot was treating Larkwing just like any of his other Clanmates, as if she had never set paw in the Dark Forest.

“Humph.” Crowfeather let out an annoyed grumble. I suppose we don’t know what ghosts could do, but since our enemies aren’t ghosts, there’s no point in worrying about it.

“I think I know why they’re white,” Heathertail meowed. “Because we’re in leaf-bare, and once there’s snow on the ground the stoats will be practically invisible. Their white pelts will make it easier for them to stalk their prey. I don’t know why they have a dark tail, though,” she added as an afterthought.

Crowfeather blinked at her, struck by the cleverness of her explanation. “I think you’re probably right,” he responded. “Thank StarClan one cat has a bit of common sense. The rest of you go back to camp with Heathertail,” he added to the others. “Report to Onestar. But I can’t go with you. Not until I’ve found Nightcloud.” Dead or alive, he added silently to himself.

With a pang of guilt, he remembered their argument about the way he treated Breezepelt, on the way to the tunnels the day before. Right after that, Nightcloud had disappeared. He couldn’t help wondering whether their argument had driven her into the paws of these strange stoats. She might have been so angry, or upset, that it made her reckless…

His thoughts were interrupted by Breezepelt. “I’ll stay, too,” he meowed.

Heathertail cast him a worried glance, and Crowfeather thought she was about to protest. Then she gave her pelt a quick shake. “Just be careful when you go in there,” she warned them. “I scented water up ahead, which means some of the tunnels will be flooded.”

Her gaze rested on Breezepelt, deeply serious now, and Crowfeather wondered if she was thinking the same as he was. Will Breezepelt panic if we go too deep into the tunnels?

Crowfeather stood still, watching as Heathertail limped away, with Crouchfoot and Larkwing on either side of her, giving her a helping paw over the rough places.

“Are you ready to go back in?” he asked Breezepelt, when the others had disappeared over the ridge.

Breezepelt glanced at him, his amber eyes widening with nervous anticipation. For a moment he hesitated; then he gave a nod. “Let’s go,” he muttered.

Crowfeather turned to face the dark holes gaping in the bank. “We’ll go this way,” he decided, heading for the entrance at the far end, the one the patrol had used the day before. “At least we won’t be walking straight back into the stoats’ paws.”