That night, Reedpaw lies awake in the apprentices' den, watching the moonlight as itcreeps through the entrance. Shadepaw and Nettlepaw are both curled up in their nests, their breathing gently stirring the sprigs of fern in their bedding.
At last, when the moon is high, Reedpaw stealthily rises and slides out into the open. The camp lies quiet under the wash of silver light. Minnowtail, the cat on watch, is a gray-and-white shadow across the camp. Her back is turned to Reedpaw as she keeps her gaze fixed on the wider territory, alert for intruders.
Reedpaw takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and heads out. The night is cold, with frost furring every stone and every blade of grass. When she comes to the stream, she pads alongside until she reaches the log that stretches across to the opposite bank.
No swimming tonight, she thinks, fluffing out her fur against the chill.
But as Reedpaw ventures out onto the log, she realizes that clouds have drifted up to cover the moon, making it hard for her to see where she is putting her paws.
Almost at once she feels herself slip on the mossy surface, and lets out a cry of alarm as she topples into the stream. For a couple of heartbeats she flails helplessly until her head breaks the surface and she can strike out for the opposite bank.
"Fox-dung!" she hisses.
Now the icy water takes her breath away, but she forces herself to splash through it to the far side. After hauling herself onto the bank, she dives into a clump of long grass, hiding herself in case any of her clanmates had decided on a night hunting patrol.
Once she is sure she is out of sight, Reedpaw gives herself a good shake, scattering water droplets everywhere, then tries to groom the remaining water out of her fur.
But it is taking too long; she knows that every heartbeat she stays there, close to the camp, she risks being discovered. Reedpaw is well aware that this mission has to be a secret. If her clanmates discovered her, there is only one way she could explain why she was sneaking out of camp. She would have to confess about her vision of Echowing's death, and she isn't ready to do that yet—not until she had discussed it with Nightpaw. She only hopes that she would agree to help her without alerting the other Medicine cats.
As she rises to her paws, ready to go on, Reedpaw thinks she hears a sound behind her, close to the river she had just crossed. Was that a paw step? Is some cat there?
But when she turns around, she can't see anything but the lush vegetation on the bank of the stream. The only sound is the gentle gurgle of water running over the pebbles.
I'm imagining things, Reedpaw tells herself.
Which cat would be swimming the stream at night if they didn't have to?
She is shivering hard; she knows she has to start moving quickly and hope that Nifhrpaw could help her warm up.
Giving her pelt one last shake, she sets off, creeping along the lakeshore through Riverclan territory. The twoleg dens of the horseplace soon loom up in front of her, darker than the night. Her fur rises along her spine at the strange smells and the huge, menacing shadows.
As Reedpaw creeps past, trying to make herself small and inconspicuous, the drumming of huge paws sound from somewhere in the darkness. A high pitched bellowing noise comes from high above her head. Reedpaw doesn't wait to find out what made the sounds. A horse? It must be huge!
Her heart pounding, she flees, her muscles bunching and stretching as she forces out every last scrap of speed. She doesn't stop until she reaches the small Thunderpath that stretches down to the lake and another of the weird twoleg half-bridges.
Pausing at the edge of the hard black stuff, Reedpaw gazes around cautiously for monsters. She picks up a trace of their acrid scent, but she can't hear any growling, or see their fearsome glowing eyes cutting through the darkness. It seems okay. . . .
But Reedpaw knows that twolegs and monsters are unpredictable. Just when a cat thought it was safe to move, they would pop up out of nowhere. Like that horse.
Trying to push away her fears, Reedpaw reflects that she had never made this journey alone before. She had been this way with Flamepool, on their way to the Moonpool, and once with Troutscale, a trip that had ended with the disastrous dog attack. Back then they had both supported her, not only on the journey, but in everything. Now she is completely alone.
That's enough, flea-brain! Reedpaw scolds herself. What are you, a kit? You won't be alone once you get to the Windclan camp and find Nightpaw. Just believe that, and pull yourself together!
Stiffening her resolve, Reedpaw knows that she can't stand all night dithering beside the Thunderpath. With a last glance around, she scuttles across, and pauses on the far side to catch her breath.
As she moves off again, she thinks once more that she hears paw steps behind her. But when she whips around, hoping to catch a glimpse of any cat who might be following her, the shore and the lake lie silent and empty. I must be imagining things.
The swell of moorland rises up in front of her. As she begins to climb, crossing the Windclan border markers, Reedpaw is acutely conscious that she is on a rival clan's territory now.
She pricks her ears, a thrill of tension running through her, and she fights the urge to flee back to Riverclan as fast as she could.
The evening patrol should have passed—the markers smell fresh—but it is still possible that Windclan cats would be around somewhere.
I can see how Windclan got its name, Reedpaw thinks as she toils upward. The wind is so cold here on the exposed hillside, not like her home in Riverclan at all. It presses her fur to her sides, while the stronger gusts almost carry her off her paws. And, as the wind rises, the clouds begin to break up, and the moon shines out fitfully; Reedpaw realizes that her dark brown pelt must be visible for fox-lengths, and there is so little cover out here on the open moor.
She tries to hurry, but she is freezing cold, still shivering from her dunking in the stream. Her added haste makes her clumsy, and as she scrambles over a rocky outcrop, her paw slips and she knocks a stone off a steep ledge. It lands on the ground below with a thud.
Immediately a cat's voice rings out. "What was that?"
Reedpaw thinks her heart would stop. She presses herself down among the rocks and peers out to see Breezepelt standing only a couple of tail-lengths below. Two or three other cats are with him, only dark shapes in the shifting light. Strong Windclan scent wafts upward.
The rocks aren't big enough to hide behind; if Breezepelt looks up, he is bound to see her. So far he hasn't spotted her, but he is so close that Reedpaw almost gives herself up, confessing that she had come to see Nightpaw.
But then she remembers that she isn't a Medicine cat anymore; she has no excuse to be on another clan's territory. Icefade said that tensions are high among the clans just now—and he's right. Reedpaw can imagine all too clearly what would happen if Breezepelt's patrol caught a Riverclan warrior sneaking onto their territory in the middle of the night. They were bound to see it as a hostile act. How can I explain that I'm not a spy?
She knows that she couldn't confess what she wanted to talk to Nightpaw about. Breezepelt and the others would think she had bees in her brain, or that things in Riverclan were worse than any cat had realized.
Did I have bees in my brain, thinking I could do this?
Reedpaw sees how fish-brained it was to sneak onto another clan's territory in the dead of night, alone. She could imagine exactly what her mentor, Woodleap, would say.
But then Reedpaw reminds herself that she has no choice. She needs help, and the only cat who could give it to her is Night paw. I have to see this through.
Reedpaw forces herself to take a few deep breaths as she crouches in her scanty cover, immobile so as not to alert Breezepelt. He and the rest of his patrol are clustered together, exchanging murmured words too softly for her to make out. She hears some cat sniffing the air, and cringes, expecting that her scent would give her away.
But after a few moments Breezepelt announces, "Maybe a rabbit," and the patrol heads off down the hill.
Reedpaw draws a long, shuddering breath. Breezepelt hadn't looked in her direction after all, and she guesses that the stream had washed off at least some of her scent.
As soon as she is sure they are gone, Reedpaw leaps to her paws and streaks off in the other direction, up to the moorland ridge where she hopes she would find Windclan's camp. I'm close—so close!
Strong Windclan scent is flowing down from the heights; with every paw step Reedpaw takes, it grows stronger. Before she reaches the top of the hill, she spots a huge hollow gouged out of the ground; boulders are scattered across the middle, and a thick barrier of gorse bushes surround it. That's the camp! Thank Starclan, I've found it!
Reedpaw begins to approach more cautiously, not wanting to give her presence away until she is ready. Her heart is drumming in her chest, so hard that it hurts.
The Windclan scent grows stronger still, and another scent mingles with it. Reedpaw paused, trying to identify it. Is that thyme?
Then she spots the clump of plants, still surviving in spite of the first frosts. She pads up to them and thrusts her nose among the stems, sniffing the familiar scent. Gradually it calms her, until her racing heart slows and she can feel her muscles relaxing.
Straightening up again, Reedpaw turns eagerly toward the camp. She can't wait to see Nightpaw again. It would be so good to talk…
There it is again! Paw steps! Another scent, like Windclan and yet somehow different, floats up toward Reedpaw, as if another cat is approaching her from lower down the hill. She pauses to look over her shoulder, but at the same moment something grabs her from behind so that she can't turn her head.
She lets out a gasp of alarm. "What…"
Hot pain blooms across Reedpaw's throat, defeating all her efforts to cry out. She chokes. Agony burns through her whole body as she collapses into the clump of thyme. No! No . . .
Reedpaw remembers her mother's last words: Trust no cat.
She struggles to turn her head to see who had attacked her, but her muscles wouldn't obey. Every scrap of strength is draining from her body. She can smell the reek of her own blood; her chest is soaked in it. Her reeling senses pick up the same paw steps, fading now as her attacker runs away.
Reedpaw feels like the whole moor was tilting, beginning to slide away, as darkness rises up like a massive wave and engulfs her.
Author's Note: Continued in Call of the River