GOOSEBELLY
The last thing Goosebelly wanted was to return to Twolegplace with these three blind, fumbling goslings. Yet it seemed LeafClan did not trust him to complete the task by himself. And since no warriors could be spared…
"Come on, come on, come on!" Threefoot warbled, as Deadnose struggled over a fallen sapling that crossed their trail. "That's it, you've got it… Ah, it has been too long since we've been out this early, too long!"
The sun crept sluggishly over the tops of the Twoleg nests in the distance, first light filling the forest with birdsong. Had he been alone, he could've been in the lodge by now, looking for a nice plump cushion… And of course, still been back in time. Now the time he could've spent wasting, was now wasted on these decrepit snail-foots.
I wasted time, and now time wastes me.
Deadnose moved like how turtles mate, complete with the grunting. He'd almost forgotten the dark tortoiseshell she-cat had legs; he'd only ever seen her loafed in her nest, eyes closed, not quite sure if he was seeing a corpse instead of an elder.
Somehow, she was slower than Threefoot, and that was painful enough. The ginger tabby tom's hind foot stuck out like a stunted branch, and he teetered around with all the grace of a flightless duckling. But at least Deadnose wasn't very conversational.
"Ah, Twolegplace, how long has it been?" Threefoot babbled on, for the third time since they set out, in the same exact inflection as before. "The adventures we had here, back in our day… I've had my entanglements with rogues, oh yes, oh yes. I think the kittypets might still talk of Mad Flameripple yet!"
Close-eye twitched her whiskers. She was a ragged scrap of grayish-white fur, a long scar across her face and a rattle in her throat, and the only one with a working brain between the three of them. "You were Lusty Flameripple back then."
Flameripple. A good name, for a long forgotten warrior. Threefoot had left that name behind seasons and seasons ago, long before his muzzle turned gray and the fur around his ears started falling out, confined to the elder's den before his time.
Lounging under the hawthorn for so long, with only Deadnose, Close-eye, and their own wind for company. Tasked with spinning kit-tales and disciplining apprentices. No wonder he'd completely lost his wits.
"By the stars, I was called anything," Threefoot mewed. "And I would have done anything too, indeed! There was myself, and little Moonmist, and black Darkshadow, and Graystream, and Firelight, my littermate… You haven't had four such marauders in the forest since, ha! We knew where to turn up trouble, if it didn't find us first. And of course, there was young Goosepaw, apprenticed to Leopardfoot…"
Young Goosepaw. How many seasons had it been since he'd been called that?
The fog lifted from the forest floor in a thin wisp, weak light filtering through the bronzed canopy. Cloudy, but no taste of rain, at least for now. He thanked the stars for that. A hard rain might very well shred right through them, joints stiff enough as they were, and Goosebelly wanted no blame for Deadnose finally meeting her warrior ancestors.
"This young Goosepaw?" Close-eye purred, gesturing toward Goosebelly with a flick of her tail. Deadnose had finally clambered over the sapling, and they finally got moving again, one pawstep at a time.
"The same Goosepaw, the very same," Threefoot said. His voice was all pipes and whistles, twittering like birdsong. "I saw him break Jaybird's head under the Father Oak, when he was a crack not this high…" He held his tail level under his chin. "And that same day I tangled with Bluesky, a MeadowClan warrior, down by the river. Oh, stars, stars, the mad days I've spent…! And to see how many of my old clanmates are dead..."
"We'll all follow soon enough," Close-eye said.
"Certain, it's certain," Threefoot said with a bob of his head. "Death is the only certainty in this life. Say, do you suppose old Rainfall's still alive…? From HillClan?"
"Dead," Close-eye mewed.
Threefoot gave a low moan. "StarClan, dead! Such a noble warrior, and dead? She was as fine a fighter and hunter as any in the four Clans… Even our Lionpelt admired her so, and took a good nick on the ear from her once. Dead…! She could leap gorges and outrun LeopardClan, let me tell you…"
"Rainfall's been dead for many moons," Close-eye said with a note of finality.
"What? Old Rainfall dead…?" Threefoot blinked, mouth gaping, as if the last minute of conversation hadn't happened at all. "From HillClan? Oh, such a noble warrior…"
The fence finally loomed up to meet them from the edge of the pines. He heard Sneezy before he saw him, sneezing as he scrambled up the side of the fence in his rush to greet them.
"This is one of yours?" Close-eye murmured skeptically, screwing her good eye up at the scrawny black tom atop the fence.
"Greetings, my fellow warriors," Sneezy trumpeted. "You may call me Dripnose, apprenticed to Goosebelly, a powerful warrior, and a most gallant leader…"
Goosebelly gave a shiver. "Thorns on this cold weather," he cursed, opting to go around the fence rather than over it, with his LeafClan gray-pelts following behind. "Have we got at least a few sufficient volunteers, Sneezy?"
Sneezy, Petey, and Old Scratch were three, and he had promised at least three more.
"Dripnose," Sneezy corrected, his voice swelling into a roar mid-syllable as another sneeze rocked through him. "And Miss Mittens scraped together a few who owe the lodge…"
"Let's see them." He had attracted quite a bit of attention, too much attention, by spreading a bit of fluff and rumor that every Twolegplace cat that fought with him would earn a share of fresh-kill… When they'd cornered him and found out that wasn't true, he was lucky to escape with his own pelt.
Instead, he'd have to pick from these vagabonds.
They had to squeeze through a hole through the rotten wood of the door, on the lodge's opposite face, not through the open window. The three elders couldn't help but stop to gaze around the skeleton of the old Twoleg nest; Threefoot with kit-like wonderment, Close-eye with her hackles raised, and Deadnose with utter befuddlement, as per usual.
"Where's the rogues? Where's the rogues? Where's the rogues?" Threefoot babbled impatiently, drifting in circles like a log bobbing around in the river. "Oh, let me see, let me see, let me see…"
Sneezy had them lined up as the elders chose cushions and mildewy pillows. Close-eye kneaded and marveled at the strange object, the texture smooth like mouse-skin and plump with feathers, the perfect ready-made nest. Deadnose seemed to sink into it, and StarClan knew if she'd ever rise again.
Rowanstar will have my pelt when he sees this bunch, Goosebelly thought to himself. But these were the lot he had to deal with. An entire raiding party, he'd promised, a great army of rogues to swell their numbers against a MireClan attack, at his beck and call…
"Morty!" Sneezy called.
"Moldy?" Threefoot repeated, straining his eyes and craning his head. "Where is this Moldy?"
A skinny gray tom slinked forward, his pelt dappled with black flecks. "Here, I'm here."
"What do you think, Goosebelly?" Threefoot murmured. "A good-limbed cat, young, strong, and not so rogue-looking, I think."
Goosebelly lashed his tail. "Is your name Moldy?"
"Morty," the dappled gray tom corrected hoarsely.
"Morty, Moldy, Moldy Morty," Goosebelly mewed. "It's time you were used."
Threefoot gave a rasping laugh, his whole body bobbing with every heh, heh, heh! "Yes, yes, excellent wit. Things that are moldy lack use. Very good, exceptional. Well said, Goosebelly, well said."
"You're in," Goosebelly said with a sharp nod of his head.
"There's no need for that!" Morty protested, each word quicker than the last. "My mate and kits will be undone without me to hunt for them. You don't need me for this wildcat war, there are other fitter cats than me—"
Goosebelly just whipped his tail again. "That's enough! Quiet. You'll go, Moldy; it's time you were spent."
"Spent?!"
"All right, stand aside now," Threefoot mewed, waving his tail dismissively. "Who's next?"
"Shadow!" Sneezy called.
"Yes, a shadow to sit under," Goosebelly mused. "He's likely to be a cold warrior."
"Who's this Shadow?" Threefoot said.
This rogue was a lanky, long-haired black tom, staring at the Clan cats with guileless blue eyes. "Here. I'm Shadow."
Goosebelly regarded the dark tom with a long, thoughtful sweep of his eyes. "Shadow, whose kit are you?"
Shadow only blinked in confusion. "Erm, my mother's kit?"
"And that makes you your father's shadow," Goosebelly said.
"Do you like him, Goosebelly?" Threefoot asked.
"We'll all need some shadow from the wet weather," Goosebelly said. "And many more shadows to fill our ranks. Take him."
Sneezy beckoned for the next rogue. "Flea!"
This one, even Threefoot and Deadnose and Close-eye with her one peeper weren't blind enough to overlook. She was frighteningly unkempt, scruffy gray fur and frenzied orange eyes, with a tail as bent as Threefoot's leg.
"Is your name Flea?" Goosebelly asked.
"Yes," Flea said, faint as a mouse breaking wind.
"You're a very vicious flea, I hope."
Threefoot leaned back. "Shall we take her too, Goosebelly?"
"She's already been taken by mange, worms, ticks, fleas, and StarClan knows what," Goosebelly said under his breath. "Maybe leave off, for now."
"Tiny!" Sneezy shouted, sweeping his tail. The slight brown tabby was hardly bigger than his own Acornpaw, a starved, stunted little stripling. Yet even this ragged little thing had a thin red yarn around his neck.
"Are you a kittypet, Tiny?" Goosebelly pressed.
"A what?" Tiny blinked. "I had housefolk. Once. Well, they let me hunt the mice in their barn… But they chased me out for eating their chickens."
How droll. "Can you fight cats as well as you can fight chickens?"
"I will do what I can," the tabby runt answered. "You can't have more than that."
"Well said, good, courageous, chicken-killing Tiny," Goosebelly purred. A bit of spirit in this one, at least. "You'll be as valiant as the wrathful dove or most magnanimous mouse. We'll take you."
"I'd rather you take Flea, to be honest," Tiny mewed.
"And I'd rather you hadn't eaten those chickens, so that I'd have to take her instead," Goosebelly said. "I can't make an ordinary warrior out of a leader of a Clan of pests. Let that suffice."
"If you say so," Tiny sighed with heavy resignation.
"That's the warrior's spirit, Tiny," Goosebelly purred with approval. "Who's next?"
Sneezy called out, "Bullpup!"
Where Tiny was pitifully small, Bullpup was awkwardly big, all limbs and torso. Brown fur, and darker brown paws, clumsy as he inched forward, as bashful as a kit before their apprenticing ceremony.
"By StarClan, here's a good one," Goosebelly said. He had build, and bulk, and could at least absorb a few MireClan cats long enough for the rest of them to get away. "No questions. We're taking you."
Bullpup's natural voice was a roaring bellow, and he used it now to plead. "Oh, no, please; Leafcat, brave forest warrior—"
Goosebelly flicked his ears. "What, are you roaring before you've been pricked?"
"Oh, I am a diseased cat," Bullpup moaned. "Deathly diseased. I'm no use to you, fighting wildcats..."
"What disease?" Goosebelly asked with narrowing eyes, hackles rising.
"A nasty cold, a-and a cough…" He coughed roughly for proof. "I caught it hunting for my ten littermates, in the freezing wind…"
"Then you'll be glad to know, where we're fighting, there are herbs that will help with that. Some robust exercise will help your cold, and then I assume one of your ten littermates can do the hunting for you while you're gone." Goosebelly slid a glance toward Sneezy and the elders. "Is that everyone?"
"All that I could round up," Sneezy confirmed.
"We'll take Flea too, then," Goosebelly mewed. Flea had no reaction except to hang her head low to the ground. "Come on, then. Let's get out of here."
"Ah, but so soon…?" Threefoot said as they all rose to leave, for the hike back through LeafClan camp, and then toward battle. "Do you suppose we might hunt before returning to camp? It has been so long since I've been so far from my den."
"I'll share a rat with you here, Threefoot, but we shouldn't delay too long," Goosebelly said. Sad, that wasting time in the lodge seemed less preferable to getting his warrior duties over with.
"But I should like to catch my own prey again, for old time's sake," Threefoot warbled. He rose, legs quivering with the effort. His weak eyes gleamed with light. "Oh, Goosebelly, do you remember when we spent a whole night up on Clawtower? Under a new moon in leaf-fall, like tonight."
"No more of that, Threefoot, no more of that," Goosebelly chided lightly. These elders drowned so deep in their reminiscences they forgot the world around them. Just the same few dozen stories, told and retold over and over again.
"Oh, that was a merry night, a merry, merry night," Threefoot sighed, smiling toothlessly. Goosebelly started the walk back out of the Twoleg nest, and his ever-growing flock of goslings waddled after him. Petey and Old Scratch would be joining them on the way, if they didn't conveniently find themselves lost. "Cats from all four Clans, meeting behind their leader's backs… It wouldn't happen today. Is old Ebonyroot of MireClan still alive?"
"She is, actually," Goosebelly answered, recognition clicking in his mind. A tortoiseshell she-cat, her voice and comely looks frayed away by the seasons, but she remained a familiar face at the Gatherings.
"She could never stand me," Threefoot chuckled.
"Never, never," Goosebelly agreed with a twitch of his whiskers. "She always made that clear."
"By all the stars, I could anger her to the heart," Threefoot laughed, as they re-emerged outside into the dewy garden. Morning birds twittered in the pines above, calling them back into the forest. "I always thought she was the prettiest queen in MireClan. Does she still have it?"
"Old, Threefoot," Goosebelly said with a wrinkle of his nose. "Old."
"Well, she must be old. She can't help but be old." Threefoot limped at a steady pace beside them, even as Deadnose began to fall behind whisker-length by whisker-length. "Certainly, she's old. She had her first litter in the same season Stormstar became leader."
Close-eye's voice rang with poignance as she clawed for memory. "And that was what? Thirty seasons ago? Forty…?"
The number felt like a heavy boulder on his shoulders, grinding him down to bone dust, but Threefoot only chuckled again. "Oh, Close-eye, if only you'd seen some of the mischief Goosebelly and I have seen… Isn't that right, Goosebelly?"
He felt every moon his age then, as they stalked into the misty forest, the leaves deadening their footfalls. Goosebelly couldn't immediately recall the number of leaf-falls he had seen, and didn't want to dwell on the question.
"We have heard the hoot-owl at moonhigh, Threefoot," Goosebelly said at last, trudging through the flood of memory, warm greenleaf nights and crisp newleaf mornings. They seemed to flutter past faster every year.
"That we have, that we have, that we have," Threefoot babbled. "Truly, we have. Our watchword was, 'Hem, lads!' Come, let's hunt, let's hunt. Stars, the days that we have seen! Come, for old time's sake, come. I'd like to test my claws again."
And there was nothing Goosebelly could say to dissuade him, as the elder went hobbling into the forest, and the rest of the elders followed. Like the old, old fool he was, he hobbled after them.
They returned with a mouse, a squirrel, and two birds. Not counting the other mouse Goosebelly had found, hunted, and scarfed down in a few quick chomps before any of the other LeafClan cats could see.
But when they returned to the spot where he'd left Sneezy and his rogues, it seemed they had already taken casualties. Petey and Old Scratch had found it fit to find their scent trail and join them, but there was no sign of Morty or Bullpup.
"Where are the rogues?" Close-eye questioned sharply, dropping the squirrel at her paws.
Sneezy shuffled his paws. "Bullpup said he'd rather die than fight, and wanted to stay behind with his friends. Morty left for his mate and kits' sake." He leaned over to whisper in Goosebelly's ear. "And they promised to pay us each in fresh-kill if I let them go."
At least Sneezy had his priorities straight. "Very well, then," Goosebelly huffed with an annoyed twitch of his tail. Not a complete loss, he supposed.
"They were the best of the lot," Close-eye complained. "How could you let them go?"
"Will you tell me how to pick my warriors, Close-eye?" Goosebelly countered, whipping his tail. "Do I care about a warrior's strength, reach, bulk, power, size? Give me the spirit, Close-eye. Here's Flea." He gestured toward the unkempt she-cat, who was quivering uncontrollably like a leaf. "She may look ragged, but that shows grit, Close-eye. Toughness you can't teach."
He flicked his tail toward the skinny black tom, ribs visible through his dark long-haired coat. "And this half-faced Shadow, give me him. So thin a target, he can dodge any warrior's swipe as easily as a fly. And Tiny, here…" He pointed toward the tabby runt with the ragged yarn knot around his neck. "In retreat, no cat will be more swift. Give me the spare cats, and spare the great ones. Show me your war face, Flea!"
Flea blinked at Goosebelly, shrinking further against the ground, lips curling back.
"Very good, excellent form," Goosebelly said warmly, as Sneezy nodded along in earnest agreement.
"This is not a warrior," Close-eye said skeptically. "Stormstar himself could not train them into warriors."
Threefoot sat hunched over his captured prey, purring. "Ah, yes, I remember my own warrior training, under the Father Oak… The Clan always said Blackfang was the finest fighter, but I saw Lionpelt put him on his back more than a few times, when we were apprentices."
"These cats will do well, I promise you," Goosebelly insisted. "But now, we really should be headed back to camp."
"Ah, as we must, according to our duty, our duty…" Threefoot said. "But I hope you will visit us in the elder's den when you return, and share your stories, Goosebelly."
His first instinct was to be annoyed, but some part of him felt oddly touched. "Certainly, Threefoot. I'll tell you all." They started their slow pace through the forest, Goosebelly tracking the sun overhead.
"So, this won't be… dangerous, will it?" Shadow asked hesitatingly.
"Really, I don't care," Tiny squeaked, seeming like an apprentice in size among the other grown cats. "A cat can only die once, and we each owe a death. I'll never bear a guilty conscience. If I meet my destiny, fine; if I don't, then it is what it is. No cat's too good to fight for their livelihood, and let it go which way it will. The cat that dies this season will get to rest for the next."
"Well said," Sneezy murmured quietly. "You are a good fellow."
Goosebelly tuned them out, finding himself lost in memory, dormant names in the back of his skull suddenly springing to life, bleary days he hadn't realized he'd lost until they returned to him again.
Of course, he saw Threefoot for what he really was. Stars, how we old gray-pelts are slaves to lying. So many words about his wild youth, and every third word an embellishment. He remembered him as Flameripple, proportioned like a horseradish, but as lecherous as a rabbit, and all the she-cats called him Quicknight.
And now this same doddering, old rake spoke as familiarly of the legendary Lionpelt as if they were littermates. But he'd let him keep his lies, just as he kept his.