Bluestar's Prophecy

Bluefur’s whiskers twitched. It looked like her sister hadn’t lost her sense of humor yet. Then Snowfur gasped, and her eyes stretched until the whites showed around them.

Featherwhisker pressed his paw on her belly. “Pain?”

Snowfur nodded, holding her breath.

“Try breathing more, not less,” Featherwhisker suggested.

Bluefur didn’t think she could watch her sister being in agony. “Can you give her poppy seeds for the pain?”

Featherwhisker shook his head. “She needs to be able to feel it, so we know when the kits are coming.”

Snowfur breathed out slowly. “Will it be long?” she croaked.

“A while yet.”

“Wait there.” Bluefur squeezed out of the nursery.

Robinwing had settled on the dry earth outside. “I thought I’d give you some peace,” she meowed as Bluefur trotted past.

“Thanks,” Bluefur called over her shoulder. She scanned the edge of the camp, looking for something. The ferns were starting to appear tired now, their tips turning brown. The faint scent of leaf-fall tainted the breeze. Bluefur quickly saw what she was after: a short, stumpy stick, not too splintery, but tough. She picked it up in her jaws and hurried back to the nursery.

“What’s that?” Leopardfoot was peering out of her nest.

“I thought Snowfur could bite down on it when the pains came.” Bluefur pushed the stick under Snowfur’s muzzle.

Leopardfoot shuddered, clearly remembering her own ordeal. “I wish I’d had one of those.”

“Thank you,” Snowfur panted. Her belly quivered and she grasped the stick between her teeth.

The brambles shook as Thistleclaw scrambled through the entrance and dropped the moss he was carrying. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine,” Featherwhisker reported. “But she’ll need more moss. Gather it from the stream outside camp. The water will be fresher there.”

Thistleclaw nodded, turned tail, and left. Bluefur wondered if he couldn’t bear to see Snowfur in pain either.

“Thanks,” Snowfur muttered to Featherwhisker.

Bluefur was aware of the sun moving slowly overhead, sending shifting shafts of light into the nursery. Snowfur was getting more and more tired, and she kept closing her eyes for long stretches. “It can’t be long now, can it?” Bluefur whispered to Featherwhisker.

“Not long.” He had just given Snowfur a mouthful of leaves to chew. Bluefur recognized the shape from when Leopardfoot was kitting: raspberry. She hoped they’d be more effective this time.

Snowfur groaned as another spasm shook her.

“Here!” Bluefur pushed the stick toward her muzzle.

“No!” Snowfur shrieked, pushing it away.

“The first one’s coming,” Featherwhisker meowed from where he crouched by Snowfur’s haunches.

Snowfur trembled as a small white bundle slid out into the nest. Featherwhisker bent down and lapped at the sack encasing it, until it split open and a tiny white kit tumbled out, paws churning.

Snowfur turned and sniffed at the damp scrap of fur. “He’s beautiful,” she gasped. She grasped its scruff and hauled it to her belly.

It began suckling at once, kneading Snowfur with fierce paws.

“He’s a strong one,” Featherwhisker purred.

Bluefur felt a flood of relief. “How many more?” she asked.

Featherwhisker pressed Snowfur’s flank. “That’s it.”

Leopardfoot sat up. “Only one?”

“A tough little tom,” Featherwhisker told her. “You can’t ask more than that.”

Tigerkit scrabbled into the den. “Is it over?” he squeaked, peeking into the nest. He blinked at the white tom. “Where are the other kits?”

“That’s the only one,” Leopardfoot told him.

Tigerkit cocked his head. “That’s all?” he mewed. “But it’s white. It’ll never be able to hunt with a pelt that color. The prey’ll see him coming tree-lengths away.”

Leopardfoot climbed out of her nest and nosed Tigerkit away. “He’ll be a fine hunter, like his mother,” she told him.

“Not as good as me,” Tigerkit mewed.

Thistleclaw appeared in the entrance again, this time his jaws stretched with the biggest wad of dripping moss Bluefur had ever seen.

“You’ll drown the nursery with that,” she teased.

Thistleclaw’s gaze reached his son. He flung the moss aside and crossed the nursery in one leap. “He’s beautiful!”

Bluefur watched his gaze soften, all arrogance gone in a flood of affection. He licked Snowfur between the ears. “Well done,” he murmured. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Can we call him Whitekit?” Snowfur whispered.

Thistleclaw nodded. “We can call him whatever you want.”

He leaned forward and licked Whitekit. The kit mewled in protest, then went back to suckling. Thistleclaw stared down at his son, his eyes brimming with emotion. For the first time ever, Bluefur almost felt fond of her sister’s mate.

Thistleclaw straightened up. “I’ll go get you the tastiest piece of prey I can find,” he promised Snowfur.

Featherwhisker shook his head. “She won’t eat for a while,” he warned. “But that moss will be useful.” He plucked a piece and placed it where Snowfur could lap at it. She did so, thirstily, her eyes half-closed with exhaustion.

“Will she be all right?” Bluefur whispered.

“She just needs rest,” Featherwhisker promised. “She’ll be fine.”