The silent still of night was shattered by yowls of pain. The owls flew from the earsplitting screeching, and the forest floor moved as mice were startled awake and scuttling through the fallen leaves. The trees blew in the sudden breeze as if they wanted to run away with the animals.
A black-and-white tom ran toward the noise with a tortoiseshell she-cat at his heels. The twosome tracked the scent through the forest near Fourtrees, very much aware what was causing the horrid screaming that sounded like it was trying to wake the whole forest.
"Woodfur knew she should have stayed in camp!" the she-cat grumbled. "How can she go out this late at night knowing that she would be kitting soon?"
"She probably tried to go out on night patrol," the tom guessed. "She had wanted to continue her warrior duties ever since she first found out she was carrying kits. I'm sorry, Spotfur, this is my fault! If I had kept a closer eye on my beloved Woodfur, this wouldn't have happened!"
"It's not your fault, Whitetail," Spotfur reassured him. "And anyway, we shouldn't be worrying about that now; we have to find Woodfur."
Whitetail nodded, and they pressed on. As they sprinted through the bracken, the howling grew louder, and eventually they came into a clearing. A ravine dipped where Fourtrees lay, and a few tail-lengths away from the cliff lay a brown she-cat with a swollen belly.
Spotfur rushed to her aid and meowed: "Take it easy, Woodfur, you're kitting!"
Woodfur yowled once again. "Whitetail! Where's my Whitetail!"
Spotfur hopped back to help deliver Woodfur's kits, and Whitetail crouched beside his mate. "I'm here, Woodfur, my sweet. Relax, our kits will be beautiful."
There was a brief glimmer of delight in the brown she-cat's eyes, but it was quickly gone and replaced with guilt. "Oh, Whitetail, I'm so sorry! I should have stayed in camp! How could I have been so mouse-brained?"
Whitetail nuzzled Woodfur and meowed: "It's all right. Spotfur's here, and even out of her den she'll do whatever she can for our kits." He was relieved to hear a loud purr rumbling in Woodfur's throat, and he thought of what great warriors their kits would make.
"Here's one," Spotfur meowed, carrying a mewling kit over to Woodfur. The brown she-cat immediately started licking it, letting herself be consumed by motherly instincts.
When the medicine cat had delivered another kit, Whitetail offered to groom it of the fluid that clung to its fur. The kittens squealed nonstop, confused at this new world they had arrived in. When Spotfur announced the birth of the third and final kit, Whitetail listened for another series of squeals, but still only two were heard. Alarmed, he shot a glance at Spotfur, who held a tiny kit who was squirming with its mouth wide open, but nothing came out.
As the kit Whitetail had groomed moved toward its mother's belly to suckle, panic welled inside of him. "Spotfur?"
The medicine cat placed the kit down and tried to press on its belly to get the fluid out, but nothing came. The kit squirmed uncomfortably, but Spotfur pricked her ears and pulled the kit close to her. "Wait a minute…"
"My kit!" Woodfur yelled. "What's wrong with my kit?"
Whitetail looked at his mate and saw that she was staring with scared eyes at Spotfur. The kit she was grooming joined her sibling to suckle, and the noiseless kit was desperate for some milk as well.
"She's breathing," Spotfur meowed, confused. Usually when a kit is born but it doesn't cry, there is fluid in its throat that a medicine cat can push out with ease. But this kit had no fluid in its throat. Whitetail and Woodfur shot each other a confused look, and Spotfur finally allowed the silent kit to stumble over to the warmth of its mother's belly and suckle.
"She'll live, but I would like to observe her more closely," Spotfur proposed.
The three cats fell silent, and the only sound to be heard was the soft, muffled noise of three cats suckling. There was something wrong with one of the kits, but Whitetail had a strange feeling that she would become a better warrior than the rest.