Am I already too late for a halloween story? I don't think so. I know all too well that there are some smithereens of fright and dread left for me to stir up in you, people.
During every cycle of seasons there comes a night where, as every cat on these lands can account for, a certain event happens. Its mention, if accompanied by the sounds of wilted leaves falling from the oak and sycamore trees, causes teeth to chatter, hairs to stand on their ends and beady eyes to dart in all directions. Those are gestures that the listeners will perform shamelessly, as it is understandable for anyone, be it kitten, apprentice or warrior, to feel uneasy- even perturbed- when being reminded of the many frights they had been subjected to in that dreaded night, and of the many more that were to come.
What is it that makes this night stand out so eerily from, say, one where a moonless sky conceals the glint of a fox's stare to a wandering cat? The answer arises from that same example. Even when there is no moon, what is and always should be present are the stars that poke into a night's dark veil and offer their company and guidance to all below it. This one night that every cat finds uncanny is unlike any other, for it is when, once dusk comes to an end, one can glance up to find that each and every glinting dot has faded from the firmament, leaving no trace of their existence. As unnerving as this alone may sound to the faint-hearted, what scares warriors is not how the absence of stars looks like, but rather what it implies. Without stars, the omnipresence of the ones that the clans hail falters, their omniscience of all that goes down in the territories they look out for is questioned, and the omnipotence that they rely on to protect the clan cats from evil is all gone.
These conclusions are not completely accurate, but they get as close as the simplicity of a living being's imagination can go. During this starless night, those that lie in the sky are still very much there, as powerful and all-knowing as ever. Their disappearance is not caused by something outside of their control. They can very well be present on every one of those seasonal nights, keeping their vigilance over the living as unwavering as it had been for countless moons. Nothing forces them to leave. They themselves are the ones that willfully turn their backs on the living and consent for a cruel tradition to take place. Once on each leaffall, the clans have to endure a night haunted by the spirits of those who are not as hallowed as the ones in the stars, so that the warriors would know of what malice they were being protected from, and thus be thankful for such providence.
Let it not be thought that the cats in the stars are as foolish as their callous act might make them appear. In their adamancy to attain to their perceived standards of novelty and fairness, they had long ago made it impossible for the spirits to hurt any living creature's bodies. That, however, does not prevent these wicked souls from bringing as much damage to the minds of the living as they saw fit. They can steal the sleep from even the most veterans of warriors. They can make apprentices squeal and scamper back to their mothers with their tails between their legs. And they certainly are allowed to traumatize the innocent minds of kits if they wanted to. To the blind eyes of those in the stars, all that could partially satisfy the spirits' ever going drive for revenge was fair.
This tradition has been going and will likely continue to go uninterrupted for seasons upon seasons. The living cats call it The Night of the Spirits and the souls of the wicked call it Our Night of Liberation. Meanwhile, the cats in the stars never cared to refer to the whole ordeal as anything other than an indispensable test of devotion.
The horrors that The Night of Spirits brings with it are countless. Bitter whispers right next to the ears, shrieks and blind swipes from paranoid cats, the feeling of utter dread that churns in one's stomach and is augmented by the aberrant stench that fills the air, and the sensation of being watched by a thousand eyes; those and so many more sensations shall prevail until day breaks. Do know that the sun's arrival does not exactly convey immediate serendipity for the living, as it sets the stage for what is arguably the worst part of the night. No living cat can ever forget the sounds they hear near sunrise, the time at which all the spirits gather, cheer and gambol in lively circles around the camp, bellowing as a rioting chorus of maniacs while they celebrate a successful night of torment.
The rite is referred to as the Dance of the Fleeting Shadows. Its name arises from how, due to the faint light that reaches the camp's grounds, the wicked spirits all finally become visible to the naked eye as columns of shades, winds and forest debris, like leaves and twigs, all whirling and swaying in an incomprehensible choreography. That sight lasts only until the sun's first rays touch one of the spirits' shadowy bodies. Thereafter, they are all cast back to the ghastly realm where they had come from. Only then are the living allowed to draw tired breaths and emerge from their dens, although some cats will still shriek or shrivel for what remained of the day, still feeling unsafe until they see the stars taking their place in the sky once again.
There are stories of kits, apprentices and even a deputy or leader being unfortunate enough to get caught in the Dance of the Fleeting Shadows. They were not spotted again until dawn arrived and brought the ghostly turmoil to a sudden end. With the spirits gone, the trapped cats are left behind as quavering victims of horrors far beyond what words could describe. It was rumoured that those cats had been shown the place where the wicked spirits came from. Many believed, too, that it was only due to those living cats' faith that on their ancestors that their souls were not dragged away to spend an eternity of unending terror in whatever realm they had seen.
These rumours are fake, of course. But, as many others do, they were originated from a place of truth; the story of a tom named Ravenbeak. He was an elder whose long kinship with life had coated his black pelt with ashen tufts and clouded his amber eyes with a glazed grey. During one of many Nights of the Spirits, when the sun slowly began to tinge the sky with orange streaks, the living cats had remained inside their dens and observed with unease how different gusts of wind and shadows congregated around the camp, knowing that their final rite of the night was about to commence. That was when, to the surprise of all that watched, Ravenbeak walked out of the hollow trunk that made up the elders' den. His clanmates tried to yell for him to get back inside, that it was dangerous, but the old tom either did not listen or did not mind, as he kept pacing forward with his tail held high. What was even more shocking to the living cats was seeing how, almost as if prompted by a stronger force, the shadows split into two. They had granted Ravenbeak a path that he was now crossing to reach the centre of the camp, where he paused. In front of him, there seemed to be something amongst the shadows. A figure, as one of the witnesses later claimed. Then, as Ravenbeak took a short step closer to that figure, the shadows closed again and hid him from view.
If Ravenbeak had screamed, no one was completely sure, because every spirit soon began to howl while their senseless shapes started to prance around the entire camp, flinging prey from the fresh-kill pile into the air and shaking the walls of every den they came across. A few cats still swear that they had caught a glimpse of Ravenbeak within the chaos, that he was dancing alongside the wicked spirits as if he was one of them. Such a statement made sense, to some. The elder had become quite infamous by how his old age led him to have constant fevers that often came with delirious claims of seeing and talking with the wicked spirits, even going as far as to reminisce on his memory of one of them, a she-cat named Piperwing. That name was glowered at by the other elders, though no warrior could guess why.
Regardless of whether the clan believed Ravenbeak or not, everyone could agree on how his participation in the Dance of the Fleeting Shadows had ended. When the spirits left the camp, there remained, laying limply on the ground, the elder's body. A medicine cat needed only one probe with her paw to confirm that he had indeed died on the spot. Even the least superstitious, whose immediate conclusions were that Ravenbeak's age had finally caught up to him, could not fully repress the thought that the circumstances of his death were too coincidental to hold no meaning.
Ravenbeak had approached the spirits. He had engaged with their horrid celebration. For that act of blasphemy, his soul had been taken away. If the rest of the rumours spoke true, then he would be punished in the realm of the wicked until the end of time.
From then on, every living cat who spectated or was caught in the Dance of Fleeting Shadows would shrink themselves to the ground and desperately pray for protection, promising to never be led astray from their ancestors' wisdom. One could conclude that Ravenbeak's demise was a success for the cats in the stars, and they would be right. What would be a wrong guess, however, would be on who had actually claimed Ravenbeak's soul.
When telling the stories of real cats, especially if trying to impart lessons with them, it must never be forgotten to look at different perspectives. Otherwise, one's inferences will always be refutable and the moral of the story would be ultimately inconclusive. Ravenbeak's actual story did not conclude with his soul being snatched away by the spirits. Do not be confused. His soul was certainly claimed that night, only that his destination came to be above rather than below him. When he had walked towards the jeering spirits, he had not done so because his own heart was corrupted by their wickedness. On the contrary, it had been touched by the pureness in every soul that surrounded it, recognizing them and their struggles and fearing not their presence. When the spirits enclosed Ravenbeak, they did not do so to trap him. They did so to grant him the privacy he needed to be with Piperwing, the figure who had patiently stood at the centre of the camp.
Why would the spirits do that, one may ask? Previous experiences have shown that the most appropriate answer to that question tends to enrage more than one listener, but it is how things always were. Even spirits have a heart. In death, they never lose it, or at least, not the parts of it that matter. If they can rivet on terrorizing the living, then it should make sense for them to be susceptible to any other stimulus of emotions, would it not? If they can sense the fear palpitating on a clan cat's beating heart, then they can hear the passionate drumming originated from within the chest of one of their own, too.
So, the spirits were compelled to step away. They allowed Piperwing, the cursed soul, and Ravenbeak, the lonely elder, to be reunited at last.
They two did not embrace. They could not. One of their bodies was made of shades. The other would not be able to touch or smell them. Instead, they looked at each other's eyes and, as if having prepared for that moment their entire life, took a slow step to their respective rights. With paws delicately sliding on the ground, the motion continued until the two cats had their sides displayed in front of each other. They were inviting their partner to gaze upon their pelt. Ravenbeak did not have much to show. His black fur had long lost its lustrous texture and slender form. Still, Piperwing appreciated every detail of it and let herself be looked at as well. She hoped that, past the shadows that made up her body, the elder would be able to see the interspersed brown, grey and white that he had once complimented as the most beautiful colours that had ever graced his eyes.
The two circled each other, taking in their respective sights until they at once flitted forward and slithered past each other. Had they been able to, their tails would have met and entwined, granting them a brief moment of closure, similar to how short their time together had been in life. Ravenbeak could only feel a column of cold air blowing through his tail, yet it gave him reassurance. All he needed to know was that the coldness proved Piperwing's presence. As for Piperwing, she was comforted by the warmth radiating from the tom's body. It reminded her of newleaf days and their promise of growth.
As soon as they finished passing by each other, the partners turned around with a hop, like little birds before flying off. They came face to face, heads held high, closer than they had ever been in moons. Staring at the only love of the tom's long life, Ravenbeak's amber eyes looked as if they had finally found their place in existence. Piperwing's gaze, for all its darkness, still retained the cleverness and devotion that she had shown time and time again to her dear warrior.
Though they wanted to stay in front of each other, they took a step back and the sequence was repeated. Twice, thrice, all the times they could have ever wanted. Ravenbeak's old body struggled to keep up, but he kept going. Piperwing could feel her departure growing near with each chirp that joined the morning's birdsong chorus, but she kept going. With the spirits surrounding them, contemplating how living and dead joined in to perform the Dance of the Fleeting Shadows, Ravenbeak and Piperwing felt understood. Their love had never been meant to be, the cats in the stars had decreed so many seasons ago, but those ancestors were too high up in the sky to see what emotions could be sparked below. The only ones that could comprehend a love as shameless and undying as the one Ravenbeak and Piperwing shared were the spirits that had come for their seasonal display of unfaithfulness.
Many of those souls pitied Piperwing, their comrade in sin. Medicine cat, yet mate to Ravenbeak. Her love was strong but so was her faith, or at least, the form of faith that the cats in the stars had indulged on the living. Through the horrors wreaked by The Night of the Spirits, Piperwing had been taught to fear how being unfaithful would lead to her becoming one of the wicked spirits. Had that fear not existed, she would have been driven to another path, one that would have perhaps allowed her to live as one with Ravenbeak in the stars, as slim as those chances now seem. She would not have hidden the news of her pregnancy from Ravenbeak. She would have had a reason to hope that her litter would grow without punishment for what their parents had done. She would have seen a future to fight for when a leafbare greencough infected her. She would have lived a long and peaceful life by Ravenbeak's side, and so would their kits.
For her misdeeds and for renouncing the life that her ancestors had granted both her and her litter, Piperwing had been penalized with what she feared the most. She was banished to a forest filled with dread and plagued with wicked spirits, she never saw her kits' souls again and Ravenbeak, like any other living cat, feared her presence when the night came for her to visit the living world. Though Piperwing knew that she and the other spirits had done wrong, she could not shake off the sentiment that those cats were victims, just like her, of the rules set by the cats in the stars. This soon led to her understanding why those spirits haunted the living with as much diligence as they had always done. They were resentful, yet also scared and ultimately powerless. They wished to take their anger out on the cats in the stars, for they had been wronged, but they could not do that. Even after death, they were still being ruled by their ancestors, so the only thing they could do was to comply and use their one Night of Liberation to feel like they were bringing their revenge upon their enemy, even if it was all an obvious deception.
After all the misery, atonement and regret she had endured from the moment she drew her last breath, Piperwing felt like she could leave her sorrows to rest when having Ravenbeak so close to her. For what remained of the night, she was free from all of it.
In the case of Ravenbeak, when his mate had died so suddenly and so young, he had felt nothing but lost. He would only eat morsels and he barely get up from his nest. He saw no point to it. Many tried to lift up his spirits, a she-cat or two expressed their affection to him, but to no avail. Even though the tom was still in his prime, there was no youthful blithe in him anymore. Not without Piperwing. Seasons passed, kits grew into warriors and warriors became elders, but he remained the same, slowly and soulfully sinking into the gloomy confines of his den until, eventually, the time came for him to grow old as well. He became an elder the day that he had his first vision of spirits lurking in the shadows. No one had believed him. When he began to hear those cats whispering Piperwing's name, Ravenbeak had almost not believed himself, either.
But now, with the she-cat so close, any shred of doubt had been eradicated. He had finally found her. Past the shades and the leaves that made up her contour, Piperwing was there. Her wisping body skidded and jumped and Ravenbeak responded with mirroring movements, entranced by his darling's unnatural dexterity. His aggravated lungs could barely catch up to the effort, but he would not stop. For that night, he felt young again. Young enough to dance along with his soulmate in a rite that he could somehow perform perfectly.
It was at the moment when dawn arrived that Ravenbeak and Piperwing took their final step forwards and were allowed to embrace. They felt the touch of each other's furs. Ravenbeak could no longer feel coldness dissipating from his mate's body, almost as if he had lost his ability to perceive such sensation. Piperwing felt the tom's heart beating rapidly to the rhythm of affection, until the bumping gradually petered out. Their eyes were closed, so neither of them saw Ravenbeak's body lean and fall to the ground while his soul remained standing. They knew it had happened, but they paid no mind to it, for they both felt as alive as they had ever been.
Then, Ravenbeak was gently lifted in the air, his soul claimed by the skies above, while Piperwing, along with and every other spirit in the camp, was snatched away by the morning sun. The cats in the stars had separated Ravenbeak and Piperwing once again, but the she-cat did not let her despair show. She would not grant anyone that satisfaction. She simply let herself be carried back to where she belonged, uttering no word and letting out no howls.
Ravenbeak watched as his mate's soul grew thinner and dimmer, becoming one with the shadows cast by dawn. He watched as his clanmates rushed out of their dens to try to prod his body awake. He felt a newfound sense of both respect and pity for them. They would continue to endure the horrors of The Night of the Spirits, never seeing it as anything other than a curse. He wished he could tell them what he had felt when he and Piperwing had reunited, but alas, the stars were calling to him. He ascended and soon found himself in a land of splendorous forests, pastures and mountains. His mother and father were there to greet him, younger than he had ever seen them in life. Alongside them were two unknown kits that shared different patterns of black and ginger colours, while Ravenbeak's pelt was still frizzled and greyed. When he asked why, his mother told him it meant that he had been the happiest at the moment of his death. Then, the two kits hurried to rub themselves against Ravenbeak's front legs and told him they had something very important to tell him.
As they stand now, Piperwing and Ravenbeak will not meet again. Perhaps, when the clans forget about them, they will be united in whatever realm their souls shall vanish to. But that moment is far from coming. For as long as the Night of the Spirit takes place, living cats will continue to encounter a form of Piperwing's spirit and Ravenbeak's tale will be used to warn kits of the dangers of getting trapped in The Dance of the Fleeting Shadows.
The sinful mates will not be allowed to reunite in peace. Such goes Starclan's ultimate sentence for their sin. Fear your ancestor's condemnation, young ones, for if you defy them like Ravenbeak and Piperwing dared to do, your punishment will extend from this life to the next.
Happy six-day-late halloween!