Crowfeather's Trial

Wind swept across the moor, ruffling Crowfeather’s gray-black fur as he stood among the rest of his Clanmates at the crest of the hill. They were gathered in a ragged circle around their Clan leader, Onestar, who stood beside a small pile of stones. Crowfeather remembered what hard work it had been to find the right number of smoothly rounded stones and push them up the slope to the place they had chosen. His paws still ached from the effort, and he raised one forepaw to lick a scrape on his pad.

But it was worth it, to do this.

“We will honor our Clanmates who fell in the Great Battle,” Onestar meowed. “Each of these stones stands for a fallen warrior, so that we will never forget their sacrifice. From now on, a patrol will visit this place every day, to repeat the names of those who died and to give thanks.”

Yes, Crowfeather thought. That way we’ll never forget their courage. They saved us from the Dark Forest.

The Clan leader paused for a heartbeat, then dipped his head toward the brown-and-white tom standing next to him. “As our new deputy, Harespring,” he continued, “you should put the last stone in place.”

Crowfeather stiffened, making a conscious effort not to let his shoulder fur bristle as he watched Harespring thrust the final stone across the springy moorland grass and slide it neatly into the gap left for it.

“This stone is for Ashfoot,” Harespring mewed solemnly. “She served her Clan well.”

Crowfeather felt a fresh pang of grief for his dead mother, whose throat had been ripped out by the claws of a Dark Forest warrior, and realized that his pain was mingled with disappointment that he hadn’t been chosen as the Clan’s new deputy. He was aware of some of his Clanmates casting sidelong glances at him, as if they had expected it, too. After all, he was a senior warrior, and one of the chosen cats who had traveled to the sun-drown-place to meet with Midnight. Both my parents were deputies, he thought, and I’ve given up more for my Clan than any cat… but I suppose I never will be deputy. Well, Onestar wanted to send a message by choosing a Dark Forest cat, and however mouse-brained that message may be — it’s sent.

He suppressed a sigh, admitting to himself that this was a strange time for the Clans, as they tried to come together after the Great Battle, almost a moon ago. It’s like Kestrelflight trying to heal a wound just by slapping cobweb on it, without cleaning it out or using any herbs.

Crowfeather narrowed his eyes as he gazed at his Clan leader. Onestar looked relaxed, content, his amber eyes gleaming — as if he truly believed that WindClan was united again. But Crowfeather knew it didn’t always work like that. And maybe that was another reason why he hadn’t been chosen. He was incapable of pretending that life could ever be that simple.

When the last stone was in position, Kestrelflight, the WindClan medicine cat, padded up to stand beside the pile, looking out over the horizon. The wind ruffled his mottled gray pelt, but his voice rang out clearly across the moor. “We feel the loss of all our dead Clanmates, but we know that they have been made welcome in StarClan. May they have good hunting, swift running, and shelter when they sleep.”

He dipped his head in deepest respect, then moved back into the crowd of his Clanmates. A ripple of agreement passed through the Clan, voices hushed with the solemnity of the moment.

Onestar began to speak again, but it was hard for Crowfeather to concentrate when he spotted his son Breezepelt hovering on the fringe, his expression angry and uncomfortable. Like he always looks, Crowfeather thought bitterly. His mind drifted inexorably back to the Great Battle, especially how he’d had to sink his claws into Breezepelt’s shoulders and haul him back to keep him from killing his half brother Lionblaze.

He knew that Onestar had forgiven Breezepelt, as well as all the other cats who had trained in the Dark Forest. They had each taken a new oath of loyalty to WindClan. But Crowfeather knew that the rest of the Clan wasn’t as eager to forgive as their Clan leader, and the cat they were finding it hardest to forgive was Breezepelt. Even now he could see suspicious looks directed toward his son and knew that he would hear whispers once they had returned to camp.

All the other Dark Forest warriors had come to their senses and fought beside their Clan — all except Breezepelt. He had actually stood with the Dark Forest; he had fought on their side.