Goosefeather’s Curse

Chapter One

“The leader of TigerClan unsheathed his claws until they pierced the smooth spotted throat of the cat who sprawled beneath him. He lifted his magnificent black-striped head and glared at the warriors standing at the edge of the trees. ‘This is my forest!’ he roared. ‘One step closer and I’ll rip the fur from your leader’s bones!’”

Goosekit whimpered and buried his nose under his thick gray tail. The elderly she-cat nudged him with her muzzle. “Don’t be scared, little one,” she purred. “It’s only a story.”

“But TigerClan is so mean!” Goosekit mewed, his voice muffled by fur.

“Goosekit! Where are you? Come outside!”

Goosekit lifted his head and scowled. “That’s my mother,” he muttered.

“It’s a lovely day! You should be out here, not moldering in the den!”

The old she-cat nuzzled the top of his head. “Go on, scamp,” she meowed. “We can finish the story later.”

“But I want to hear it now!” Goosekit wailed. “What if I meet the leader of TigerClan when I’m a warrior? I need to know how to fight him!”

“There’ll be time later, I promise. Now go find your mother. She’s right; it is a beautiful day.”

The she-cat prodded him with her fat brown paw, and Goosekit stumbled reluctantly out of the nest.

He pushed his way through the thorns and emerged blinking into the sunlit clearing. The brambles that circled the clearing sparkled from the recent fall of rain, and the air was heavy with the scent of unfurling leaves and warm fresh-kill. Goosekit’s belly rumbled, and he turned toward the pile of prey, but before he could take a step, a damp and prickly ball of moss knocked his legs from under him.

“Oof!” he grunted, tumbling onto his side.

A gray-and-white she-cat bounded over and stared down at him. “Oh, Goosekit!” she meowed.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course he’s all right!” huffed a silver-gray she-kit. She trotted up on sturdy, fluff-covered legs. “Aren’t you?”

Goosekit lifted his head. “Yes, I’m fine, Moonkit,” he panted. “I didn’t see the moss ball coming, that’s all.”

Moonkit prodded him with her forepaw. “Get up! I want to play!”

A dark red kit with round amber eyes bounced up and flicked the moss ball away. “Come on, Moonkit! Bet you can’t catch this!”

Goosekit’s littermate spun around and raced after the ball as it rolled across the clearing.

Poppykit followed, her longer legs keeping up easily. There was a flash of dark brown fur as her brother Heronkit charged to meet them. All three kits crashed together in a flurry of paws and tails, while the ball of moss kept rolling until it reached the fresh-kill pile.

Watching them, Goosekit winced. His mother licked the top of his head. “You should join in more,” she urged him. “You won’t get hurt.”

Goosekit looked up at her. “Really? Then why is Rabbitkit in Cloudberry’s den again? Did he fall off the half-tree? Get stuck in a bramble?”

Daisytoe shook her head. “He got a thorn stuck in his nose. He’s clumsy because he hasn’t grown into his paws yet.”

Goosekit looked down at his small furry feet. “I don’t want to stay this size forever,” he muttered.

“What if I never grow big enough to be a warrior?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Daisytoe began. She broke off as the gorse bushes at the entrance to the clearing quivered and several cats burst through.

A tortoiseshell she-cat with leaf-green eyes was at the head of the patrol. She dropped her catch—a plump young pigeon—on the fresh-kill pile and trotted over to Daisytoe. “You’d have loved it out there today,” she mewed. “The prey was practically falling into our paws!”

For a moment Daisytoe looked wistful. “Maybe next moon, Larksong,” she replied. “I need to get the little ones weaned first.”

The black tom who had followed Larksong through the tunnel came to join them. A red squirrel dangled from his jaws. He placed the squirrel on the ground and brushed the tip of his tail along

Daisytoe’s flank. “I caught this for you,” he purred.

“Thanks, Rooktail,” Daisytoe meowed, her eyes lighting up.

There was a gasp from the other side of the fresh-kill pile. Goosekit saw a broad-shouldered gray apprentice staring at him. “Wow, Goosekit, is that really you? Or just a lump of moss shaped like you?”

Goosekit sighed as the cat trotted over and sniffed him. “I haven’t seen you outside for days!” the tom went on. “Look, Rooktail! Your son doesn’t melt in sunlight!”

The black warrior twitched his ears. “That’s enough, Stormpaw. Go see if the elders want anything to eat.”

Moonkit ran over, her stubby tail straight up in the air. “Stormpaw! Watch this! I’ve been practicing that move you showed me!” She crouched down, waggling her haunches, then sprang forward with her front paws raised. Her ears were flat back, and she curled her lip to reveal tiny sharp teeth. “Pretty fierce, huh?” she panted, dropping back onto all four paws.

Stormpaw nodded. “You scared me for sure! Do you want to help me take fresh-kill to the elders?

Then I’ll teach you another battle move.”

“Yes, please!” Moonkit bounced on the spot, her yellow eyes shining.

Rooktail narrowed his eyes at Stormpaw. “You’re the apprentice,” he reminded him. “Don’t let the kits do your duties for you!”

“But I want to help!” Moonkit protested. “I hope Stormpaw can be my mentor when I’m an apprentice.”

“Of course he won’t be,” Goosekit mewed. “He’ll only just be a warrior!”

“Maybe, but he’ll be the best warrior in ThunderClan!” Moonkit declared loyally. “Even better than Doestar!”

Stormpaw shuffled his paws. “Come on, Moonkit,” he muttered. “Let’s feed these elders.”

Goosekit watched them pick up a blackbird from the fresh-kill pile and start hauling it toward the elders’ den, where two ancient cats sat outside with the sun warming their pelts. Moonkit’s eyes bulged with the effort of dragging the heavy bird. Goosekit winced as they almost collided with a slender white-furred tom, but somehow they missed him and the tom walked on and vanished into the gorse tunnel.

The other two cats on the hunting patrol, Harepounce and her apprentice, Adderpaw, were depositing their prey on the pile. Adderpaw twitched his tail toward Goosekit. “Come and try this mouse! I caught it myself,” he added proudly.

Goosekit trotted over and sniffed at the brown-furred, still-warm body. It was huge, almost as big as him. Its nose was wrinkled slightly, exposing long front teeth, and its paws were clenched in tight little curls. Goosekit winced. He had shared some fresh-kill with his mother and Moonkit, but he preferred milk. Eating fresh-kill made his jaws ache.

“Don’t you want it?” Adderpaw asked, sounding disappointed.

Goosekit gripped one of the mouse’s front legs and started to heave it off the pile. As his hind paws scrabbled on the sandy earth, he was shoved roughly aside. A ragged ginger shape loomed over him.

“Watch out, Nettlebreeze!” Adderpaw called. “There’s plenty of prey.”

Nettlebreeze turned his cloudy gaze on the apprentice. “What? Did you say something?” He twitched his ears, and a lump of something yucky dropped onto Goosekit’s head.

“Hey!” Goosekit protested. “Get off me! This is my mouse!” He shook his head, and a tick covered in mouse bile fell onto the floor.

The ancient cat bent his head and sniffed him. “Don’t you know the warrior code? Elders and kits eat first!”

“I am a kit!” Goosekit mewed.

“Then you should learn to respect your elders,” Nettlebreeze growled. He placed one paw on the mouse. “Leave me to eat in peace.”

Goosekit backed away, his fur fluffed up with indignation. But he knew better than to pick a quarrel with the oldest cat in ThunderClan—maybe the oldest cat in all four Clans. Goosekit suspected Nettlebreeze had been alive when the four great oak trees had been nothing more than acorns. His tail spiked as he pictured the hollow that his mother had described to him, flanked by steep slopes and watched over by the mighty oaks. As soon as he was six moons old, Goosekit would be an apprentice, able to go to the Gathering every full moon and meet cats from the other Clans.

Goosekit wasn’t sure how much fun that sounded. He already felt a bit alarmed by how many cats there were in ThunderClan.

Goosekit headed back toward the nursery, swerving to avoid Heronkit and Poppykit, who were wrestling over a stick. Their littermate, Rabbitkit, watched, a large leaf stuck on his pricked nose.

“Go on, Poppykit!” he cheered, sounding as if he had his head stuck in a patch of ferns.

Goosekit was about to push his way into the den when Daisytoe stopped him. “Stay outside with me,” she urged. “It’s too nice to be inside. Don’t you want to play with your denmates?” She nodded toward Moonkit, who was stalking across the clearing beside Stormpaw. The tip of her tongue poked out as she concentrated hard on copying his low, stealthy movement. Two full-grown warriors watched them, half hidden in the shadows under the brambles.

Goosekit curled into his mother’s warm belly fur. “I’d rather stay with you,” he mewed. “There are too many cats here.”

Daisytoe purred. “No more than usual! These are your Clanmates, Goosekit. The cats who will feed and protect and train you until you are ready to patrol alongside them. They will always look after you.”

“Stormpaw won’t,” Goosekit growled. “He’s going to try to kill me.”

Beside him, Daisytoe stiffened. “Don’t say that! Stormpaw will look out for you, like all your Clanmates.”

Goosekit shook his head stubbornly. There were pictures crowding into his head, as clearly as if they were right in front of him. “There will be a badger,” he insisted, “and Stormpaw will leave me to fight it on my own.”

“You’re letting your imagination run away with you!” Daisytoe scolded him. “Stop it! You haven’t even seen a badger yet.”

“I know what they look like,” Goosekit argued. “Big, with a long pointy face. They are black and white like magpies, but striped like TigerClan. They are angry and fierce and they eat kits!”

Daisytoe wrapped her tail around him. “You’ll have to train hard and become a big strong warrior, won’t you? Then you can fight off all the badgers on your own. Meanwhile, I think you should stop listening to the elders’ stories. They’re putting mouse-brained ideas into your head!”

Goosekit nestled closer to his mother’s belly. In his head he saw the huge black-and-white creature looming over him, yellow teeth bared, drool hanging from its jaws. “I’m going to be really scared,” he muttered. “I don’t like badgers. Stormpaw is the meanest cat in ThunderClan!”