Moth Flight’s Vision

The gray-and-white cat exchanged words with the flame-pelted tom. Moth Flight didn’t even strain to hear; she knew she’d pick up nothing but the whispering of wind in her ears.

Then the spirit-cat touched his nose to the tabby’s.

The she-cat jerked with pain.

Moth Flight narrowed her eyes. She’d seen this before. The cat was receiving the agonizing blessing of StarClan. She worked her paws deeper into the coarse grass, her pelt pricking with curiosity as more cats appeared from the mist.

A dark gray tom touched the brown-and-white tabby, and the tabby shuddered again.

Then an older white-and-tabby she-cat stepped forward.

They must be related. Their markings were similar, and the look that passed between them glistened with affection. Are they mother and kit? Moth Flight’s thoughts flicked to Wind Runner.

In the two days since the battle, her mother seemed to have grown worse, not better. A moan of pain jerked her attention back to her dream. As the older cat touched noses, the young tabby stiffened and jerked, clenching her teeth. She swayed on her paws, but held her ground until the older cat withdrew and began fiercely lapping her cheek, as though sorry for the pain she’d caused. They must be mother and kit. The young tabby closed her eyes, seeming to relish the moment. Then the old tabby turned and headed into the mist.

The young tabby watched her go, eyes desperate with grief.

She opened her mouth to yowl. Though Moth Flight could not hear the words, she guessed that the tabby was begging her mother not to leave.

Grief stabbed at Moth Flight’s heart, so sharp it jerked her awake.

She blinked her eyes open. Her den was shady and cool.

Through the entrance she could see sunshine scorching the clearing.

Wind Runner lay beside her on a bed of moss and heather, her broken leg jutting over the edge. Moth Flight leaned close.

The WindClan leader felt hotter than ever. What can I do? Over the past two days, Wind Runner had struggled into consciousness less and less often, sleeping most of the time now. Perhaps it was a blessing. It saved her from the pain.

Perhaps it was her body’s way of healing. But if that was true, why was Wind Runner’s fever worsening? Perhaps I’m giving her too many poppy seeds? Maybe she needs to feel the pain to fight it.

Moth Flight frowned. She’d helped Pebble Heart set her mother’s broken leg, and felt sure that they’d done the right thing. She’d treated the gash in her throat with dock and horsetail, just as Micah had taught her. And yet, it still oozed blood.

She sniffed the neck wound. Her pelt pricked with alarm.

Beneath the pungent tang of herbs, she smelled sour infection.

Why hadn’t Micah’s poultice stopped it from turning bad? Was this wound what was making her mother so sick? If Micah’s herbs weren’t strong enough to heal it, what herbs should she use?

Perhaps she should go and ask Pebble Heart. No. After a moon in ShadowClan, she knew his herb store as well as her own. There were no herbs there she didn’t have already. What about Dappled Pelt? When she’d visited RiverClan with Micah, the RiverClan medicine cat had only just begun to experiment with the lush plants growing along the riverbank. Perhaps she’d discovered something new, something strong enough to fight

Wind Runner’s infection.

“Moth Flight?” Honey Pelt’s mew interrupted her thoughts.

He was peering at her from the den entrance. “Can you come and play yet?”

She’d left her kits in the care of the Clan while she’d tended to Wind Runner.

Honey Pelt’s eyes were round with worry. “We miss you.”

Guilt wormed in her belly. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I have to look after Wind Runner.”

Honey Pelt didn’t argue, but turned away, his tail drooping.

Moth Flight’s guilt deepened.

Another shadow darkened the entrance. She smelled Gorse

Fur’s scent before she could make out his pelt against the bright sunlight.

“How is she?” Gorse Fur’s mew was grim as he padded in.

He stopped beside Wind Runner and sniffed her pelt.

“Her fever’s getting worse,” Moth Flight confessed. “I’m not sure what to do.”

A growl rolled in Gorse Fur’s throat. “This isn’t fair!” he snapped. “After the Great Battle, I thought the Clans had stopped acting like foxes! Can’t a new moon pass without bringing us fresh troubles?”

Moth Flight got to her paws and met her father’s gaze. “I will heal her,” she promised. “I’m going to RiverClan to see if Dappled Pelt has any herbs to treat the infection in her neck wound. Will you watch her while I’m gone?”

“Of course.”

As Gorse Fur settled close to his mate, Moth Flight nodded toward the wet moss piled beside her mother’s makeshift nest.

“Drip a little water into her mouth every now and then,” she told him. “Send Dust Muzzle or Spotted Fur to get fresh if the old moss dries out.”

Gorse Fur’s ears twitched. “Will you be gone long?”