Rising Storm

An agonized groan echoed across the moon-bleached floor of a forest clearing. Two cats crouched in the shadows under one of the bushes at the edge. One of them writhed in pain, lashing his long tail. The other cat raised himself to his paws and bowed his head. He had been a medicine cat for many long moons, and yet he could only watch helplessly as the leader of his Clan was overpowered by the sickness that had already claimed so many lives. He knew of no herb that would ease the cramps and fever this sickness brought, and his patchy gray fur bristled with frustration as the leader convulsed again and then fell exhausted into the moss-lined nest. Fearfully, the medicine cat leaned forward and sniffed. There was still breath in the leader’s body, but it was foul and shallow, and the tom’s thin flanks heaved with every gasp.

A screech ripped through the woods. Not a cat this time, but an owl. The medicine cat stiffened. Owls brought death to the forest, stealing prey and even kits that had strayed too far from their mothers. The medicine cat raised beseeching eyes to the sky, praying to the spirits of his warrior ancestors that the owl’s call was not an ill omen. He stared through the branches that formed the roof of the den, searching the dark sky for Silverpelt. But the swathe of stars where StarClan lived was hidden by clouds, and the medicine cat shivered with fear. Had their warrior ancestors abandoned them to the sickness that ravaged the camp?

Then the wind stirred the trees, rattling the brittle leaves. High above, the clouds shifted and a single star sent a frail beam of light through the roof of the den. In the shadows, the leader drew in a long, steady breath. Hope leaped like a fish in the medicine cat’s heart. StarClan was with them after all.

Weak with relief, the medicine cat lifted his chin, giving silent thanks to his warrior ancestors for sparing the life of his leader. As he narrowed his eyes against the shaft of starlight, he heard spirit-voices murmuring deep inside his head. They whispered of glorious battles to come, of new territories, and of a greater Clan rising from the ashes of the old. The medicine cat felt joy surge in his chest and pulsate through his paws. This star carried much more than a message of survival.

Suddenly, without warning, a wide gray wing swept across the ray of starlight, plunging the den into darkness. The medicine cat shrank back and pressed his belly to the floor as the owl screeched down and raked the roof of the den with its talons. It must have smelled the sickness that weakened the leader, and swooped in search of easy prey. But the branches were too thick for the owl to break through.

The medicine cat listened to the slow beating of wings as the owl flew away into the forest, then sat up, heart hammering, and searched the night sky once more. Like the owl, the star was gone. In its place was only blackness. Dread crawled beneath the medicine cat’s pelt and clutched at his heart.

“Did you hear that?” a tom called through the entrance of the den, his voice high-pitched with alarm. The medicine cat squeezed quickly out into the clearing, knowing the Clan would be waiting for an interpretation of the omen. Warriors, queens, and elders—those well enough to move from their nests—huddled in the shadows on the far side of the clearing. The medicine cat paused for a moment, listening to the Clan murmuring anxiously to one another.

“What’s an owl doing here?” hissed a mottled warrior, his eyes glinting in the darkness.

“They never come so close to the camp,” wailed an elder.

“Did it take any kits?” demanded another warrior, turning his broad head to the cat beside him.

“Not this time,” replied the silver queen. She had lost three of her kits to the sickness, and her voice was dull with pain. “But it might come back. It must smell our weakness.”

“You’d think the stench of death would keep it away.” A tabby warrior limped into the clearing. His paws were clotted with mud and his fur ruffled. He had been burying a Clan mate. There were more graves to be dug, but he was too weak to go on that night. “How’s our leader?” he asked, his voice tight with fear.

“We don’t know,” replied the mottled tom.

“Where’s the medicine cat?” whined the queen.

The cats peered around the clearing and the medicine cat saw their frightened eyes gleaming in the dark. He could hear the rising panic in their voices and knew they needed to be soothed, assured that StarClan had not abandoned them completely. Taking a deep breath, the cat forced the fur to lie flat on his shoulders and padded across the clearing.

“We don’t need a medicine cat to tell us the owl’s screech spoke of death,” whimpered an elder, his eyes brimming with fear.

“How do you know?” spat the mottled warrior.

“Yes,” agreed the queen, glancing at the elder. “StarClan doesn’t speak to you!” She turned as the medicine cat reached them. “Was the owl an omen?” she mewed anxiously.