Rising Storm

Chapter 14

Over the next few days, the streams in ThunderClan territory dwindled until the only freshwater to be found was near the RiverClan border, on the far side of Sunningrocks.

“There’s never been a summer like it,” grumbled One-Eye. “The forest is as dry as a kit’s bedding.”

Fireheart was searching the sky for clouds, sending a silent prayer to StarClan that rain would come soon. The drought was forcing the ThunderClan cats to fetch water nearer and nearer to the place where Cinderpelt had sheltered the sick ShadowClan cats, and he didn’t want to risk any of the patrols coming into contact with lingering traces of disease. At the same time, he was almost grateful for the distraction of worrying about water, which left him less time to dwell on what had happened to Cloudpaw, and where his apprentice might be now.

The sunhigh patrol had just returned, and Frostfur was organizing a party of elders and queens to go to the river to drink. They gathered in the narrow shadows at the edge of the clearing.

“Why would StarClan send such a drought now?” Smallear complained. Out of the corner of his eye Fireheart saw the old gray tom glance in his direction, and he remembered with a shiver the elder’s warning about the broken rituals.

“It’s not the dryness that bothers me,” rasped One-Eye. “It’s all the Twolegs out in the forest. I’ve never heard so many crashing around, scaring off the prey and ruining our scent markers with their stench. A bit of rain might drive them away.”

“Well, I’m worried about Willowpelt,” meowed Speckletail. “It’s quite a journey to the stream and back, and she doesn’t like to leave her kits for so long. But if she doesn’t drink, her milk’ll dry up and her kits will starve.”

“Goldenflower too,” Patchpelt put in. “Perhaps if we each carried back moss soaked in water, they could lick the moisture from that?” he suggested.

“That’s a great idea,” Fireheart meowed. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of that himself. Perhaps he had been trying to put the nursery—and one kit in particular—out of his mind. “Can you bring some back today?”

The old black-and-white tom nodded.

“We’ll all bring some,” offered Speckletail.

“Thank you.” Fireheart blinked gratefully at her. He couldn’t help thinking with a pang of regret how eagerly Cloudpaw would have volunteered to help the elders. He’d always been particularly close to them, listening to their stories at night and sometimes even sharing their meals. It stung Fireheart, if he let himself think about it for too long, that the elders hardly seemed to notice Cloudpaw’s absence. Was Fireheart the only cat in ThunderClan who thought Cloudpaw could have adjusted to life in the forest? He shook his ears irritably. Perhaps Bluestar was right, and the young cat had made the right decision to leave. But it didn’t stop Fireheart from missing him with an unexpected intensity.

He called to Sandstorm and Brackenfur, who were resting in the shade of the nettle patch after the sunhigh patrol. They leaped up at once and trotted over to him.

“Would you escort Smallear and the others?” Fireheart meowed. “I don’t know how close to the river they’ll have to go, and they’ll need some backup if they bump into a RiverClan patrol.” He paused. “I know you’re tired, but the other cats are out training, and I need to stay with Whitestorm to guard the camp.”

“No problem,” meowed Brackenfur easily.

“I’m not tired, Fireheart,” insisted Sandstorm, fixing him with her leaf-green gaze.

Fireheart’s paws tingled as he remembered what Cinderpelt had told him a few nights ago. “Er, great,” he meowed, a little too loudly. He began washing his chest self-consciously, his licks becoming brisker as he noticed that Brackenfur’s whiskers were twitching with amusement.

He was relieved when the group padded out of the gorse tunnel leaving him in the deserted clearing. Whitestorm was with Bluestar, in her den. Willowpelt and Goldenflower were in the nursery with their kits. Fireheart had noticed Tigerclaw’s kit padding around the camp on unsteady legs these past few days, encouraged by Goldenflower. He’d found himself avoiding its eyes, and had looked on warily as, little by little, it joined in with Clan life.

Now, as he listened to it mewling with the other kits, Fireheart’s main thought was how hungry it would be if its mother didn’t get water soon. He hoped that the cats wouldn’t have to travel all the way to the river, and he pictured the band of queens and elders moving slowly through the undergrowth with Sandstorm beside them, her orange fur glowing among the green fronds. With a jolt, he remembered the sick ShadowClan cats. What if Cinderpelt hadn’t really sent them away and they were still hiding there?

Fireheart shuddered. He hurried toward Yellowfang’s clearing and nearly bumped into Cinderpelt limping out of the tunnel entrance.

“What’s the matter with you?” she mewed cheerily, and then she looked at the frown on Fireheart’s face and her expression changed.

“Did you tell Littlecloud and Whitethroat they must leave?” Fireheart whispered urgently.

“We’ve been through all this already.” Cinderpelt sighed impatiently.

“Are you sure they’ve gone?”

“They promised to leave that night.” Her blue eyes challenged Fireheart to argue with her.

“And there’s no stench of sickness left?” he persisted, his fur pricking with worry.

“Look!” she snapped. “I told them to leave and they said they would. I don’t have time for this. There are berries to be collected, and the birds will get them if I don’t. If you don’t believe me about the ShadowClan cats, why don’t you check for yourself?”

A low yowl came from the medicine cat’s den. “I don’t know who you’re mewing at out there, but stop it now and go and fetch those berries!”

“Sorry, Yellowfang,” Cinderpelt called over her shoulder. “I’m just talking to Fireheart.” Her eyes flashed accusingly at him as Yellowfang’s voice sounded again.

“Well, tell him to stop wasting your time, or he’ll have me to answer to!”

Cinderpelt’s shoulders relaxed and her whiskers twitched with amusement. Fireheart felt a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry to keep going on about it, Cinderpelt. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that I—”

“You’re just a fretful old badger,” she told him, nudging him affectionately on his shoulder. “Go and check out the root cave for yourself, if you want to put your mind at rest.” She brushed past him and limped toward the camp entrance.

Cinderpelt was right. Fireheart knew he would be satisfied only once he’d seen the ancient oak himself to make sure it was free of both ShadowClan cats and sickness. But he couldn’t leave now. He and Whitestorm were the only warriors in the camp. His fur itching with frustration and worry, Fireheart began to pace the clearing. As he turned below the Highrock to retrace his steps yet again, he spotted Whitestorm padding toward him.

“Have you decided on the evening patrol yet?” called the white warrior.

“I thought Runningwind could take Thornpaw and Mousefur.”

“Good idea,” answered Whitestorm distractedly. He clearly had something on his mind. “Could Brightpaw go with the dawn patrol tomorrow?” he asked. “The experience will do her good. I…I haven’t been keeping up with her training lately.” Whitestorm’s ear twitched and, with a twinge of unease, Fireheart realized that the white warrior had been spending more and more of his time with Bluestar. He couldn’t help suspecting that Whitestorm was afraid of what the ThunderClan leader might do if he left her alone for too long. At the same time Fireheart felt guiltily relieved that there was another cat in the Clan—the most respected senior warrior, no less—who shared his concerns for their troubled leader.

“Of course,” he agreed.

Whitestorm sat down beside Fireheart and looked around the clearing. “It’s quiet this afternoon.”

“Sandstorm and Brackenfur have taken the elders and queens to drink by the river. Patchpelt suggested bringing back moss soaked with water for Willowpelt and Goldenflower.”

Whitestorm nodded. “Perhaps they could share some with Bluestar. She seems reluctant to leave the camp.” The old warrior lowered his voice. “She’s been licking the dew from the leaves each morning, but she needs more than that in this heat.”

Fireheart felt a fresh wave of anxiety swell in his chest. “She seemed so much better the other day.”

“She is getting better all the time,” the white warrior assured him. “But still, she…” His deep mew trailed away and, although Fireheart felt shaken by the dark frown on the old warrior’s face, there was no need to say any more.

“I understand,” he murmured. “I’ll ask Patchpelt to take her some when they return.”

“Thank you.” Whitestorm narrowed his eyes at Fireheart. “You’re doing very well, you know,” he remarked calmly.

Fireheart sat up. “What do you mean?”

“Being deputy. I know it hasn’t been easy, with Bluestar…the way she is, and the drought. But I doubt there’s a cat in the Clan who would deny that Bluestar made the right choice when she appointed you.”

Apart from Darkstripe, Dustpelt, and half the elders, Fireheart responded silently. Then he realized he was being churlish, and he blinked gratefully at the white warrior. “Thank you, Whitestorm,” he purred. He couldn’t help feeling encouraged by such high praise from this wise cat, whose opinion he valued as much as Bluestar’s.

“And I’m sorry about Cloudpaw,” Whitestorm went on gently. “It must be very hard for you. After all, he was your kin, and I think it is too easy for Clanborn cats to take that bond for granted.”

Fireheart was taken aback by the warrior’s shrewdness. “Well, yes,” he began hesitantly. “I do miss him. Not just because he was my kin. I truly believe he could have made a good warrior in the end.” He glanced sideways at Whitestorm, half expecting the old cat to contradict him, but to his surprise the warrior was nodding.

“He was a good hunter, and a good friend to the other apprentices,” Whitestorm agreed. “But perhaps StarClan has a different destiny for him. I am no medicine cat; I cannot read the stars like Yellowfang or Cinderpelt, but I have always been willing to trust our warrior ancestors, wherever they might lead our Clan.”

And that is what makes you such a noble warrior, Fireheart thought, filled with admiration for Whitestorm’s loyalty to the warrior code. If Cloudpaw had had one whisker’s worth of such understanding, perhaps things would have been very different…

The sound of pebbles clattering outside the camp wall made both cats jump. Fireheart dashed to the camp entrance. Speckletail and the others were crashing down the rocky slope, sending grit and dirt crumbling around them. Their fur was bristling and their eyes were filled with alarm.

“Twolegs!” Speckletail panted as she reached the foot of the ravine.

Fireheart looked up to where Brackenfur and Sandstorm were helping the eldest cats as they struggled down from boulder to boulder.

“It’s okay,” Sandstorm called down. “We lost them.”

When they were all safely at the bottom, Brackenfur explained, his breath coming in frightened gasps: “There was a group of young ones. They chased us!”

Fireheart’s fur bristled with alarm as a terrified mewing broke out among the other cats. “Are you all okay?” he meowed.

Sandstorm looked around the group and nodded.

“Good.” Fireheart steadied himself with a deep breath. “Where were these Twolegs? Were they by the river?”

“We hadn’t even reached Sunningrocks,” answered Sandstorm. Her voice grew calmer as she got her breath back, and her eyes began to gleam with indignation. “They were loose in the woods, not on the usual Twoleg paths.”

Fireheart tried not to betray his alarm. Twolegs rarely ventured this deep into the forest. “We shall have to wait till dark to fetch water,” he decided out loud.

“Do you think they’ll be gone by then?” asked One-Eye shakily.

“Why would they stay?” Fireheart tried to sound reassuring despite his private doubts. Who could predict what a Twoleg might do?

“But what about Willowpelt and Goldenflower?” fretted Speckletail. “They’ll need water before then.”

“I’ll go and fetch some,” offered Sandstorm.

“No,” meowed Fireheart. “I’ll go.” Fetching water for Willowpelt would give him a perfect opportunity to take Cinderpelt’s advice and check for himself that the ShadowClan cats and their sickness had gone from the cave beneath the old oak. He nodded to Sandstorm. “I need you to stay at the top of the ravine and look out for Twolegs.” One-Eye let out an anxious mew. “I’m sure they’ll have turned back by now,” Fireheart soothed the elder. “But you’ll be safe with Sandstorm on guard.” He looked into the orange she-cat’s sparkling emerald eyes and knew he spoke the truth.

“I’ll come with you,” meowed Brackenfur.

Fireheart shook his head. He had to make this journey alone to avoid any other cats finding out about Cinderpelt’s foolish good deed. “You’ll need to guard the camp with Whitestorm,” he told the pale ginger warrior. “And I want you to report what you saw in the forest just now to Bluestar. I’ll carry back as much moss as I can. The rest of you will have to wait till sunset.”

Fireheart and Sandstorm climbed the ravine together, cautiously sniffing the air as they approached the top. There was no scent of Twolegs here.

“Be careful,” whispered Sandstorm as Fireheart prepared to head into the forest.

He licked the top of her head. “I will,” he promised softly.

Green eyes met green eyes for a long moment; then Fireheart turned and crept warily through the trees. He kept to the thickest undergrowth, his ears pricked and his mouth half-open as he strained his senses to pick up any signs of Twolegs. He smelled their unnatural stench as he approached Sunningrocks, but it was stale now.

Fireheart turned and cut through the woods to the slope above the river that marked the RiverClan border. As he checked for RiverClan patrols, he couldn’t help looking out for the familiar gray head of his friend, Graystripe. But there was no sign of any cats in the airless forest. Fireheart would be able to fetch water from the stream without being challenged, but first he had to check the cave beneath the ancient oak.

He headed along the border, stopping at every other tree to leave his scent and freshen the boundary between the two Clans. Even this close to the river, the forest had lost its newleaf lushness and the leaves looked shriveled and worn. Fireheart soon spotted the gnarled oak, and as he drew near he saw the dusty cave where the ShadowClan cats had sheltered.

He breathed in deeply. The stench of sickness had gone. With a sigh of relief he decided to take a quick look inside and then fetch the water. He padded forward, his eyes fixed on the hole. He crouched low, then cautiously stretched his neck and peered into the makeshift den.

He let out a startled gasp as a weight dropped onto his back and claws grasped his sides. Fear and rage pulsed through him and he yowled, twisting violently in an attempt to throw off his attacker. But the cat who had ambushed him kept a firm hold. Fireheart braced himself for the pain of thorn-sharp claws in his flanks, but the paws that clutched him were wide and soft, their claws unsheathed. Then a familiar scent filled his nostrils—a scent overlaid now with the odors of RiverClan, but recognizable all the same.

“Graystripe!” he meowed joyfully.

“I thought you would never come to see me,” purred Graystripe.

Fireheart felt his old friend slip from his back and realized that Graystripe was dripping wet with river water. His own orange pelt was soaked from their tussle. He shook himself and stared in amazement at the gray warrior. “You swam across the river?” he meowed in disbelief. Every cat in ThunderClan knew how much Graystripe hated getting his thick fur wet.

Graystripe gave himself a quick shake, and the water spattered easily from his pelt. His long fur, which used to soak up water like moss, looked sleek and glossy. “It’s quicker than going down to the stepping-stones,” he pointed out. “Besides, my fur doesn’t seem to hold the water as much anymore. One of the advantages of eating fish, I suppose.”

“About the only one, I should think,” answered Fireheart, screwing up his face. He couldn’t imagine how the strong flavor of fish could compare to the subtle, musky flavors of ThunderClan’s forest prey.

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” meowed Graystripe. He blinked warmly at Fireheart. “You look well.”

“You too,” Fireheart purred back.

“How is everyone? Is Dustpelt still being a pain? How’s Bluestar?”

“Dustpelt’s fine,” Fireheart began, and then hesitated. “Bluestar is…” He searched for words, unsure how much to tell his old friend about the ThunderClan leader.

“What’s up?” asked Graystripe, his eyes narrowing.

Fireheart realized that the gray warrior knew him too well to miss his reaction. His ears flicked self-consciously.

“Bluestar’s all right, isn’t she?” Graystripe’s voice was thick with concern.

“She’s fine,” Fireheart assured him quickly, relieved—it was his anxiety about the ThunderClan leader that Graystripe had detected, not his wariness of his old friend. “But she hasn’t really been her old self lately. Not since Tigerclaw…” He trailed off uncertainly.

Graystripe frowned. “Have you seen that old poisonpaws since he left?”

Fireheart shook his head. “Not a sign of him. I don’t know how Bluestar would react if she saw him again.”

“She’d scratch his eyes out, if I know her,” purred Graystripe. “I can’t imagine anything keeping Bluestar down for long.”

I wish that were true, Fireheart thought sadly. He looked into Graystripe’s curious eyes, knowing with a pang of sadness that his desire to confide in his old friend had been an impossible dream. Graystripe was a member of RiverClan now, and Fireheart had to accept with a heavy heart that he couldn’t share the details of his leader’s weakness with a cat from another Clan. And he also realized that he wasn’t prepared to tell Graystripe about Cloudpaw’s disappearance—at least, not yet. Fireheart tried to tell himself this was because he didn’t want to worry Graystripe when his friend was unable to help, anyway. But he suspected his silence might have more to do with pride. He didn’t want Graystripe to know that he had failed as a mentor for a second time, so soon after Cinderpelt’s accident.

“What’s it like in RiverClan?” he meowed, deliberately changing the subject.

Graystripe shrugged. “Not much different from ThunderClan. Some of them are friendly, some of them are grumpy, some of them are funny, some of them are…Well, they’re just like normal Clan cats, I suppose.”

Fireheart couldn’t help envying the gray warrior for sounding so relaxed. Clearly Graystripe’s new life didn’t carry the burden of responsibility that Fireheart had to deal with now that he was deputy. And part of him still felt a small thorn of resentment that had mingled with his grief since Graystripe had left ThunderClan. Fireheart knew his friend could not have abandoned his kits; he just wished he’d fought harder to keep them in ThunderClan.

Fireheart pushed away these unfriendly thoughts. “How are your kits?” he asked.

Graystripe purred proudly. “They’re wonderful!” he declared. “The she-kit is just like her mother, every bit as beautiful, and with the same temper! She gives her den mother quite a bit of trouble, but every cat loves her. Especially Crookedstar. The tom is more easygoing, happy whatever he’s doing.”

“Like his father,” remarked Fireheart.

“And almost as handsome,” boasted Graystripe, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

Fireheart felt a familiar rush of joy at being with his old friend. “I miss you,” he meowed, suddenly overwhelmed with longing to have Graystripe back at the camp, to hunt and fight beside him again. “Why don’t you come home?”

Graystripe shook his wide gray head. “I can’t leave my kits,” he meowed.

Fireheart couldn’t help the look of disbelief that flashed in his eyes—after all, kits were raised by queens, not their fathers—and Graystripe went on quickly: “Oh, they are very well cared for in the nursery. They would be safe and happy with RiverClan. But I don’t think I could bear to be away from them. They remind me too much of Silverstream.”

“You miss her that much?”

“I loved her,” Graystripe answered simply.

Fireheart felt a pang of jealousy until he remembered the sorrow he still felt whenever he awoke from a dream of Spottedleaf. He reached forward and touched Graystripe’s cheek with his nose. Only StarClan knew if he might have done the same thing for Spottedleaf. Or Sandstorm? whispered a voice deep in Fireheart’s mind.

Graystripe nudged him back, disturbing Fireheart’s wandering thoughts and almost unbalancing him. “Enough soppy stuff!” he meowed, as if he could read his friend’s mind. “You didn’t really come here to see me, did you?”

Fireheart was caught off guard. “Well, not entirely…” he confessed.

“You were looking for those ShadowClan cats, right?”

“How did you know about them?” Fireheart demanded, stunned.

“How could I not know?” exclaimed Graystripe. “The stench they were giving off. ShadowClan cats smell bad enough on their own, but sick ones…yuck!”

“Does the rest of RiverClan know about them?” Fireheart was alarmed to think that the other Clans could have found out ThunderClan was sheltering ShadowClan cats again—and ones tainted by sickness at that.

“Not as far as I know,” Graystripe assured him. “I offered to do all the patrolling at this end of the river. The other cats just thought I was homesick and indulged me. I think they were secretly hoping I’d go back to ThunderClan if I got enough of the forest scents!”

“But why would you protect the ShadowClan cats like that?” Fireheart asked, puzzled.

“I came over and spoke to them soon after they arrived,” Graystripe explained. “They told me that Cinderpelt had hidden them here. I reckoned that if Cinderpelt had something to do with it, then you must know. Sheltering a couple of sickly fleabags is just the sort of softhearted thing you’d do.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly thrilled when I found out,” Fireheart admitted.

“But I bet you let her off.”

Fireheart shrugged. “Well, yes.”

“She always could wrap you around her paw,” meowed Graystripe affectionately. “Anyway, they’ve gone now.”

“When did they leave?” Fireheart felt a wave of relief that Cinderpelt had kept her promise.

“I saw one hunting this side of the river a couple of days ago, but not a whisker since.”

“A couple of days ago?” Fireheart was alarmed to hear that the ShadowClan cats were still there so recently. Had Cinderpelt decided to nurse them until they were well enough to travel, after all? His fur prickled with irritation at the thought, but he trusted that she had not made the decision lightly. He was just grateful to StarClan that they hadn’t bumped into a water-gathering patrol from ThunderClan. They were gone now, and with any luck so was the threat of sickness.

“Look,” meowed Graystripe, “I have to go. I’m on hunting duty, and I promised I’d watch a couple of apprentices this afternoon.”

“Have you got an apprentice of your own?” Fireheart asked.

Graystripe met his gaze steadily. “I don’t think RiverClan is willing to trust me to train their warriors yet,” he murmured. Fireheart couldn’t tell if it was amusement or regret that made his old friend’s whiskers twitch.

“I’ll see you again sometime,” Graystripe meowed, giving Fireheart a shove with his muzzle.

“Definitely.” Fireheart felt a black hole of sadness yawn in his belly as the gray warrior turned to leave. Spottedleaf, Graystripe, Cloudpaw…Was Fireheart destined to lose every cat he grew close to? “Take care!” he called. He watched Graystripe pad through the ferns to the edge of the river and wade in confidently. The warrior’s broad shoulders glided through the water, leaving a gentle wake as he swam with strongly churning paws. Fireheart shook his head, wishing he could scatter his troubled thoughts as easily as Graystripe’s pelt had shed water after his swim. Then he turned away and headed into the trees.