Chapter Nine
After the shriek, Hazelfur was left breathless and exhausted on her paws. Head reeling, paws throbbing, she knew she had to make it to the medicine cat den. This was the birth of of the cat that Bramblestar had told her about, the birth she had been waiting for. Wasting no time, she immediately hared through the camp entrance through the sheer cliff face and raced through mounds of bustling cats, her paws pouncing on the peaty rock, kicking up dust. Heat pounded in her ears, and the sun pooled down on her backside, making her flesh water. Every hair on her pelt felt as though it was on fire, as she sprinted to the medicine cat den, plundering past an angry tom who was carrying a piece of fresh-catch in his jaws.
"Watch it!" he hissed darkly as he dropped the fish, his dark brown pelt bristling.
"Sor-ree," Hazelfur muttered, though by now she was well out of earshot.
Ignoring an odd look from a warrior, she scanned the clearing for Goldenbush, who she had heard was the medicine cat here. Hazelfur spotted her sleek glossy golden pelt hurriedly heading into the medicine cat den for herbs, before scampering out and disappearing into the nursery, where a steady wailing was beginning.
Glancing up at the cloudless sky, sweat pooling in a vast plain of heat, she then saw a worried-looking gray tom with a white underbelly rush to the nursery as well. His dark blue eyes were aching with worry, and his furry snout was creased into a panicked frown. Guessing he must be Bankpelt's mate and the kits' father, Hazelfur snuck behind him, keeping two fox-lengths from his thin, white-tipped tail, until she was right outside the nursery's narrow bramble-and-reed entrance. Peering through a limp-hanging strand of reed, she could just make out in the dim glow eleven shapes, six of them presumably kits.
"Out!" one of the bigger shapes hissed to the smaller figures, which by looking at closely Hazelfur realised was one of the queens, not Frostyflight or Bankpelt, but one with a heavily-flecked bright red pelt. She looked distinctly like Gingerpaw's figure, and was glaring at the smaller shapes, kits, her long sleek pelt drawn back as she sat up, bristling. Three of the kits were hastily scrambling out, almost toppling over Hazelfur with their small, soft paws, but two were looking back and forth from the nursery entrance to Bankpelt's sprawled body uncertainly, and one was fiercely protesting.
"But I wanna see the new kits too!" she wailed, stamping her hind paw loudly.
"Well you won't, I can promise you that," the queen growled in the dark, getting impatient.
"It's not fair! I never get to do anything interesting!"
"Come on Lilykit, we can go play fox-and-mouse outside if you like," another kit mewed nervously, shuffling his paws.
"No fair!" the first kit screeched.
Meanwhile, the wailing was still going on, louder and louder, clouded with fear. Another shape moved towards the shape lying on the ground.
"Bankpelt, no! Don't leave me," he begged, his voice heavy with grief.
"She's fine!" Goldenbush's voice snapped. "Just bleeding a lot. Don't worry," she soothed. "Foxbite, give me those cobwebs."
It was just then that Hazelfur let herself gasp. For, beside Bankpelt, a scarlet pool of blood was spilling.
Hearing the noise, Goldenbush's head snapped back. "Who's there?" she hissed, eying Hazelfur. Hearing no more, Hazelfur hurriedly scampered away before she could be lectured. I'll never get a good look, she thought. But this is bad. Bankpelt's kit have come early, and they're taking a long time to be delivered. I'm guessing that's not a good sign. Great StarClan, please help me!
It as just then that with a surprised cry, she realised that in her panic, she had hurtled straight into some cat and toppled them over.
"Oof!"
"I-I'm so sorry! It was an accident!"
A muffled voice sighed. "You young rascals," the cat sighed gruffly. "Never polite these days. I can never meet a half-decent cat."
Another voice joined in. "Look at them, screaming and giggling without a care! They don't know how lucky they are, these ones!"
"I know, I know, well said, Weaselclaw."
"Precisely."
Hazelfur, thankfully not shaken, got up to see she had crashed into a small den, encircled by thick brambles tied with scraps of dried weeds. A few strings of ivy and gorse were stretched up overhead into a weak, loose, but cool ceiling that let light gusts from outside sweep through in the bright light of the blinking sun. Sunhigh heat warmed the walls, which were fanned with thick beech leaves. There were two other cats: the first, which Hazelfur had knocked over, was a she-cat, with an ruffled pelt that sagged and was caught with fleas, dirt and ticks. She had a huge, bushy, flustery tail that swept up dust everywhere, and old, dark amber eyes, set on a messy, brown muzzle that opened into a jaw of yellowed fangs. She muttered curses as she hastily got up from being knocked over before primly sitting down.
The second was a wiry, short-pelted tom, with a brown tabby pelt, a scarred muzzle, and only half a tail. His pale green eyes buzzed with annoyance and dismissal as he carelessly lay on his backside, propped on an old, soggy bedding of wilted moss and reeds.
Hazelfur stared at the pair, slowly backing away, still speechless. The elder's den! Oh no! Of all cats, I had to bump into an elder! Great. Just great. I'll be in mounds of punishment now. She gritted her teeth and absent-mindedly dug up the earth with her claws.
The tom looked at her in forgiveness. "Look, it's the new cat. Don't be so harsh on her, Thistletail."
Hazelfur let her shoulders sag, and the fur on her spine lie down flat again. Raising her ears, she nodded appreciatively. "Thank you," she meowed, her gaze resting on the elders. Brushing the tip of her tail against her forehead, she quickly rushed to the fresh-catch pile, the wide bramble entrance to the den brushing and snagging at her fur, and plucked off a juicy perch, wrinkling her nose at the smell, before heading back into the elders' den and respectfully dropping it in front of them.
"Well you ain't so bad then, I s'pose," the she-cat sighed contemptuously. "I guess a bit of politeness works both ways." Her eyes flickered with gratefulness as she licked her lips with her rough, gray tongue, and she and the tom dived in.
In between two messy mouthfuls, the tom introduced himself. "I'm Weaselclaw, by the way, and this is my mate Thistletail. She's a bit prickly."
"I could say the same for you!" Thistletail snorted hotly, shaking her head in a show of mock-despair. She then looked up, her bulgy, golden eyes swivelling upwards. "Pleased to meet you…it's Hazelfur, isn't it?"
Hazelfur breathed a sigh of relief. "Pleased to meet you too. And you actually got my name right. Who would have thought?"
Weaselclaw look amused as he licked the scraps off his fish carcass, savouring the last few morsels. "Oh, don't mind Sleekstar—she spent her first two moons as an apprentice trying to learn her mentor's name."
Thistletail laughed hoarsely, her voice cracked with age. "Don't you go telling others of your leader's flaws, Weaselclaw, especially as you're still chock-full of them yourself, even for a mite as old as you."
"Oh, really?" Weaselclaw challenged. "You know what, I think that we elders can gossip about anycat, anycat we please. We've seen enough days in this clan, and caught enough fish, to have all sorts if privileges. We've seen the birth of every cat in this clan!"
"You do have a point there, Weaselclaw. We've seen all the senior warriors and queens as kits, playing about and squabbling, kicking with their soft little paws, chasing butterflies all greenleaf and snowflakes all leaf-bare."
"We have suffered enough harsh days, from the hottest, starchingest droughts, to the coldest, harshest floods. We have been warriors and fought for our clan through all of these hard times, never once thinking of ourselves. We deserve some respect."
"I know, I know, well said, Weaselclaw."
"Precisely."
Hazelfur comfortably sat down on the peaty rock, her paw crunching a dried bracken frond. Stirring her tail, she swept up an old leaf, swirling up clouds of dust with it. "May I stay here?" she asked, nestling herself deeply into the ground. "I'm not exactly welcome from where I came from."
Weaselclaw's eyes darted forward as he stifled a chuckle, his old white whiskers twitching in the streaming sunlight. "Ah, got yourself in trouble at training, youngster?"
Her ears rang out in surprise. How had he guessed?
"Ooh, trust me, we elders can read young minds as easily as our own," Thistletail wheezed, snatching the fish carcass beside her into her muzzle and licking the scraps.
Weaselclaw nudged her. "It's pointless, I already finished it," he muttered, shrugging.
Thistletail have a growl before discarding the fish bones into a corner. "Really, this den is too small," she sighed as she scratched her nose. "So tell me then Hazelfur, did you catch anything?"
"I did!" Hazelfur nodded, barely able to contain her annoyance, "but then I got into an argument with one of the apprentices!"
Weaselclaw read her mind again. "Coldpaw," he muttered flatly, licking his tail plainly.
"Right," Hazelfur didn't even pause to realize Weaselclaw's statement, but went on, "because he called my catch pathetic, I lost my temper and shoved him in the river!" Then, thrusting her face down into her belly fur and wrapping her tail angrily around her flanks, she huffed down an angry curse.
"Well then," Thistletail licked her lips with a flick of her tail, "I s'pose you think you're in a right load of trouble."
"I am!" came Hazelfur's muffled wail from inside her heaving flanks.
"Trust me, unless Blackglare was there, you'll be fine," Thistletail mused, before chuckling loudly. "Only then you'll be in a pickle all right!"
Hazelfur almost choked out in disbelief. "But he was! He saw me push his own apprentice into the river!"
"Now there, don't you go snuffling down tears, youngster, there's so point mooding an' brooding over it now," Weaselclaw waved his tail dismissively, rubbing at a tick in his backside with his broad snout. "Every apprentice has gone into a piece of trouble like that."
Hazlefur was surprised at how calm he was, his tangled dark brown slumped down casually and his worn, scarred features hardly displaying any sign of pity. "There's no point in making us feel sorry for you," he meowed.
"I know," she sighed, heaving her flank down. "It's just—"
Suddenly, a peircing shriek filled the air, drowning out her voice in a wailing cry of intense pain. Hazelfur sat bolt upright and Thistletail cringed, wincing as the cry gradually ceased. "Bankoely!" The hazelnut she-cat burst out in panic. "I'd almost forgotten!" She winced in shame, shutting her eyes tightly. The new kit…
"It's certainly taking a long time," Weaselclaw huffed gruffly, shaking his head.
"Goldenbush is doing the very best she can," his denmate replied.
"I know, it's just—" The eerie scream engulfed the air once more, this time even more high and panicked than the last. Weaselclaw flopped over and shoved his head into his bedding, trying to block out the sound from his ears. "Can't she just be quiet for an instant?" he sighed.
"You don't know what it's like to have kits, you clueless tom!" Thistletail snarled, swatting his ear with her claws sheathed.
Weaselclaw snorted. "If only Thirstypool were here!" he snapped, raising his head from his meddling and shaking his muzzle. He immediately realised what he had just said and froze.
For the first time that day, Hazlefur felt a pang of grief for the messy-pelted impatient she-cat whom she had acquainted yesterday. Her heart filled with sorrow, even though she had just known her for half a day at most. Flattening her ears, she looked down in embarrassment.
It was Thistletail who broke the awkward silence. "Thirstypool was our friend for so many moons," she sighed. "The den just feels…empty without her." It was true. Now, to Hazlefur, the elders den just stretched out beside her, feeling bare and hollow. Sorrow swelled up from its depths, silencing the cats.
After another brief pause, the silence ebbed, and a tear slid down Thistletail's cheek, wetting the fur into a sleek and distinctly soggy trail. "She was my best friend when we were apprentices," she croaked.
Weaselclaw sidled up to her and gave her a comforting lick. "There now," he soothed, "at least you have me."
Thistletail's voice wobbled as she managed to choke out, "Yes."
"You'll be fine," he comforted.
Hazelfur watched the sorrowful sight, a pang of grief watering her eyes. She pushed down her sadness with a gulp and padded forward, patting Thistletail's paws. "Her death shocked us all," she whispered, "but we'll move on. She hunts with StarClan now." Thistletail nodded.
"Speaking of her death," Weaselclaw lowered his voice and cast a sharp glance towards his denmate, "what exactly do you think provoked her? Thirstypool was old, but I doubt whether she would have just dropped off dead suddenly like that."
Thistletail sniffed and flattened her ears, her neck fur bristling. "I heard that!" she hissed.
"Don't you think that we ought to find out the truth?" Weaselclaw demanded.
"Everyone treated Thirstypool with the respect she deserved. We should honor her memory proudly, not go furrowing in her business!" Thistletail argued.
Weaselclaw sighed and let his shoulders sag down. "Look," he meowed, "I'm just going to ask, all right? No harm in that."
He led Hazelfur outside to a shelter spot beside the den in a clump of ferns. She felt bracken crunch beneath her paws as she padded on the level ground, sunhigh heat basking in the crook of her fur. A ripple of wails was still coming from the nursery, and kits tumbled and bundled playfully outside, trying to figure out what was going on inside their den. Warriors shared tongues awkwardly and mingled about, under the plaintive howling noise. Sleekstar was barking orders to warriors, and two apprentices were trooping back with their mentors after a heavy lesson of battle, their fur sleek with sweat and their paws weary. Gingerpaw, who had recently gotten back from hers, greeted them cheerfully before bounding back outside the camp chattering noisily. More cats were sleeping lazily and bathing themselves in the pounding sun. It was all a typical RiverClan late greenleaf sunhigh. Almost, Hazelfur thought.
Weaselclaw turned on his paws to face her and narrowed his eyes. "Now," he mewed sternly, fixing his gaze intently on Hazlefur. "Tell me the truth. Did you say, or do anything that could have provoked Thirstypool?"
Hazelfur's voice shook. Her mind furrowed back to last night, to her final conversation with the grouchy elder. What had she said to her last? Was it…?
Her mind prickled uncertainly as she remembered: "Thirstypool...have you heard of the Fallen Warrior?"
"I…" she mumbled awkwardly, shuffling her paws on the sandy rock. "I… I asked her if she knew about the Fallen Warrior."
Weaselclaw just sighed out in relief, his flank expanding for a second. "Well," he meowed, "how'd a youngster like you go hearing about the Fallen Warrior?"
"But what is it?" Hazelfur persisted.
"Who, you mean," the elder tom corrected, brushing his flank against the den wall. "Oh, just some old elder's tale, happened some time ago, just before Thirstypool was born. It occurred in ShadowClan. No-one is really sure if it's true or not."
Hazelfur nodded. "Go on."
"Well, apparently he committed some kind of wrong-doing. He killed a few of his family members or something. Anyway, StarClan decided to punish him, and one morning, he woke up and not one single cat recognised him. His own Clanmates, seemingly finding a stranger in the warriors den, the friends he had fought by all his life, claiming they had no idea who he was and casting him out as a rogue. Harsh story. Bad ending. Only a few elders know the story, most cats would never have heard of it."
"But—" Hazelfur frowned, putting on a puzzled expression, "—if everyone forgot him, then how did the story carry on?"
Weaselclaw just let out a hollow chuckle. "That's why it probably never happened."
Disappointed, Hazelfur and him turned back and padded back inside the den, where Thistletail was fuming.
The Fallen Warrior? Is that who StarClan was trying to tell me about? Did the story really happen then? If it's nothing more then an old tale, then what spooked Thirstypool so much? Her whole mind was spinning in a daze. The a though struck her.
What if StarClan have condemned me to the same curse as the Fallen Warrior from the story?
"And not to mention he told be to slap some honey on my mouth the other day! Honestly, what lack of manners! No respect! Disgraceful!" Thistletail spat.
"It's a scandal! An outrage! We've seen more days than Blackglare could dream about, and yet he acts as if he knows better! What a disgusting, bossy, flea-bag of a furball!" Weaselclaw hissed.
"I know, I know, well said, Weaselclaw."
"Precisely."
Hazelfur was sitting on the den, her tail curled neatly around her paws, politely pretending to listen to the elders' tiresome rant about how Blackglare was a no-good thieving conceited scum. In truth, her mind was constantly wavering to what Weaselclaw had told her: was she one step closer to finding out the truth that StarClan was hiding from her? To getting back to ThunderClan? Her mind was still furrowing frantically, trying to tie the loose pieces together. But that's impossible! I haven't done anything to make StarClan want to punish me!
"And," Thistletail went on, ignoring the deep crease that was furrowing on Hazelfur's brow, "his apprentice is such a nuisance as well! Honestly, Coldpaw's always grumbling about getting out our ticks! Doesn't he know that the other apprentices understand it's their duty to help the poor, fantastic, innocent elders? What makes him so special?"
Weaselclaw was clearly enjoying this. "The other day, I heard Brookwish complain to Silverscale that she had caught him eating his catch on a fishing patrol. That's against the warrior code!"
"Spot on!"
"What a dirty little fox-heart. I don't know if he's like that because of his natural personality or because of his mentor."
Thistletail gave a low purr. "Exactly! Probably both. You know the rule: A good warrior always think of their Clanmates before themself."
"I absolutely agree. What would be the warrior code if every warrior fought only for their own life? We would all be rogues!"
"I know, I know, well said, Weaselclaw."
"Precisely."
Hazelfur left the two to bicker, squeezing out of the brambles that marked the entrance to the den and padded into the center if the camp. Heavy, hot, starching post-sunhigh heat beat down on her backside, making sweat pool behind her neck as her paws slid over the hot, sandy rock. The jaws of late greenleaf opened for the last time as heat engulfed her. Sliding through the rock cracks, her tail sweeping up clouds of dust, her belly gave a loud rumble. She realised that it was gnawing with hunger, and she longed for something tasty to eat. She felt as if she hadn't eaten squirrel for moons, or tasted mouse for moons.
Her mind strayed to the Fallen Warrior's story. What does it mean?
I don't know, she sighed as she shook her head to clear it. I just need a break.
She then arched her back and pelted towards the nursery as fast as her limbs could carry her. She didn't want to miss this. She pushed her way past the scramble of kits that littered the clearing outside the nursery. One of them, a slender golden she-kit with dark brown flecks on her pelt, was trying standing up on her hind legs, her chest puffed out regally as she bragged, "I, Jaguarstar of JaguarClan, will lead you all to battle against the evil SwiftClan!"
Another kit, a small silver-blue tom, shook his head and bared his fangs. "Never, you treacherous mange-pelts!
Then two and another four kits then leapt at each other, and engaged in a mock-tussle, furiously rolling over on top of one another and aimlessly batting their paws.
Hazelfur had no remorse for the kits, furiously clawing through their messy tangled heap with blunt claws.
One kit, its creamy pelt tossed aside, showered on the dust and scrambled back up indignantly. "Hey!" it squeaked, trying to look alarming as it fluffed up its fur, arching its soft spine in a round arc. "That's not very—" It was cut off by another kit, an older-looking ruffled-grey long-pelted tom.
"You can't just barge in like that!" it hissed angrily, spaying up flecks of dirt as its paws dug deep into the earth. "That's not nice!"
"Yeah!" Another tomkit, large for his age, soft brown with a ginger-gold striped tail and a white tail-tip, buffeted up his furry chest and backed up his denmate. "You just ruined our game!"
Hazelfur just rolled her eyes up to the sky. StarClan, please! I don't have time for this! Looking down at the glaring kits, she shook out her fur dangerously and extended her long, sharp glinting claws, prowling forward like a tiger, body low, barely touching the sandy ground. Thrusting her muzzle into the trembling kits, she lowered her voice until it was a deep growl. "Really?" she snarled, keeping her meow to a low whisper. "Maybe while JaguarClan and SwiftClan argued over petty skirmishes, a more evil, more clever and more powerful HazelClan rose, and attacked them both, killing them all!" Sliding forward from her belly, she leapt over the wide-eyed kits and raced past, paws plundering on the ground.
She heard a kit's bare mew behind her as it trembled. "Cragstone, that cat attacked us!"
A warrior scurried past, wrapping his tail protectively around the kit, shooting a glare like a fox's in Hazelfur's direction. "Don't worry, my little treasures," he purred defensively, clawing furiously at the ground. "That's just a very very bad cat. Rogues are always very careless, and you must ignore them."
Mouse dung! Hazelfur thought as she hared away. Now those kits' father hates me! Just another enemy in my life I could do without. Slipping down by a sheer rise of stone, pelt brushing the rock, she slid towards the nursery, where the wailing shrieks of a screaming queen echoed.
She squeezed through the brambly nursery entrance, ignoring the thorns snagging at her fur. No cat protested as she joined the small crowd. It seemed as if everyone was in despair. Even Goldenbush was standing well back, head hung low, as if admitting defeat.
"Help me!" Bankpelt wailed on agony, too weak to even roll on the ground. Blood was oozing from her fur, some dried and crusty as if from a few hours, some fresh and sticky, pooling in a red lake. The tom was, shaking, gazing at his mate.
"Please," his voice trembled as he murmured, "just please, please, save her."
Goldenbush shook her head. "I'll do all I can, but it'll be a lost cause." Bending down to nip some more horsetail, and clumping even more cobwebs, she worked silently, her gaze fixed straight down as if thinking of failure. Grimacing as bitter tastes flooding her tongue, she nipped and bound, but nothing seemed to be helping. Bankpelt seemed to be even too weak to cry out by now.
Goldenbush got out and sighed. "I'm sorry," she nodded sadly, "but she's going to die."
The tom growled low, scraping his claws against the peaty hearth of the nursery in frustration. "Are you telling me that you can't help a cat in need?"
Goldenbush still worked at her herbs, chewing some leaves into a dry poultice. "It's the truth. No medicine cat could have ever hoped to save this cause. Must have been StarClan's will."
The tom shook with fury. "Are you now telling me that it was StarClan's will for this to happen?"
Frostyflight looked up from where she was clutching the sprawled queen's hand. "Not necessarily," she mewed calmly, her voice heavy with grief as she tried to reassure her clanmate. "Sometimes these things just happen."
Hazelfur watched the sorry sight from the entrance to the nursery. Stepping in further, she peered in the gloom to see a huge spasm rippling Bankpelt's body. Goldenbush evidently noticed it too, for she hastily spat out her leaves and applied a strong-scented herb to her paws, which she had at the ready. "The kit's arrivubg," she murmured, her voice soft with sadness. "This is it."
The tom paced around the cramped den, snarling in frustration. "No! Get the StarClan-forsaken thing out of my sight!"
Then, suddenly, very, very gently, Bankpelt's lip began to tremble, as if she was trying to speak but couldn't since it was so exhausting. Her breathing shallow, she seemed to mumble out something weakly, but Hazlefur's strained ears could not make out what it was. Another spasm shook her body as she shuddered terribly, then took a deep, exhausting breath. "P-romise me," she croaked as another pool of blood streamed out and drenched the sticky white covering of cobwebs. "P-promise me, Streamfur," she begged, rasping, "that you will always take care of the kit. It's not its fault. Take care of it. Always remember that I love you." Then, suddenly, her body took a huge breath, her last, and a massive shudder rippled through her muscles, while a small, silver-blue bundle slithered out onto the ground, and she dropped still.
Goldenbush reached out hurriedly with her paws, scooping out the bundle. Nipping at the sac with her sharp teeth, she took out a fluffy, bundle. The silence stretched in the nursery.
The red queen was the first to recover from the silence, her high harsh voice cutting the atmosphere like a sharp stone. "Is that it done?"
The tom's storm-grey head and furry white muzzle turned a sickly, snow pale. His paws trembled. His throat shook. His whole body finally wobbled, before he threw his head up and let out a wailing, eerie howl.
"No! Bankepelt, No!" he threw his head down and kicked up a spray of dirt with his hind paw as he collapsed into the ground. "It's not fair!"
Hazelfur felt sorry for the tom, and she padded over to him comfortingly and pressed her side against his. Frostyflight rounded over and curled her fluffy white tail around him, warmth evaporating from her body. But despite their best efforts to comfort him, their eyes were all large and dully white, and the general atmosphere uncertain. Hazelfur felt sick as she pressed her paw to the tom's side, feeling immensely sorry for him. So she wasn't the only one thinking that life wasn't fair. Why? What did Bankpelt ever do to anyone? Why did she have to die?
Goldenbush then seemed to recover from her temporary paralysation. "Quick," she snapped, her jaws clenching as she roughly grabbed the kit by the scruff, dragging it in front of Hazelfur. "Make yourself useful and lick it." Although determination and anger blazed in her voice Hazelfur could see plainly how shaken the RiverClan medicine cat was, and how brazen she was to be making out that she was keeping her cool. Nerves fluffed out like a a fox's pelt in her body, she began to give the bundle rhythmic rythmic licks.
Is StarClan really this cruel, that they would take away this kit's mother?