Crookedstar’s Promise

Chapter 7

“Crookedkit!”

Crookedkit opened his eyes. The straw he’d curled up in had vanished. Instead, he was standing on damp earth. Trees crowded around him, their trunks wet with moss, roots snaking into slimy soil. Mist swirled and darkness pressed down through their branches, hiding the sky. Crookedkit unsheathed his claws as sour scents bathed his tongue.

“Crookedkit!” the voice called again. Amber eyes gleamed from the shadows. “How could you leave your Clan?”

“I—I wanted to visit the Moonstone.” Crookedkit blinked, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. The amber eyes flashed and an orange-and-white she-cat padded out of the trees. The StarClan cat! She’s come back! “What is this place?” he meowed.

The cat weaved around him, her pelt warm in the chilled air. “You’re dreaming, little one.”

“Dreaming?” Crookedkit’s pelt ruffled. Why would he dream of a place like this?

“Why go all the way to the Moonstone to speak with StarClan?” The orange-and-white cat stopped in front of him. “You can ask me anything, right here in your dreams.”

“I was right! You are a StarClan cat!” Crookedkit gasped.

The cat dipped her head. “My name is Mapleshade. What is it you want to know, little one?”

“My destiny,” Crookedkit burst out.

“Everything that happens to you is part of your destiny.”

“But the accident? And not becoming an apprentice?” The words rushed out. “Was all that supposed to happen?”

Mapleshade weaved around him, her soft pelt brushing his. “Oh, you poor thing,” she sighed. “Your path is not an easy one. But StarClan would never have given such a hard path to a cat who wasn’t strong and brave and loyal.”

“Really?” Crookedkit shuffled his paws. “Then I am special.”

Mapleshade rested her muzzle on his head. “Of course you’re special.”

Suddenly he remembered Rainflower’s scent. She used to speak to him like this. He pulled away. “How?” he demanded. “How am I special?”

Mapleshade shook her head. “I can’t tell you that yet.”

“Why not?”

“First you must return to your Clan.” Mapleshade’s eyes darkened. “A true warrior is loyal.”

“I was only traveling to the Moonstone.”

“There’s no need to go there now.”

“I guess not.” Crookedkit glanced at his paws. He’d been looking forward to telling his Clanmates he’d visited the Moonstone. “What will I tell everyone?”

“That you’re sorry and you’ll never leave again.” Mapleshade flicked her tail beneath his chin. “They must know you’re loyal.”

Crookedkit straightened. “I am!”

“Then you’ll go back?”

Crookedkit nodded. “Which way do I go?” He glanced around the forest. “I… I think I’m lost.”

A purr rumbled in Mapleshade’s throat. “Close your eyes, little one.” She brushed her fluffy white tail over his muzzle. “And when you wake, you’ll know where to go.”

Crookedkit closed his eyes and let darkness claim him.

Crookedkit rolled over and stretched. The air was stifling. He sneezed and rubbed a paw across his itchy muzzle, then opened his eyes and saw loose dry grasses. They were stacked high above him and smelled woody. Sun streamed in, dancing with dust. He was back in the nest he’d found the night before.

Sitting up, Crookedkit yawned. Then you’ll go back? Mapleshade’s words echoed in his ears. Suddenly he remembered Rainflower’s weary mew, telling him to get down from the tree, and his Clanmates sending him off to play on his own. Crookedkit sighed. What if I don’t want to go back? Suddenly his belly growled. I’m starving!

Crookedkit pricked his ears. Was that a squeak? He dropped into a crouch and crept across the dusty floor. Mouth open, he let the scents of the nest bathe his tongue. A musky odor filled his nose. Mouse? Maybe. He’d never smelled mouse but he’d heard elders’ descriptions. Padding quietly, he slunk toward the wall at the back of the nest. The dusty stalks twitched in the corner. Crookedkit held his breath. His paws pricked as he bunched the muscles in his hind legs. Fixing his gaze on a soft lump beneath the straw, he prepared to leap.

“Oomph!”

A great weight dropped on his back. Fear pulsed through him as he smelled tom. But it wasn’t any Clan scent he’d ever smelled. Claws dug into his spine. Stiffening with terror, Crookedkit struggled to escape. But the tom was heavy and had a firm grip.

Crookedkit flailed unsheathed claws at the air. “Get off!”

The attacker growled, tightening his grip. “Do you surrender?”

Crookedkit growled. “Never!” Memories of play fights with Oakpaw flashed in his mind. He pictured Oakpaw’s favorite move and let himself go limp.

The tom’s grip slackened. “You do surrender?”

Crookedkit shot backward, unhooking his pelt from the tom’s claws and wriggling out from behind as fast as a fish. As the tom turned, Crookedkit reared up, claws outstretched. “I’ll shred you!” He stared into the face of a fat ginger tom, nearly as big as Hailstar.

The tom’s whiskers twitched. “Go on then.” He sat back on his haunches and raised his forepaws to reveal a fat white belly.

Crookedkit narrowed his eyes. Was this cat mocking him? I’ll show him! He lunged at the tom’s exposed belly, paws churning. Thick, soft fur filled his nose and caught in clumps beneath his claws until he felt heavy paws push him gently away.

“Give it up, kit.”

Crookedkit paused and shook the fluff from his eyes, then blinked at the tom.

“You’re wasting your time,” the tom purred. “By the time you’ve finished shredding me, we’ll both have missed breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” Crookedkit tilted his head. What’s breakfast? His belly rumbled again.

“Sounds like you need some.” The tom narrowed his eyes. “And it looks like you need some, too.”

Crookedkit growled. Why did everyone have to point out how skinny he was? He dropped into an attack crouch.

“Whoa!” The tom held up a paw. “Let’s not go through that again. You’ve got sharp claws.” He began to pad toward the back of the nest. “What’s your name?” he called over his shoulder.

“Crookedkit.”

“I’m Fleck.” The tom halted and sat down. “What brings you to my barn, Crookedkit?” He stared into the pile of dusty stalks that Crookedkit had been watching. It was still quivering.

“I was on my way to the Moonstone.” Crookedkit padded after the tom, trying to figure out if this cat was an enemy. He wasn’t a Clan cat, that was for sure. “What are you looking at?”

Fleck dropped into a crouch, his tail flicking. “I see breakfast.”

Crookedkit bristled. “Stop! That’s my prey!”

Before he could finish Fleck dived across the floor and landed with his paws outstretched on the small lump that Crookedkit had been eyeing. Deftly, he hooked a mouse out of the stalks and killed it with a nip to the back of the neck. He glanced at Crookedkit. “Here.” He tossed the mouse and it landed with a thud at Crookedkit’s paws.

Even though it wasn’t fish, the warm smell of it made Crookedkit’s mouth water.

“You look like you need it more than me,” Fleck mewed.

Crookedkit stared at the mouse. He was starving. But could he let another cat catch food for him?

“Eat it.” Fleck rummaged deeper into the straw. “There’ll be another one in the straw.”

Straw? Barn? This cat knew some funny words.

Crookedkit sniffed his warm prey, wondering where to begin. “I’ve never eaten mouse before,” he admitted.

Fleck padded over. “Are you a kittypet?”

Crookedkit stiffened. “I’m a warrior!”

“Ah.” Fleck nodded. “That explains the jaw. Got hurt in a fight? I’ve heard warrior cats are always fighting.”

Crookedkit stared at the ginger tom. “No, we’re not! I hurt it falling in the river.”

“Tough river.” Fleck reached farther under the straw. “I had kin with a smashed jaw.” He sneezed. “He fell out of the barn loft.”

“The barn loft?” Crookedkit echoed.

Fleck jerked his muzzle upward. “This place is the barn, and up there is the loft. Long way to fall.”

“Where is he now?”

“Who? Domino?” Fleck stopped rummaging.

Domino? Farm cats had strange names. “The cat who broke his jaw.”

“He’s dead now.”

“Dead?” Crookedkit’s eyes widened. “Because he broke his jaw?”

Fleck sat up. “No,” he mewed quickly. “He died of old age. Last leaf-bare. He looked a bit odd, like you. He learned to eat using one side of his mouth. Hunted that way, too. He was one of the best mousers on the farm.”

Crookedkit quickly scanned the barn. “Are there many mousers here?”

“Just me now,” Fleck told him. “And Mitzi, my littermate. But she’s moved to the cornfield for her kitting.”

“Is that where the nursery is?”

“Nursery?” Fleck stared at him quizzically, then shook his head. “It’s quieter there. No farm monsters.” He nodded toward the mouse at Crookedkit’s paws. “Are you going to eat that?”

Crookedkit felt hot. “Are you going to hunt some more?” He didn’t want to be watched.

“Oh, yes. You’re not the only cat that needs feeding around here.” Fleck turned back to the heap of straw at the edge of the barn.

Crookedkit crouched down and bit into the mouse. It tasted musky and meaty. He screwed up his nose. At least it was food. A small chunk of meat dripped from the side of his mouth where his twisted jaw gaped.

“Tip your head,” Fleck called.

Crookedkit looked up sharply. Was the tom watching him? But Fleck had his tail toward Crookedkit, and his gaze was fixed firmly on the straw. Feeling awkward, Crookedkit tipped his head, cocking it sideways so the mouse meat fell to the straight side of his mouth. Chewing in quick, short nips, he crunched through the mouse, catching stray bits with sharp jerks so that he dropped only a few morsels.

“Got one!” Fleck dropped a second mouse beside Crookedkit. “Do you want another?”

Crookedkit shook his head, swallowing. A few scraps of his mouse littered the floor where he’d dropped them, but his belly was full already. He’d managed to swallow more in one meal than he’d eaten since his accident. And his twisted jaw hardly ached. He purred. “Thanks, Fleck.”

“What for?” Fleck started tucking into his mouse.

“The fresh-kill,” Crookedkit mewed. “And for telling me how to eat it.”

Fleck gazed at Crookedkit, chewing. “I watched Domino eat. I can show you how he hunted, too, if you want. He had a special way of doing the kill-bite. Looked a bit odd but it worked.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got to go home.” Crookedkit began to wash his face. “My Clan will wonder where I’ve gone.”

“Don’t they think you’re at the Mewstone?”

“Moonstone.” Crookedkit licked a paw and wiped it along his jaw.

“Whatever.” Fleck took another bite of mouse and went on, mouth full. “I’m going to catch something for Mitzi when I’ve finished this. She’s stuck in her nest with four kits. And I promised to watch them while she went for water.”

Crookedkit paused from washing. “You sound like a Clan cat.”

“I don’t know about that. But there’s no one else to hunt for her.” Fleck swallowed. “And you can’t let kin starve.”

“Can I help?” Crookedkit suddenly wanted to find a way to thank this cat for his kindness. “I could look after the kits with you.”

Fleck purred. “They’re a pawful,” he warned.

Crookedkit remembered his denmates with a pang. “I can handle kits.”

“Okay.” Fleck swallowed the last of his mouse and sat up. “Let’s hunt first.”

Crookedkit followed the ginger tom behind a pile of straw that was rolled and stacked high as a mountain. Fleck didn’t hesitate as he slid into the gap between the packed straw and the stone wall of the barn. Crookedkit padded after him, tasting the air. The tang of barn prey was familiar now and he smelled something warm as Fleck led him into a space shielded from the rest of the barn.

“They always hide here.” Fleck’s mew dropped to a whisper. Something was moving through the shadow at the bottom of the stone wall. “Can you see it?” he breathed.

A small brown creature was scuttling along the wall, pressing its body to the stone. It was heading for a crack. Crookedkit crouched, tail swishing. With his heart pounding like a woodpecker battering a tree trunk, he shot forward, paws outstretched. Belly brushing the ground, he skidded toward the mouse.

Crash! He hurtled into the stone wall as the mouse dashed for the crack and disappeared into the shadow. Frog dung! He sat up and glanced sheepishly at Fleck.

Fleck shrugged. “Mice are dumb but not that dumb.”

“I attacked as fast as I could,” Crookedkit mewed apologetically.

“Speed isn’t everything,” Fleck warned. “The mouse had seen, heard, and smelled you before you jumped.”

“How?”

“Your tail was swishing over the straw,” Fleck told him. “And you were panting like a badger with your breath stinking of mouse meat.”

Crookedkit scowled. “I have to breathe.”

“Let me show you.” Fleck beckoned him back with a flick of his muzzle and Crookedkit hurried and crouched behind the ginger tom.

“Breathe through your nose,” Fleck ordered as they waited.

Crookedkit closed his mouth. His tail longed to twitch, but he held it still, copying Fleck. When a tiny nose twitched in the crack between the stones, Crookedkit stiffened.

Fleck seemed as relaxed as a basking trout beside him. “Wait,” the farm cat murmured.

Crookedkit swallowed the excitement rising in his belly as Fleck padded forward, shoulders loose, belly swinging. How was he going to catch a mouse moving that slowly? Crookedkit unsheathed his claws, preparing to make the attack, but, before he could lunge, Fleck darted forward. The fat farm cat covered a tail-length fast as a kingfisher, scooping the mouse from its hiding place with a nimble paw. He tossed it to Crookedkit.

It’s alive! Crookedkit stared at the stunned creature trembling on the straw-strewn stone.

“Kill it before it comes to its senses!” Fleck hissed.

Crookedkit froze.

“Bite its spine with the strong side of your jaw.”

Crookedkit ducked, tipping his head sideways and clamping his back teeth around the mouse’s spine. He felt it go limp and tasted blood on his tongue. He sat up. “It’s a strange-tasting mouse.”

“It’s a vole.” Fleck padded over. “Mitzi will be happy. Vole’s her favorite.”

Crookedkit purred. He’d killed his first prey. Wait till I tell Oakpaw! His heart dropped. Oakpaw was so far away. I should go back. With his belly full and the sun still climbing, he could be home by dark.

Fleck picked up the vole. “Come on, let’s take this to Mitzi.” He bounded away, climbing out through the hole Crookedkit had used last night.

“But —” Crookedkit scrambled after him.

“Keep your eyes open in the yard,” Fleck ordered as he jumped down on to the hard earth outside. “There are farm monsters everywhere. You’ll hear them but it’s not always easy to know where they’re coming from.”

Crookedkit pricked his ears. “I don’t hear anything.”

“We’re early.” Fleck darted through a gap in the stone wall that circled the flat open space outside the barn. Crookedkit hurried after him, alert for any sudden monster noise. On the track beyond the wall, Fleck slowed to a trot. Green meadows lay on either side and blue sky stretched overhead. The track, speckled with pebbles and lined with ruts, wound downhill toward a golden field. Crookedkit gazed at it, eyes wide. It shone like the sun and rippled like water.

“That’s Mitzi’s cornfield.” Fleck’s mew was muffled by the vole in his jaws. “She’s made a nest in that dip.” He flicked his tail toward the middle of the field. They followed the track down and, as it wound around the edge of the cornfield, Fleck veered on to a tiny path that was almost invisible. Pushing through long grass, the farm cat leaped a ditch and ducked through a hedge.

Crookedkit stopped. He watched Fleck disappearing into the corn beyond the hedge, his orange tail merging into the golden stalks.

“Are you coming?” Fleck called.

I should go home. Crookedkit opened his mouth to explain. But I promised I’d help Fleck. He nosed through the long grass and peered into the ditch. It was wide and deep and water trickled along the bottom. Curiosity pricked his paws. I wonder what farm kits are like? I’ll just say hi. Taking a deep breath, he sprang and at the same time grabbed for a clump of grass on the other side. His hindquarters swung down, his tail sweeping through the water. Scrabbling, he hauled himself up and squeezed under the hedge. “Wait for me!”

He plunged into the forest of corn, weaving among the stems. The stiff stalks reminded him of the reed bed. Their heavy heads rattled above him as the wind tugged at them. Crookedkit followed Fleck’s scent through the corn, noticing where the stalks were bent from cats using the tiny path regularly. He caught up to him where the field began to slope down toward the dip.

“Take this.” Fleck dropped the vole at Crookedkit’s paws. “Mitzi’s a bit protective of her kits. She’ll welcome a new face quicker if it’s carrying food.” Mewls sounded through the corn as he spoke.

“Come on.” Fleck pushed on.

Crookedkit picked up the vole and trotted after him until they emerged in a small clearing, enclosed by a wall of rustling yellow stalks. A black cat blinked up at them from a scoop in the earth. Four tiny kits fidgeted at her belly. Mitzi wriggled and sat up, heaving them away. Her nose twitched and her gaze settled on the vole in Crookedkit’s jaws.

“Who are you?” Her eyes narrowed.

Crookedkit tossed the vole down to her. “Crookedkit of RiverClan.”

Mitzi bristled. “What’s a Clan cat doing here?” she hissed at Fleck. “There haven’t been warriors around here for as long as I can remember.” She glanced warily around. “Where’s his kin?”

“He came alone.”

Mitzi frowned. “Alone? Ain’t he a bit young to be so far from home? I thought warriors lived up on the moors.”

“My Clan lives by the river,” Crookedkit told her. “Past the moors.”

Mitzi wrapped her tail over her kits. “And you’ve come all this way by yourself?”

Fleck sniffed. “He’s heading for the Foodstone.”

“Moonstone!” Crookedkit corrected.

A black she-kit scrabbled to the edge of the hollow. “Is that where the moon lives?” She stared at Crookedkit with wide green eyes like her mother’s.

“Now, now,” Mitzi chided. “It’s rude to start asking questions before you’ve been introduced.”

“Sorry,” squeaked the kit. “I’m Soot.”

“Hello, Soot.” For the first time since the accident, Crookedkit felt big.

“Does the moon live there?” Soot pressed.

“No,” he purred. “It’s where we visit our ancestors.”

Mitzi heaved herself out of the hollow and shook out her pelt. “Can you keep them busy while I eat?” she asked Fleck.

“I can!” Crookedkit offered.

Mitzi glanced at her littermate. “He’s okay,” Fleck reassured her.

Mitzi shifted her paws. “Hardly more than a kit himself.” She nodded to Crookedkit, then crouched and hungrily began eating the vole.

Crookedkit jumped down into the hollow. The tiny kits scattered, squeaking, out of his way, then trotted back and sniffed him gingerly.

The gray tom-kit stared at him. “Where’s your mother?”

“She’s back at camp,” Crookedkit told him. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Mist,” the gray kit mewed.

“And I’m Piper.” A silver-tabby-and-white she-kit scrambled over her brother.

“Is there a Foodstone as well as a Moonstone?” The last kit, a black-and-white tom, nosed between his littermates. “Can we go there?”

“Don’t be daft, Magpie.” Mitzi looked up from her vole. “You’re far too young.” Magpie suddenly started coughing, ears flat, body shuddering. Mitzi stiffened. “That cough isn’t getting better,” she told Fleck.

Crookedkit pricked his ears. “Brambleberry would give her coltsfoot.” When Mitzi stared blankly, he added, “Brambleberry’s our medicine cat.”

“Coltsfoot for coughing?” Mitzi frowned. “I haven’t heard of that.”

Crookedkit glanced at Magpie, who was still coughing. “Brambleberry says you chew the leaves and swallow the juice, and then spit out the leaf bits.”

“It’s worth a try.” Fleck’s tail twitched. “There’s some by the farm track.” He headed into the corn. “I’ll fetch a few leaves.”

Mitzi leaned into the hollow and plucked up Magpie by his scruff. She nestled her spluttering kit between her forepaws. “Are you okay, dear?” Magpie caught his breath and nodded. Mitzi licked his head gently, then straightened. “There’s no spit left in me,” she sighed.

“Fleck said you’d be thirsty.” Crookedkit hopped up beside her. “Do you want me to look after the kits while you get a drink?”

Mitzi glanced at the corn where Fleck had disappeared. “Fleck said he’d watch them.”

“I can teach them to play moss-ball,” Crookedkit offered. He suddenly realized how tired and ruffled Mitzi looked.

She licked her dry lips. “I suppose Fleck will be back soon.”

“I’ll keep them in the hollow till he does.” He picked up Magpie by his scruff and lowered him gently back into the nest.

Soot was pawing at the side of the hollow. “Let him teach us moss-ball,” she begged.

Piper scrambled up beside her littermate. “We’ll be good!” she promised.

Mitzi’s whiskers twitched. “Okay, but stay out of the corn.”

“We promise!” Mist purred at his mother.

“I won’t be long.” Mitzi headed through the corn where Fleck had disappeared.

Magpie blinked. “What’s moss-ball?” His mew was croaky but he’d stopped coughing.

“What’s moss?” Piper asked.

Crookedkit glanced at the churned soil and thick corn stems. No moss here. “How about corn-ball?” He reached up with his forepaws and hauled down a cornstalk till he could grab the head. “Here!” He nipped it off and tossed it down into the hollow.

Soot leaped on it and flicked it up into the air. Piper batted it away with an outstretched paw. The corn head sailed past Crookedkit’s muzzle. Retrieving it from among the stems, he flung it back into the nest. Why go home today? He purred, watching the kits play. He was far more useful here than he could ever be back at camp.