On my last sunrise in ThunderClan, there was a crisis. Brambleclaw had taken Firestar out on a pleasant Greenleaf stroll. Nothing should've happened. Nothing was planned, and if something was planned, it should've been planned that the Stone Hollow would be attacked during the absence of the ThunderClan's leader and deputy. That would've made a dramatic story. Nothing is more dramatic than a Clan's camp being attacked. Kits are put in danger and honor is broken. Nothing gets the blood hotter than the queens fighting. A camp invasion makes a dramatic story; for their companions, warriors lay out their lives casually, backs against the walls; because of this, a camp invasion takes planning. Unfortunately, this crisis was a Greenleaf stroll and, as such, automatically forfeited any dramatic storytelling.
Brambleclaw was the new sparkling deputy of ThunderClan. Firestar was having an off day. Hawkfrost was a walking tragedy. Brambleclaw lured Firestar to the lakefront where the fox trap was set. Hawkfrost committed to foolish evil. Firestar blinked and then the trap was sprung. On the bloody sand, Brambleclaw killed Hawkfrost, spiked him through the heart and lungs, and Firestar lost a life. Firestar's neck healed, but the blood didn't wash off, so there was no hiding what had happened. That's the story with all the facts. Except Brambleclaw and Hawkfrost had been brothers. Except Hawkfrost had been a RiverClan warrior on ThunderClan territory. Except Firestar had just lost a life to his deputy. Except for pretty much everything else.
The halfbridge between ThunderClan's and ShadowClan's territory was the new Sunningrocks. The stream technically marked the edge of ThunderClan's territory, but by the lake, there was a series of stepping stones, and just across from there was the halfbridge. ThunderClan thought it was a beautiful spot during Leaf-Bare and Leaf-Fall when all the twolegs left. It was basically the perfect spot to bring your mate or to confess to your love. If you were good at singing or knew ancient ThunderClan rhymes, you could woo anyone on that halfbridge. As such, ThunderClan wanted the territory badly, but Blackstar was Blackstar and had helped draw the borderlines.
Leaf-Bare is the worst time to start a fight. The cold saps your strength, diseases from inflicted wounds are worse, and blood freezes on your pelt like a disgusting tick, but on one cold, snowy sunrise, I was the first responder to a bloody scuffle for the halfbridge. I leaped through belly-high snow, crashed through frozen undergrowth, and then joined the fray. Blackstar was there, and while I had never been a petty cat, I indulged in those petty, violent thoughts. I knew my target. It was Sunningrocks all over again.
Let me tell you why border patrols fight. When you're there on the border, you're there with your brothers and sisters. You've been walking all sunrise, putting scent markers everywhere, leaning and crouching down and doing the dirt. Your clawing trees, rubbing your face and whiskers and flanks against bushes. You're standing there on the border taking in the scents, you've worked up an appetite, and some strangers on the other side are doing the exact same thing. It's us versus them. Some cat always starts it; sometimes, it's you who starts it. Some words get said, violent, hastily thought-out words. You're exhausted and starved. A squirrel runs across the border. It doesn't matter whos' or in which direction.
There is nowhere else. There is nothing else to live for. You can't go anywhere. You're with your brothers and sisters, and they're all you'll ever have. You're hungry and angry, and if those strangers on the other side of the border take even one step across it, you'll tear them into mousedust. That's why border patrols fight. That's why you fight.
Here's another reason why border patrols fight. Fighting makes you alive; it makes you dead. Getting your flank split open hurts, but it also dulls everything else. Border patrols are where honor is broken; it's where honor is made. It's where you make your true friends; it's where your friends die. It sounds like a contradiction, but it isn't. When you're splitting the flank of your enemy, it's astonishing. When you're surrounded by all sides, bleeding and crying from every muzzle-length of your body, you're caught in the grandeur of it all. The grandeur of war steals your senses and makes your mind betray you. You're taught as a warrior that your job is to protect your Clan by encouraging peace, but you're a warrior and border patrols are where cats die. You might as well tell the wind to stop blowing. They might as well ask you to stop living.
When you're on your back legs, matching blows with a ShadowClan warrior, paws on the halfbridge, back to the water, you feel like StarClan is watching. When you're slammed into the halfbridge, skull crashing into the wood, you feel like you're going die. When you bounce back up and feel blood wet your claws, you feel as alive as the world around you. For a heartbeat, you understand that your flesh is temporary and that one sunrise, you will be starlight in the Silverpelt. Your blows seem to strike with justice, and the blows you take seem like divine punishment. You feel wet from blood; it brings you closer to death, but afterward, it brings you closer to life. You learn things about yourself. For example, you're more like your birth mother than you thought, and you're still not over the death of your loved ones, even if you had told yourself previously that you had moved on. These are the things you learn about yourself. You can only learn these things at a border patrol fight.
The rule about telling stories in RiverClan is this: if you can't feel it in your heart, it isn't true. Take this story for example: One sunrise, Squirrelflight confessed while we were sharing tongues. I groomed her while she shared the story.
"I've been thinking about kits," Squirrelflight said. "Brambleclaw and I have been sleeping together, and it's got me thinking."
I hummed around a knot of fur. I worked around her shoulder, working my tongue into the knots. Teeth were no good if you were trying to do it right. Squirrelflight deserved to look beautiful.
"I mean—"
I paused in grooming her. "Squirrelflight," I said, making sure to be patient with her. "I know what sex is. You don't have to dodge around the subject and we're alone."
"Oh, thank goodness," Squirreflight said. "Dad said I could trust him or Mom with anything, but it's so awkward with them, and Dad has mentioned you a lot and seemingly trusts you with a lot even though you're not the deputy."
"I'm glad that I've earned your father's trust. What did you want to talk about?" I went back to working through her fur. Unsurprisingly, a cat like Squirrelflight was too antsy to groom herself reliably. Hopefully, that would change as she grew older.
"Brambleclaw and I have been thinking about kit names now that I'm pregnant—" I pressed my nose to her pelt and breathed deeply, "—Leafpool confirmed it last sunrise, and I haven't told anyone yet. It's explained the random food cravings!"
What a liar! On anyone else, it would've worked.
"When I was a queen, I conferred with my fellow queens on what to name my kits. We went with traditional RiverClan names. Usually, the Lightning has a lot of suggestions, but that seems like your role in the upcoming moons. Has Leafpool told you how many?" I waited for her, lying patiently on the stone.
Squirrelflight opened her mouth, stuck, because she didn't know. When your medicine cat told you were pregnant, you always asked how many kits. They'd always know; such was their power. The fact that Squirrelflight didn't know was telling.
"Squirrelflight…" I said. "It's Leafpool, isn't it?"
Her whole body locked up, the barest fear scent wafting off her, but I continued working on her shoulders. Finally, she was starting to look groomed around the scruff, so I started working down her back. Squirrelflight relaxed.
"How'd you know?"
"Once you're heavily pregnant, you'll have a particular scent. All queens and former queens can recognize it, but if you pay attention and get used to the scent, you can tell if a she-cat is pregnant at any time. You also didn't know how many kits Leafpool was having. Trust me, if you ever become pregnant yourself, it'll be the first thing you ask," I said. "And I know you, you'd take in the kits of your sister any sunrise."
Squirrelflight gulped, confidence renewed. "Leafpool's had kits with—"
"Stop," I said. I put one of my paws to my chest, forgetting that I had tossed aside Blackclaw's feather seasons ago in another world and time. "It's best if I don't know. They'll be treated like any other kittens. I'm assuming that you're going to hide this fact from everyone, including the kits?"
Squirrelflight nodded. "Do you think I'm making a mistake?" she said.
"No," I lied.
That moonrise, surrounded by the stillness of night, I prayed. I prayed to StarClan for forgiveness, and when that wasn't enough, I sang ThunderClan rhymes for Squirrelflight and Leafpool and their kits. The rhymes felt alien on my tongue, but I prayed for them, not knowing who would need StarClan's mercy more. I reached for my breast, trying to pray for their safety, but my necklace was gone; there was nothing to pray to.
Squirrelflight was young and bold. Despite not being half the talent of her father in a fight, she had already helped save the Clans once. Evidently, being good in a fight wasn't everything. She was an ember to her father's wildfire, but embers could last for days, keep the home burning long after everyone else was gone. Squirrelflight was young and picking up kits that were not her own. I felt that in my heart and knew it to be true.
And to think, I once thought Firestar would be the best of us.
On my last sunrise in ThunderClan, Stormfur and Feathertail were long gone. They'd left for RiverClan and had been called by StarClan for a divine task. I wondered for seasons afterward what they saw in RiverClan that they couldn't see in ThunderClan, but if they had an answer, I would never get the privilege of knowing. Like a RiverClan myth, pure and true, they'd set course for a wild destiny beyond the forest's borders. At moonhigh before her journey, I would meet Feathertail privately as a confidant. I would wish her well and wish her luck. She would give me one last gorgeous smile, setting off with her companions, and then I would never see her again.
I would see Stormfur again, but it would not be the same Stormfur. He would be tossed around between the Tribe of Rushing Water and RiverClan like some sort of twoleg toy; he'd crawl back to ThunderClan to lick his wounds and then leave for the Tribe of Rushing Water at his first chance. By the end of it all, Stormfur was a solemn, rock-like warrior. His mate Brook Where Small Fish Swim was similarly solemn.
This is the part where you ask me if it was worth it. Stonefur had died for Feathertail and Stormfur. In response, I had run from RiverClan. I could've been loyal and I could've forgiven Leopardstar on that blood-soaked battlefield. I had even considered it. Loyalty was the most true-to-self option. That loyalty had been what Stonefur had died for and that I should've followed his example. It would've been easy to return to RiverClan. I could've spent more time with my kits and rebuilding the RiverClan I loved. Stonefur had seemingly died for that. It's what he would've wanted me to do.
Stonefur was dead. Feathertail was dead. Graypool was dead. Oakheart. Bluestar. Stormfur was gone. Perhaps the world was worse off for me staying in ThunderClan for the time I did, but returning to RiverClan meant saying that it was worth it. I would've had to say that Stonefur was right and that Feathertail had died saving the Tribe and the journeying cats, thereby saving the Clans. Feathertail's ripples in death were larger than I ever imagined, more vast than I could've dreamed in a thousand seasons of heartbreak. If I returned to RiverClan, I would've had to say that Stonefur's death was worth it.
There's a moral there somewhere. It's a bad one.
Hawkfrost was dead. It was a small crowd. Firestar, Brambleclaw, and Squirrelflight were in the epicenter. Goldenflower and I were nearby, watching Hawkfrost's cooling corpse. Leafpool wasn't there. There was nothing to heal. There was a lot of frantic talking and apologizing. Brambleclaw was explaining himself, but Firestar already had that sharp gleam in his eyes, signaling that he had already made up his mind. If it wasn't for the blood, you wouldn't even know that he had recently died. I knew that look as I had seen it from Leopardstar. It was the look when you knew who your successor would be. Brambleclaw could say anything he wanted, but Firestar had already decided. I caught Firestar's eyes, matching his gaze with my own, and I wondered if he had planned this. Had Firestar willingly walked into a trap? Had he put his life in Brambleclaw's paws, trusting that his deputy would make the right choice? It was a ridiculous thought.
That's how you know it's true. The truly ridiculous is where the truth lies. The best stories have to set up the normal and prep the audience because the truth is often the most insane crowfood you've ever heard of. Cats looked at Firestar and thought he was soft because that was his normal, but Firestar's normal was to just prep you for when he climbed burning trees or fought an army of rats. Firestar was the kind of cat that was socially awkward around kits in one moment, and in another, he was the Rock for all the Clans. Firestar could generously be called a chivalrous, long-suffering, hothead squirrel-chaser, but great StarClan, he made you a believer!
Goldenflower kicked Hawkfrost's body. Her claws lashed out and scored another blow on his corpse. It was just her and I; the others were somewhere else, and knowing this, she kicked him again. Goldenflower leaned down and dragged her claws across Hawkfrost's flank, scoring deep gashes. Hawkfrost's fur and skin bent like wet grass, and Goldenflower started carving into Hawkfrost's face. She plucked his whiskers. She shredded his tail. She huffed and puffed as if being angry took great strength. It was ridiculous. Finally, I put one of my paws on her back. "Are you okay?" I said. Goldenflower looked back at me. I wasn't angry and she sighed. It was a sigh that explained everything else.
"Do you think he loved her more than me?" she said.
I thought about Tigerstar and about the kind of cat he had been. "I hope so," I said, "but I doubt it."
Goldenflower nodded for the last time. "I hope so, too," she said, "but I know he didn't." She shook her pelt, shaking out the finality of it all. She was shedding her previous life. As an honored elder, Goldenflower had nowhere to go but up.
I looked back at Firestar, and we caught each other's eyes. He smiled and approached us, bringing with him warmth and hope. It was like he was in that foxhole again with Greystripe and Ravenpaw, coming down to save Featherpaw and Stormpaw. His pelt had glowed so bright and it burned just as bright now with flecks of aged grey. "Thank you for your assistance, Mistyfoot," he said. "Brambleclaw and I can handle it from here, but only if one of you can take Squirrelflight with you back to camp." He looked cheekily at his daughter, who seemed to deflate at being dismissed.
Stonefur was right.
"Someone needs to take Hawkfrost back to RiverClan and explain things," I said. "Goldenflower can take Squirrelflight back to camp if you allow. I would like to return Hawkfrost to where he belongs."
Firestar's whiskers curled knowingly. He didn't have to ask, but he did: "Of course. Will you be coming back?" He was letting me be honest and keep my honor; it was such a ThunderClan concept.
"No. I don't think I will."
Firestar stuck his tail high up in the sky, celebrating that one of his friends would be leaving. I was leaving because I had healed, not because I had been hurt, and that was worth celebrating. "Well, may the sun warm your back and the fish leap into your paws," he said. Of course, he had to ruin it by adding: "Please don't ghost us at the Gatherings. We drypaws would be quite lost without you."
He should've left it at the RiverClan goodbye. That would've made a good story ending. It would've wrapped up everything and made the kittens happy, but Firestar had never been good at endings. Like an irresponsible thundercat, he was leaving the ending to me.
Leopardstar took me to the lake's inlet. It was distantly familiar, seen and glanced at by a long distance in ThunderClan. Horseplace was just beyond us, and to our east was the imposing twoleg bridge. We sat half-submerged in the river water, completely normal for her, but to me, it felt like being reunited with an old friend. Looking at her now, Leopardstar had aged in the opposite way of me, where my fur had become dull grey; all of her age had gone into her eyes and whiskers. The lake water seemed to amplify it, hiding her lower half so that you could only stare into her eyes. It made her look as ancient as I felt.
"I don't feel qualified to be deputy, Leopardstar," I said. She had made me deputy the sunrise that I had returned. Hawkfrost's body was still being buried and I was the deputy.
"You're more than qualified, Mistyfoot," Leopardstar said.
"I'm barely a RiverClan cat these sunrises. I enjoy eating squirrels now!"
"You'll adapt quickly. You always have," Leopardstar said. The water around her rippled as she talked. "You've always been more RiverClan than I."
"I'm too old."
"Old enough to the point where all your mistakes are behind you."
"I'm not sure."
"Steady strokes, Mistyfoot. Steady strokes," Leopardstar said. "You'll learn the territory, and then I'll be learning from you."
Leopardstar seemed tired as if she was on her last life. Her amber eyes were ancient gemstones, and her necklace, river shell and all sat empty and barren. Her mother had died during her kittening, and Leopardstar's siblings had died soon after. Her father, Mudfur, the greatest warrior in RiverClan at the time, hadn't been able to take the grief. He'd become a medicine cat, practically cutting ties with Leopardstar, and then had died of a mysterious illness that he couldn't cure. He hadn't been able to heal himself. In private and in but one moment, he had cautioned Leopardstar on war and in response, Leopardstar had banished him to plot with Tigerstar. Leopardstar and Mudfur had never been on good terms. Now Leopardstar was old with an empty necklace. In RiverClan, an empty necklace was the ultimate sign of sacrifice, ridiculed partly in mockery and honored not wholly in grief. Leopardstar had dedicated her entire life to RiverClan, and her life would die with her. She was dying alone in a Clan devoted to love.
"The Leopardstar that I remember was more insecure and close-minded," I said.
"I've made peace with my mistakes, Mistyfoot. I've lived in the age of Firestar. There won't be any songs about me… but there may yet be some about you." The water churned around her paws and I breathed. I hadn't sung a RiverClan rhyme in seasons.
We were at peace in those waters. We chatted and talked. Leopardstar talked about the territory, about where the best hunting spots were, what stretches of the border were most contested with ShadowClan and WindClan, and about the current members of RiverClan, who liked who, who was the best fighter and hunter, who was the most clever, who was the most beloved. We talked about all those little details that never make for a good story.
Finally, when the conversation had finally died down, Leopardstar looked me in the eyes and gave me her last and final command: "Mistyfoot, if I ever go too far again, I want you to kill me. RiverClan will understand."
"I can't do that," I said.
"You can and you will. I trust you, Mistyfoot," Leopardstar said. "I trust you more than I trust myself."
"Alright, I promise," I said because it was law. There was nothing I could say in retort. Leopardstar wanted to die. Her river shell was empty; she hadn't even bothered to fill it with a flower. She had no family. No kits. No living relatives. She was a RiverClan ghost. She had given everything up for RiverClan and would be remembered for her mistakes. She was carrying so much weight. What could I do to lighten it?
As we swam back to the sandy shore, I asked: "Do you know the rhyme called, 'Old Tomcat River?' I promise it's not a love song, but it's an old RiverClan song that Graypool used to sing to my brother and I when we were kits." Graypool had sung to us as kittens, but she had used a creative, liberal definition for what was considered a RiverClan classic.
"No," Leopardstar said. "I don't believe I know that one."
I nodded, pulling myself out of the water, trying to remember the lyrics. I hummed under my breath. "Okay, I'll start. Follow after me. 'Oh, tomcat of the river. He must—"
I was out with Reedwhisker, reconnecting with my son. We went north, cutting upward towards the ShadowClan border and then made a sharp turn west into uncharted land. It was a late gift to him to make up for all the lost time. We stopped often, taking our time to look at the world. For the rest of RiverClan, the deputy was simply familiarizing herself with the land. For Reedwhisker, it was his chance to reconnect with family. For me, it was a simple apology. I suspected that I would have plenty of time to reconnect with Reedwhisker in the coming seasons. He would be my deputy one sunrise. In my heart, I knew that to be true.
The trees of Newleaf surrounded us as we plucked flowers and drank from the streams. We found stones smoothed down by ancient forces, and we used them to mark our trail. Eventually, we drifted farther from the lake; unfamiliar and strange territory laid out around us.
Reedwhisker didn't have a necklace.
"Why haven't you made a necklace? Hopefully, you're not trying to copy me," I said.
Reedwhisker twisted his head cutely, and his nose turned pink. "Ah, no," he said. He paused, and I gestured at him to continue. "Well, it's just we don't have that silver grass you used to use when I was a kit. I… also don't have anyone that I'm pining for yet."
"We can fix that first problem," I said and pointed to some vibrant reeds. Reedwhisker shook his head in mirth, but I was already moving, old familiar motions coming back to me as I began to clip strands. I began to weave. "You'll need a river shell," I said. "Go find one."
Reedwhisker left, time blurred, and when he returned, I was close to finishing my work. I looked at him and decided that he had chosen well. His river shell was beautiful. It was large with a clean hole through it, and in the sunlight, it gleamed gold. It was perfect as I looped it through the woven necklace. Reedwhisker leaned down, letting me slide his necklace onto his neck. He was allowing me to participate in something sacred and immensely private.
"They say it's a curse to have an empty river shell. Is that true?" Reedwhisker said.
I didn't answer and began looking through the local flowers. There was a beautiful dahlia flower, glowing gold and silver. I clipped it, holding it gently in my mouth, and then tried to fit it into his river shell. It was too large and I had to trim its stem down a second time before it finally fit. Now, at last, Reedwhisker looked handsome and complete. He would make a she-cat very happy one sunrise.
"That dahlia flower will get you by for a bit until it begins to rot. You'll want to keep something in your river shell at all times unless you want to copy Leopardstar, but you don't have to settle on any particular item until you're ready. Since you're not pining after anyone right now, I'd recommend sticking with perishable flowers until you find your loved one. Then you can find a real keepsake for her," I said.
"Blackclaw never told me any of this."
"I think he had other things on his mind. We'll have to forgive him!"
"What about you?" Reedwhisker said. He poked my empty chest. "It's never too late to start again, Mom."
"I don't think you're going to get another dad," I said.
"Maybe another mom?"
"Reedwhisker! Don't speak crudely about Leopardstar!"
"You mentioned Leopardstar, not me!"
I smacked him in the nose with my tail, but Reedwhisker was already working in the reeds, trying to make me a necklace. He was clumsy and inexperienced, his paws slipping around the reeds like water. "You're doing it wrong," I said. He looked at me, and I leaned down beside him. "Here," I said, putting my paws out to help. "Let me help you." I clipped a reed with my teeth and then very gently showed him the process. He tried again and I guided his paws. It was getting close to sundown, but we still had time.
At some point, I left to find my own river shell. There were very few good options, so I was forced to pick a small river shell and then chew a hole in it with my teeth. It would work for my second life. When I returned, Reedwhisker had finished, now a master at the craft, and I watched him loop the river shell through a necklace of reed. I leaned down and felt him place it on my neck. It was a familiar weight. Blackclaw's rainbow feather was long gone, but Reedwhisker went back to the flowers and picked out another dahlia. He slid it into my river shell, clipping its stem so that it would fit, and I felt whole again.
"Now we match," Reedwhisker said and it felt appropriate.
As we returned to RiverClan, following our stone markers until the familiar ShadowClan border came up, we saw Blackstar. He was sitting by the small thunderpath, alone without any ShadowClan warriors, and was looking at the halfbridge that bordered our territory. Leopardstar had informed me that it was also a highly contested spot like the halfbridge by ThunderClan. Reedwhisker hissed, but I held him back, tapping him in the flank with my tail, and shook my head. Reedwhisker stopped, but the sound alerted Blackstar, and the tomcat turned to look at us. His whiskers dropped.
I nodded.
Blackstar became very still. Then he nodded back, frown still upon his face. We both knew there would be no fight today.
As Reedwhisker and I walked back to RiverClan, my son couldn't resist looking back once more at the distant, scowling ShadowClan leader. Blackstar always looked mad. "He's the one who killed my uncle, right? I thought you would still be mad. I'll help you tear his ears off."
"Stonefur died for peace," I said. I felt for my necklace, feeling the river shell and dahlia flower. Not all necklaces were romantic. Some were familial and some represented feelings and states of mind. Some cats used them to describe themselves. Sometimes, they told stories.
"Yeah, but Blackstar looked mad."
"Not anymore," I said. "We're all over that now."
I stood at the Moonpool. Mothwing was beside me. My fur burned from the pressure, and my paws were unsteady on my legs, but the ancient paw prints from cats before me comforted me. It was like I was an apprentice again, standing at the Moonstone, but instead of beholding a fallen star, it was the tears of the gods. StarClan was here. They were in the glittering water and the invincible stone. They were in every paw print, old and new, and they were in the starlit moss, creeping along the hollow's walls. How could Mothwing not believe?
I lowered my whiskers to the water, my youth returning to me, and let StarClan become part of me.
Hawkfrost is just another murderer in the annals of history until you remember he's a brother, son of Tigerstar, or a RiverClan cat on ThunderClan soil. A border scuffle is just a scuffle until you put history to it. It lives in the moment, but its story is seasons in the making. Squirrelflight is just another liar, except… except… except everything. Hawkfrost dying is justice, but put Goldenflower there and then it's a shedding of rage. It changes an act of violence into an act of healing. Put Leopardstar in the lake, show the world her fears, but then you sing her a song and she sings back. Reconnecting with my son is just a day trip on the territory until you start building necklaces. Building, creating, letting go. Our leadership ceremonies involve dipping your whiskers into water, and it would be just that, except for everything else.
The best elders know this secret: a collection of stories is just a single story told in parts. You put them together, and the collection is heavier than the sum, and the weight is greater together than apart. It allows me seasons later to convey things beyond words. Sometimes a Clan warrior will ask me about Stonefur, and depending on the sunrise, he will either be flattened out or will die nobly or sometimes both at once or sometimes neither. Hawkfrost's murder can be just that, or it can be a love story if you tell it right. How he felt alone in RiverClan without a father or mother to guide him, how he really wanted to prove himself to his Clan, and how, in his very last moment, he regretted everything. It's true because it's a ridiculous love story.