Meanwhile Larksong’s brace of toms, Sunkit and Featherkit, grew into strong little cats, ready to nip Goosefeather’s tail when he wasn’t watching, or shred their freshly laid nest with their thorn-sharp teeth. As soon as their eyes were open, Larksong shooed them out of the nursery to give the other queens some peace. Her sons tottered about the clearing on sturdy legs, fur fluffed up against the cold. A tendril of ivy lay on the ground beside the half-tree, and the kits pounced on it with ferocious squeaks.
“Did you see Sunkit jump just then?” Goosefeather mewed to Cloudberry. They were at the fresh-kill pile, choosing a soft piece of prey for Nettlebreeze, who was complaining of toothache. “He’s already more powerful than his brother.”
Cloudberry looked at Goosefeather, her yellow eyes wary. “Be careful,” she murmured. “Don’t let the kits hear you say that.”
Goosefeather let out a hiss of irritation. “I was only making an observation!”
His mentor shook her head. “You see his future every time you look at him. Don’t let that blind you to what is happening now, Goosefeather.”
“I can’t take away what I have seen,” Goosefeather growled. “The fact that Sunkit is going to grow up to be our leader makes him special.”
“All kits are special!” Cloudberry flashed. “To their mothers, they are the most perfect creatures that ever walked in the forest. But as medicine cats, we must treat our Clanmates as equals. None is more deserving of our care than another. You should know that by now.”
She broke off as Doestar approached. The pale-furred leader looked at the fresh-kill pile. “Has every cat eaten yet?” she asked.
“Almost,” Cloudberry meowed. “Here, you could take the remains of this squirrel.” She pushed it toward Doestar, but the she-cat backed away.
“Save it for the queens. I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat,” Cloudberry murmured. “Your warriors don’t want to see you starve yourself.”
Doestar flicked the tip of her tail. “There are too many hungry mouths in ThunderClan,” she mewed. “Three litters born at the start of leaf-bare! How will we feed them all?”
“Like we always do, with clever hunting,” Cloudberry insisted. “Trust your warriors, Doestar. ThunderClan will survive.”
Goosefeather looked down at the vole he had chosen. It was plump and thickly furred, and its unseeing eyes were bright. If StarClan continued to send them such healthy prey, they would hardly notice leaf-bare passing through the forest.
Goosefeather opened his eyes with a start. The air inside the medicine cats’ den was bitterly cold, and there was just enough moonlight filtering through the cleft in the rock to show his breath hanging in clouds above his nest. Goosefeather stretched and felt the chill pierce his fur as he uncurled. Beside him, Cloudberry was snoring gently in her own nest, her thick tail over her nose.
Goosefeather felt too restless to go back to sleep. He slid out of his nest and padded out of the den. The ferns were crisp with frost, and the moon was barely a claw-scratch in the clear indigo sky. Goosefeather winced as he followed the path to the clearing. The ground was hard as stone beneath his paws, and he was so cold he could hardly breathe. The air was completely still, and the only sound came from an owl somewhere in the distance, calling to its mate. Goosefeather paused. That wasn’t the only sound he could hear. A faint moaning was coming from one of the dens.
He ran into the clearing and stopped dead in horror. His Clanmates staggered around him, ribs sticking out of scabby pelts, eyes bulging from sharp-edged faces. The air was thick with wails of pain and the low, steady keening of a cat lost in grief. Two cats, Squirrelwhisker and Rooktail, clawed at the place where the fresh-kill pile had been; it was nothing now but a few scraps of fur and a scattering of tiny bones. A ginger shape lay slumped in the middle of the clearing, eyes open and clouded. To Goosefeather’s dismay, none of the other cats paid any attention to it. Instead they stepped over the dead cat’s crumpled legs, blinded and numb from hunger.
A few cats watched from the edge of the clearing, their pelts sleek and glossy, their bellies plump with food. But their eyes were filled with sorrow, and Goosefeather knew that these were StarClan cats, the dead cats he saw every day among his Clanmates. Waves of grief came from them as they watched the living cats starve.
Goosefeather felt heavy wetness clinging to his belly fur and looked down to see that he was standing in thick snow. A bleak-eyed, hunch-shouldered cat lurched close to him. “Daisytoe?” Goosefeather whispered. The she-cat didn’t hear him. She stumbled to the fresh-kill pile and leaned on Rooktail.
“You said you would go out hunting,” she rasped. Her gaunt flanks heaved as she fought for breath.
The black tom flicked his tail. “I did,” he growled. “But there’s no prey in this snow.”
“We’re all going to die!” wailed Squirrelwhisker, grinding her paws into the remains of the fresh-kill pile.
“No!” Goosefeather yowled. “I won’t let this happen!”
The cats vanished, and he was alone in the moonlit clearing. He whirled around and raced to the den beneath Highrock.
“Doestar! Wake up!”
He burst into the musty darkness and blinked. The leader sat up in her nest, her fur ruffled from sleep.
“Goosefeather! What’s wrong?”
“The Clan is starving!” he wailed. “This leaf-bare is too harsh. There is no prey and we are all going to die!”
Doestar bounded across the den and pressed her shoulder against Goosefeather. She felt warm and solid, and he started to breathe more steadily. “Calm down,” she told him. “Have you had a vision?”
Goosefeather nodded. “It was snowy and cold . . . more cold than it has ever been. The fresh-kill pile was empty, and there was nothing for hunting patrols to catch. Cats were dying from hunger . . .” He trailed off, picturing the dead ginger cat lying alone in the center of the camp.
There was a stir at the entrance to Doestar’s den, and Pineheart appeared. “Is everything okay?” he meowed. “I was returning from the dirtplace and saw Goosefeather coming in.”
“Goosefeather has had a vision,” Doestar explained. “This is going to be a harder leaf-bare than usual, it seems.” Her voice was even, but Goosefeather could feel her heart thudding beneath her fur.
Pineheart looked at Goosefeather. “Did your vision show you a way to survive what’s coming?” There was an edge to his voice, and Goosefeather swallowed the urge to hiss at him. One day Pineheart would be leader and Goosefeather would be his only medicine cat; he had to keep peace with the deputy now and win his trust.
“No,” he admitted. “But we have a chance to do something, now that we have been warned.”
Doestar nodded to Goosefeather. “I want Cloudberry to hear this as well. Fetch her, please.”
Goosefeather ran into the icy air and woke the old medicine cat. She sat in the leader’s den and listened quietly as Goosefeather explained what he had seen.
“We’ll have to find a different source of prey,” mewed Doestar, pacing across the cave and back again. “Should we expand the territory? Send cats into Twolegplace?”
Pineheart flicked his ears. “I can’t see our warriors being happy about that. But perhaps we could set borders around the treecutplace. I don’t think we’d be challenged if we wanted to hunt there.”
Cloudberry was gazing into the distance. “There is something we could try,” she murmured. “I remember a very cold leaf-bare when I was a kit in RiverClan. The river froze, trapping all the fish. Some warriors broke off a piece of ice at the edge of the river and brought it back to the camp. It contained a fish, stone-cold and dead. But when the warmth of the dens melted the ice around it, the fish was perfect fresh-kill. Somehow the ice had kept it fresh.”
Goosefeather tipped his head on one side. “Are you saying we should wait for the river to freeze, and eat fish?”
“No. I think we should find a way to keep our own prey fresh for when we have nothing
else to eat,” Cloudberry mewed.
“But we don’t have enough water on our territory,” Pineheart pointed out.
“Maybe not,” meowed Doestar, flicking her tail. “But what if the same thing happens in the ground? We know the earth freezes when it gets very cold. If we buried the fresh-kill, wouldn’t it freeze too? Then we could dig it up when we need it.”
Goosefeather nodded, his fur bristling with excitement. “If we send out extra hunting patrols for the next moon, we could store enough food to last until newleaf!”
“I’ll split the dawn patrol and send half out to hunt,” Pineheart meowed. “And the apprentices can hunt instead of battle training later on.”
“We don’t want to risk the strength of our Clan in battle,” Doestar warned.
Her deputy looked at her. “The greatest risk is starving to death, wouldn’t you say?” he mewed softly.
Doestar nodded, her eyes troubled. “Goosefeather, tell no one else about your vision. I don’t want any cat to panic. We can say that we are preparing for the chance of a hard leaf-bare, but no cat must know what you have foreseen.”
Goosefeather dipped his head. As usual, he thought. Doestar and Cloudberry were always concerned about how his Clanmates might react to his powers. What about me? Don’t they worry about how I feel, carrying the weight of ThunderClan’s future all by myself?
Within three sunrises, the camp had been transformed. The clearing was dotted with large holes, each a full fox-length across, dug by the cats with sharpest claws and strongest front legs. As Goosefeather was weaving between the holes to the gorse tunnel, Stormtail looked up from his freshly turned pile of soil.
“Is this something to do with you?” he growled, flicking earth from his whiskers.
Goosefeather stepped out of the way as Adderfang staggered past with a dead squirrel, which he dropped into Stormtail’s hole. “Doestar wants to be sure we are prepared for leaf-bare,” Goosefeather meowed. “Have you forgotten how many kits have been born this moon?”
The gray warrior began scraping soil over the squirrel. “We’ve never done anything like this before. Have you been seeing things?” He glanced sideways at Goosefeather.
Goosefeather leaned close to him. “You’d better believe I can see the future, Stormtail. Aren’t you curious about what’s going to happen to you?” Without giving the warrior a chance to reply, he turned away.
He had to wait for a hunting patrol to bring in the latest catch before he could enter the gorse tunnel. He watched Flashnose and Rainfur deposit a pigeon and two mice into a hole dug by Rockfall and Heronpaw. The dark brown apprentice was dusted with earth, and one of his claws was bleeding. Goosefeather reminded himself to check all the apprentices’ paws at the end of the day.
He slipped through the gorse and climbed out of the ravine. For a while, Beetail padded beside him, the StarClan cat keeping him silent company through the bracken. The air was dry and cold, with heavy yellow clouds looming over the tops of the trees. There was a light wind that rattled the bare branches and ruffled Goosefeather’s fur.
Tucking his nose into his chest fur, he trotted along the path that led to Snakerocks, where one remaining patch of catmint grew. Cloudberry wanted to preserve some leaves before they were spoiled by frost. He could hear a hunting patrol near the border with Twolegplace; one of the apprentices was chasing a squirrel, cheered on by Moonpaw and Rabbitpaw. Goosefeather stayed away from the squirrel’s route and padded into the grassy space at the foot of the smooth gray boulders known as Snakerocks.
As he looked at the deep cracks and clefts in the rocks, his ears started to buzz, and he felt the ground dip under his feet. Two she-cats were hissing at each other. Goosefeather recognized one of them as Mapleshade, the cat who had taught him how to fight after the badger attack. The other had speckled golden fur and sad, haunted eyes. She was accusing Mapleshade of betraying her brother. She lunged at Mapleshade; the tortoiseshell-and-white cat stepped back, sending the golden cat stumbling into a pile of stones. There was a flicker of movement as something long and sinuous rose up from behind the nearest rock. The golden she-cat leaped away with a shriek.
“Adder! It bit me! Help!”
Mapleshade let out a hiss. “Like you helped my kits? Never! I hope you die in agony!”
Goosefeather watched in horror as the gold-furred cat writhed on the ground. Mapleshade turned and walked into the bracken. The golden cat faded away and the clearing was empty once more.
Goosefeather felt eyes burning into his pelt. He spun around. Mapleshade was watching him from on top of a rock. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look like you just saw a fox eat your own mother.”
“Did you really let that cat get bitten by an adder?” Goosefeather demanded. “And leave her here to die?”
Mapleshade looked surprised. “Of course. I hate every cat in ThunderClan, and will not rest until I have had vengeance on every last one.”
“But—but you helped me,” Goosefeather stammered. “You showed me how to fight after the badger attacked me, remember? That wasn’t vengeance.”
Mapleshade’s eyes gleamed. “I have no need to punish you,” she growled. “You are doomed already. StarClan has seen to that.”
“What do you mean?” Goosefeather demanded. Mapleshade started to walk away. “Come back! Why do you think I’m doomed? You have to tell me!”
But the she-cat had vanished, and Goosefeather was standing alone in the clearing, shivering and breathless with fear. All these visions, he thought. And yet I’ve never seen my own future. . . .
CHAPTER NINE
“I am proud to announce three new litters of kits in ThunderClan.” Doestar’s voice rang through the hollow above the heads of the listening cats. Behind her, the other leaders were outlined in silver from frosty moonlight.
Houndstar, the ShadowClan leader, leaned over to Volestar of RiverClan. Goosefeather heard him mutter, “So close to leaf-bare? Those warriors won’t like having to catch prey for so many hungry mouths!”
Doestar must have overheard, because she continued. “ThunderClan is well prepared for leaf-bare. My Clan will grow strong through the coldest moons, and I will bring you our new apprentices when the warm weather returns!”
There were cheers from the ThunderClan cats, and Chiveclaw, the WindClan medicine cat, mewed to Cloudberry, “You’ll be busy with all those little ones!”
Cloudberry nodded. “Thank StarClan, they are all fit and well. Noisy, though!”
Echosnout of RiverClan snorted. “In my day, kits knew when to keep quiet.”
Cloudberry flicked her ears. “In your day, Echosnout, I was one of those kits under your care, and I don’t remember being quiet at all!”
The old she-cat huffed and turned away. Above them on the Great Rock, the WindClan leader, Heatherstar, had stepped forward and was reporting a black-and-white dog loose on the moor. Her warriors had chased it down to the Thunderpath, where a Twoleg caught it.
“I gave it a scratch that it won’t forget in a hurry,” purred Dawnstripe, a cream-striped golden tabby.
A brisk wind rattled the branches of the giant oaks, sending a flurry of raindrops spattering into the hollow. Houndstar jumped to his paws. “We should get home before the rain starts,” he called. “Come, ShadowClan!”
The tangle of cats parted smoothly in four directions, streaming up out of the hollow and plunging into the forest. Goosefeather ran beside his mother. Daisytoe was limping slightly from an ache in her haunches; with a shock, Goosefeather realized that his mother was growing old. He stayed close to her as they made their way through the trees. Thick clouds had blown in to cover the full moon, and raindrops pattered steadily onto the branches.
The ThunderClan cats raced down the side of the ravine and bounded into their camp. The cats who had stayed behind came out to hear the news from the Gathering, then retreated quickly into their dens as the rain pelted down. Goosefeather followed Cloudberry into their den beneath the rock. Their pelts ste
amed in the damp air. Cloudberry shook herself, sending drops flying onto Goosefeather’s muzzle.
“I’d rather it was cold than wet,” she complained. “This weather gets into my bones now.” She climbed stiffly into her nest and curled up. Goosefeather pulled some feathers over her flanks to keep her warm.
“The wind is strong enough to blow the rain away,” he meowed. “It will be dry by dawn.”
But it wasn’t. Goosefeather was woken by the thrumming of raindrops on the rock above his head. Outside, the browning ferns were half flattened, and the clearing was awash with rivulets. Warriors ran from den to den hunched against the windblown rain, and the fresh-kill pile was sitting in a brackish puddle.
Pineheart surveyed it with a frown. “We’ll have to move it to higher ground,” he meowed. “I’ll get Mumblefoot and Rooktail to do that as soon as they return from the dawn patrol.”
Mistpelt emerged from the elders’ den on her way to the dirtplace and hissed as her paws sank into mud. “Whose bright idea was it to dig up half the clearing?” she muttered. “If it keeps raining, we’ll all sink up to our necks!”
Goosefeather looked at the freshly turned soil that marked the storage places for fresh-kill. Each one bubbled with liquid brown sludge. He pictured the prey underneath, soaked through and festering. . . . “Pineheart!” he yowled. “The fresh-kill will be ruined! We have to dig it up and take it somewhere dry!”
The deputy stared at him. “But we’ve only just buried it! Where else can we put it? The ground will be soaked everywhere in the forest.”
Goosefeather was already scraping at the nearest patch of mud. “We can’t waste time thinking about that. We have to dig it up before it rots!”
He was dimly aware of Pineheart running to the warriors’ den and summoning the cats still in their nests. Harepounce ran from the nursery and started digging alongside Goosefeather. Her light brown pelt was soon smothered in wet earth, and her whiskers were thick with sludge, but she kept scratching until their paws hit a lump of sodden fur.