Rising Storm

“There’s never been a summer like it,” grumbled One-Eye. “The forest is as dry as a kit’s bedding.”

Fireheart was searching the sky for clouds, sending a silent prayer to StarClan that rain would come soon. The drought was forcing the ThunderClan cats to fetch water nearer and nearer to the place where Cinderpelt had sheltered the sick ShadowClan cats, and he didn’t want to risk any of the patrols coming into contact with lingering traces of disease. At the same time, he was almost grateful for the distraction of worrying about water, which left him less time to dwell on what had happened to Cloudpaw, and where his apprentice might be now.

The sunhigh patrol had just returned, and Frostfur was organizing a party of elders and queens to go to the river to drink. They gathered in the narrow shadows at the edge of the clearing.

“Why would StarClan send such a drought now?” Smallear complained. Out of the corner of his eye Fireheart saw the old gray tom glance in his direction, and he remembered with a shiver the elder’s warning about the broken rituals.

“It’s not the dryness that bothers me,” rasped One-Eye. “It’s all the Twolegs out in the forest. I’ve never heard so many crashing around, scaring off the prey and ruining our scent markers with their stench. A bit of rain might drive them away.”

“Well, I’m worried about Willowpelt,” meowed Speckletail. “It’s quite a journey to the stream and back, and she doesn’t like to leave her kits for so long. But if she doesn’t drink, her milk’ll dry up and her kits will starve.”

“Goldenflower too,” Patchpelt put in. “Perhaps if we each carried back moss soaked in water, they could lick the moisture from that?” he suggested.

“That’s a great idea,” Fireheart meowed. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of that himself. Perhaps he had been trying to put the nursery—and one kit in particular—out of his mind. “Can you bring some back today?”

The old black-and-white tom nodded.

“We’ll all bring some,” offered Speckletail.

“Thank you.” Fireheart blinked gratefully at her. He couldn’t help thinking with a pang of regret how eagerly Cloudpaw would have volunteered to help the elders. He’d always been particularly close to them, listening to their stories at night and sometimes even sharing their meals. It stung Fireheart, if he let himself think about it for too long, that the elders hardly seemed to notice Cloudpaw’s absence. Was Fireheart the only cat in ThunderClan who thought Cloudpaw could have adjusted to life in the forest? He shook his ears irritably. Perhaps Bluestar was right, and the young cat had made the right decision to leave. But it didn’t stop Fireheart from missing him with an unexpected intensity.

He called to Sandstorm and Brackenfur, who were resting in the shade of the nettle patch after the sunhigh patrol. They leaped up at once and trotted over to him.

“Would you escort Smallear and the others?” Fireheart meowed. “I don’t know how close to the river they’ll have to go, and they’ll need some backup if they bump into a RiverClan patrol.” He paused. “I know you’re tired, but the other cats are out training, and I need to stay with Whitestorm to guard the camp.”

“No problem,” meowed Brackenfur easily.

“I’m not tired, Fireheart,” insisted Sandstorm, fixing him with her leaf-green gaze.

Fireheart’s paws tingled as he remembered what Cinderpelt had told him a few nights ago. “Er, great,” he meowed, a little too loudly. He began washing his chest self-consciously, his licks becoming brisker as he noticed that Brackenfur’s whiskers were twitching with amusement.

He was relieved when the group padded out of the gorse tunnel leaving him in the deserted clearing. Whitestorm was with Bluestar, in her den. Willowpelt and Goldenflower were in the nursery with their kits. Fireheart had noticed Tigerclaw’s kit padding around the camp on unsteady legs these past few days, encouraged by Goldenflower. He’d found himself avoiding its eyes, and had looked on warily as, little by little, it joined in with Clan life.

Now, as he listened to it mewling with the other kits, Fireheart’s main thought was how hungry it would be if its mother didn’t get water soon. He hoped that the cats wouldn’t have to travel all the way to the river, and he pictured the band of queens and elders moving slowly through the undergrowth with Sandstorm beside them, her orange fur glowing among the green fronds. With a jolt, he remembered the sick ShadowClan cats. What if Cinderpelt hadn’t really sent them away and they were still hiding there?

Fireheart shuddered. He hurried toward Yellowfang’s clearing and nearly bumped into Cinderpelt limping out of the tunnel entrance.

“What’s the matter with you?” she mewed cheerily, and then she looked at the frown on Fireheart’s face and her expression changed.

“Did you tell Littlecloud and Whitethroat they must leave?” Fireheart whispered urgently.

“We’ve been through all this already.” Cinderpelt sighed impatiently.

“Are you sure they’ve gone?”