Bluestar's Prophecy

“Are they coming yet?” White-eye called. She tugged Runningkit back by his tail and tucked him in their nest beside his sister. Mousekit had fallen asleep, tired of waiting for her new denmates to arrive.

Sunlight filtered into the nursery, muted by the thick layer of snow weighing heavily on the bramble roof. Inside it was warm from the breath of several cats crowded together.

“It won’t be long,” Featherwhisker murmured, concentrating hard as Bluefur shuddered with another contraction. Spottedpaw leaned in close.

“Put your paw here.” Featherwhisker placed his new apprentice’s paw on Bluefur’s belly. “Can you feel her body trying to push the kits out?”

Spottedpaw nodded solemnly. When Goosefeather had moved to the elders’ den half a moon ago, Spottedpaw had begged to switch from her warrior training to learning to be a medicine cat. Featherwhisker had told Sunstar that he could think of no better apprentice. Her memory for herbs was outstanding, and even more important, the pretty young tortoiseshell’s compassion shone in every word and every look.

“Get your paws off!” Bluefur hissed, wracked by another contraction. As it faded she saw dismay in Spottedpaw’s gentle gaze. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I just didn’t expect it to hurt this much.”

“Did I hurt you?” Spottedpaw fretted.

Featherwhisker stroked his tail along the young cat’s flank. “No,” he assured her. “Queens can be a bit crabby when kitting.” He narrowed his eyes at Bluefur. “Some are crabbier than others.”

“You’d be crabby if you’d been kitting since dawn!” Bluefur snapped, pain convulsing her body once more.

Oh, Snowfur, help me!

Soft breath stirred her ear fur, and an achingly familiar scent wreathed around her.

Not much longer, my precious sister. You’re doing well.

“Here comes the first one,” Featherwhisker mewed. “Spottedpaw, when it arrives, nip the kitting sac with your teeth to release it.”

Spottedpaw wriggled into position as a small, wet bundle tumbled into the nest.

“A tom!” Featherwhisker announced.

“Is he okay?” Bluefur craned her neck to see her first kit, her paws trembling with excitement.

“Quick, Spottedpaw!” Featherwhisker instructed. “Lick him fiercely!”

Bluefur gasped. “Is he breathing?”

Her heart lurched when Featherwhisker hesitated.

“Well?”

“He is now.” Featherwhisker picked up the tiny kit and put him beside Bluefur’s belly.

He felt warm and damp against her fur. Trembling with relief, Bluefur leaned forward and sniffed her son. It was the most perfect scent in the world. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Another wave of pain rippled along her flank.

Not much longer, Snowfur promised.

“A she-kit,” Featherwhisker meowed as he placed a second kit next to her belly. He pressed his paw gently on her flank. “One more I think.”

There was a final, heaving pain, and Bluefur flopped down onto the moss, panting.

“Well done!” Featherwhisker congratulated her. “Another she-kit! And all three look healthy and strong.”

Well done, Snowfur’s soft mew whispered.

Thank you, Snowfur. Bluefur wrapped her tail around her three new kits and held them tightly to her belly. As they began to suckle, memory of the pain faded like a bad dream. Oakheart, we have two daughters and a son.

The brambles rustled, and Thrushpelt squeezed into the den. “How is she?”

“Bluefur’s fine,” Featherwhisker told him. “She had three healthy kits. Two she-kits and a tom.”

Thrushpelt purred with delight, and Bluefur felt a rush of gratitude. She had decided not to tell her Clanmates that he was the father—though she suspected many of them had assumed he was. But Thrushpelt had never betrayed Bluefur’s secret; if any of their Clanmates mentioned the forthcoming kits to them, he just nodded and said it was excellent news for the Clan. Now he leaned into the nest and nuzzled them. “I would have been very proud to have been their father,” he whispered to Bluefur.

Bluefur’s heart ached. “You’re a good friend,” she whispered back.

“What are you going to call them?” White-eye mewed, padding from her nest.

“The dark gray she-kit will be Mistykit,” Bluefur purred. “And the gray tom, Stonekit.” She wanted to give them names that reminded her of the river.

“What about this one?” Thrushpelt stroked the tiny pale-gray-and-white kit with the tip of his tail.

“Mosskit,” Bluefur decided.

Featherwhisker’s whiskers twitched. “So you’re not letting the father decide on any of the names?” he teased. “You always were determined, Bluefur.” Behind his eyes, curiosity gleamed.

Sorry, Featherwhisker. You’ve been good to me, but this is my secret to keep.