Crookedstar's Promise Page 8

  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 doe
s.” 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.

  Chapter 8

  The forest loomed, dark and eerie, around Crookedkit. He shivered as the damp air seeped into his pelt.

  “You’ve been away from your Clan for a moon!” Mapleshade glared at him, a whisker away from his muzzle, and lashed her tail.

  Crookedkit met her stare. “Do you really think they’ve missed me?” Fog weaved around his paws. “Don’t you think they were glad to get rid of such a useless warrior?”

  “You’re not useless!”

  “I know that!” Crookedkit hunted on the farm every day and helped look after Mitzi’s kits. Fleck didn’t care that he didn’t have his apprentice name yet. He had taught Crookedkit how to stalk and catch mice, how to let the kits play fight without hurting themselves, how to watch out for monsters that didn’t keep to Thunderpaths but stormed over grass and mud faster than a cat could run. Crookedkit knew for sure that he wasn’t useless. “But I don’t know if my Clanmates would agree.”

  Mapleshade’s eyes blazed. “Then prove yourself to them!”

  “Why should I?” Crookedkit hissed. “They stopped believing in me!”

  “Every warrior must prove himself,” Mapleshade argued. “You must go home! Your destiny lies with your Clan.”

  Crookedkit heard pleading in her mew. “I’ll go back when I’m big enough and strong enough to become an apprentice.”

  “You’re big enough already!” Mapleshade pressed. “You’ve eaten so many mice you’ve probably forgotten what fish tastes like.”

  Crookedkit licked his lips, remembering the taste of the river with a pang. Then he dug his claws into the brown earth. He liked living on the farm. He liked being needed. He liked how Magpie and Mist looked up to him. And what if Mapleshade was wrong? His great destiny might lie here. “What if my Clanmates never see past my twisted jaw?” he whispered. “What if Hailstar never makes me an apprentice?”

  “If you stay away much longer, he won’t,” Mapleshade growled. “You’ll be called a loner.”

  Crookedkit flattened his ears. “I’m a RiverClan cat.”

  “Then go home and prove it.” Her amber gaze held his while the forest faded around them. Then Mapleshade blinked and Crookedkit woke up.

  He scrambled to his paws, relishing the warm morning sunshine streaming into the barn. “I smell mice.” He nudged Fleck.

  “Just you wait.” Fleck stirred beside him. “It’s harvesttime soon.” He yawned. “Then you’ll really see the mice run.”

  Crookedkit licked his lips. “I found a new mouse nest yesterday.”

  Fleck sat up. “Where?”

  Crookedkit bounded out of his straw nest and trotted across the stone floor. “I’ll show you.” He wanted to stop Mapleshade’s words from ringing in his ears. He wasn’t a loner. He was a RiverClan cat. And once he was big enough for his Clanmates to take him seriously, he’d go home and prove it.

  “Slow down!” Fleck lapped at his rumpled fur.

  “Come on!” Crookedkit paused, swishing his tail. “I want to show you before the monsters wake up.”

  Puffing, Fleck hurried after him, then stopped suddenly and twisted to nibble at an itch on his spine. “I haven’t had a chance to pick my fleas out yet.”

  “You can do that later.” Crookedkit jumped through the opening, screwing up his eyes against the dazzling light. The sun blazed above the distant hills. The farm monsters lay still in their dens. Crookedkit scooted across the open space and followed the wall.

  “Hurry up!” he called as Fleck appeared around the corner. Grass clung to the bottom of the wall. Crookedkit followed the clumps till he reached a green tuft, thick with nettles. His mouth began to water as he parted the stems with his forepaws. Behind, a tiny hole was just visible under a jutting-out stone. “In there,” he whispered to Fleck.

  Fleck peered over his shoulder. “It’s a waiting hole. You’ll have to let the mouse come out first.”

  “We can dig underneath.”

  Fleck shook his head. “I’ve tried. The stones go down a tail-length. You won’t dig your way past them.”

  Crookedkit let the nettles swish back into place. “I’ll wait, then.”

  Fleck’s whiskers quivered. “You? Wait?”

  “What?” Crookedkit cocked his head. “I can wait.”

  Fleck shook his head. “You may have grown this past moon, but you’re still as impatient as a kit.”

  Crookedkit sniffed. “I’ll show you!” He crouched beside the nettles and curled his tail beside him.

  Fleck’s eyes glowed. “While you’re busy waiting,” he meowed, “I’ll go and see what I can catch behind the wood store.”

  Crookedkit shifted his paws as Fleck padded away and disappeared around the corner. I can wait! Crookedkit flicked his tail. He stared at the nettles, ears pricked, whiskers stiff, ready to detect any movement. Nothing stirred.

  I can wait a moon if I have to.

  He curled and uncurled his claws. Then he opened his mouth and tasted for mouse scent. Nothing.

  They’ll be out before long.

  An itch made his tail quiver. Crookedkit stared at the nettles. The itch grew stronger till it was unbearable. He twisted and nibbled at it, relived when it stopped.

  Perhaps the hole’s empty, he thought. It’s dumb to waste my time waiting for nothing when I could be doing some proper hunting. He stared at the corner where Fleck had disappeared. The wood store was probably alive with mice. Fleck would need help. Crookedkit glanced at the nettles. I’ll come back later, he told himself, when the mice are awake. Chin high, he trotted back along the wall, around the corner, and across the open space.

  “That didn’t take you long,” Fleck commented as Crookedkit reached the wood store. “Did you catch many?” The ginger tom was crouching at the bottom of a stack of chopped wood, staring at a gap between logs.

  “They’d all gone,” Crookedkit told him.

  Fleck didn’t move his gaze. “You can help me then.” He shuffled closer to the gap. “I can hear them, I just can’t see them.”

  Crookedkit peered into the darkness, then glanced up at the top of the woodpile. “I’ve got an idea.” He leaped up, clearing two tail-lengths in one bound, and clung on to the logs. They shifted beneath his weight and he heard a squeak below. Scrabbling higher, he clawed his way to the top, then looked down.

  Fleck had caught a mouse and laid it behind him. “Can you shift them again?” he called. “It looks like you’re scaring them out.”

  Crookedkit jumped across the long stretch of logs. He landed as heavily as he could and heard the wood creak beneath him. Another mouse shot out from the bottom and Fleck caught it with a swift paw. Crookedkit pricked his ears. Tiny paws scrabbled behind the logs. He focused on the sound. Then, in one swift movement, he pressed his belly to the wood and reached down behind the pile. H
is outstretched claws felt warm as he hooked a mouse from the shadows and killed it expertly with a quick nip from his back teeth.

  “Got one!” he called down to Fleck. “Should we take it to Mitzi? I bet she’s hungry.”

  “She will be.” Fleck lined up his catch. “And the kits’ll be restless.” They were growing fast and exploring farther from the nest every day.

  “I’ll take them on an expedition to the ditch if Mitzi says it’s okay.” Crookedkit picked up his catch and jumped down from the woodpile.

  Fleck was watching him. “Don’t you miss your own kin?” he asked softly.

  “Of course.” Crookedkit dropped his mouse and met Fleck’s gaze. “But they don’t need me like Mitzi and the kits do.”

  “I can take care of—”

  Crookedkit grabbed his mouse and ran out of the wood store before Fleck had finished. Fleck caught up as Crookedkit was squeezing through the gap in the wall. Crookedkit glanced at him anxiously. Was the farm cat going to tell him he wasn’t needed here anymore?

  Fleck’s catch swung by their tails from his mouth. He gazed at the distant meadows. “Fine day,” was all he said. The tails muffled his mew.

  Crookedkit felt weak with relief. I am needed.

  Sunshine glared on the farm track as they headed toward the cornfield. The crest of the hill cut into blue, cloudless sky. The hedgerows spilled over the verges, blousy with fading lushness, while the corn looked dull, its golden sheen dusty. Crookedkit’s ears twitched. A strange noise stirred the hot air. He dropped his mouse and stared down the track. “What’s that noise?”

  Rumbling sounded in the distance.

  Fleck halted, nose twitching. “Smells like a farm monster is working already.”

  “But all the monsters are in their dens.”

  Fleck dropped his mice. “Harvest!” Panic edged his mew. Pelt spiking, he raced away.

  Crookedkit stared in surprise at Fleck’s abandoned fresh-kill. “What’s harvest?” he called. His pads pricked nervously as he smelled fear-scent in Fleck’s wake.

  “They’re cutting the corn!” Fleck yowled back.

  Horror gripped Crookedkit. He shot after his friend, grit cracking beneath his paws.