Sign Of The Moon

“But are we safe?” asked Brook. She glanced at the kits, who were now tussling over a morsel of rabbit fur.

“The borders are holding, mostly,” Stormfur told Brook, a worried look in his amber eyes. “But we did pick up the scent of other cats in a couple of places. And there were eagle feathers scattered on the rock. They’ve been stealing prey again.”

The ginger she-cat shrugged. “There’s nothing we can do about that.”

“We can’t just let it go, Swoop,” Stormfur murmured. “Otherwise they’ll think they can do exactly what they like, and there was no point in setting the borders in the first place. I think we should increase the patrols and be ready to fight.”

“More patrols?” Screech lashed his tail angrily.

“It makes sense to—”

“No!”

Stormfur jumped as a voice rasped out from the shadows and he saw the old tabby cat standing a tail-length away.

“Stoneteller!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Evidently.” The old cat’s neck fur was bristling and there was a trace of anger in his eyes. “There will be no more patrols,” he went on. “The Tribe has enough to eat, and with the thaw approaching, there will soon be more prey: eggs and young birds stolen from nests.”

Stormfur looked as if he wanted to argue, but he picked up a flickering glance from Brook and a tiny shake of her head. Reluctantly he dipped his head to Stoneteller. “Very well.”

The old cat stalked away. Making an effort to flatten the ruffled fur on his neck, Stormfur turned to his kits. “Have you behaved yourselves today?”

“They’ve been very good,” Brook told him, her eyes warm. “Lark is growing so strong and sturdy, and Pine jumps really well.”

“We’ve been hunting,” Lark announced, pointing with her tail toward the bedraggled lump of feathers. “I caught three eagles!”

“Didn’t,” Pine contradicted her. “I killed one, or it would have flown away with you!”

Brook met Stormfur’s eyes. “I can’t seem to make them understand that they’ll have separate duties when they’re to-bes.”

“They shouldn’t have to decide now,” Stormfur began, only to break off as Brook flicked her tail toward Stoneteller, who was still in earshot. He let out a sigh. “They’ll learn,” he murmured, a trace of regret in his tone. “Is there any fresh-kill left? I’m starving!”

As Brook led Stormfur over to the fresh-kill pile, to-bes and their mentors headed back into the cave, and Stormfur’s kits shot across the cavern floor to intercept them.

“Tell us about outside!” Lark squeaked. “Did you catch any prey?”

“I want to go out,” Pine added.

One of the to-bes butted his shoulder gently with his head. “You’re too small. An eagle would eat you in one bite.”

“No it wouldn’t! I’d fight it,” Pine declared, fluffing up his brown fur.

The to-be let out a mrrow of laughter. “I’d like to see that! But you still have to wait until you’re eight moons old.”

“Mouse dung!”

Stoneteller stood watching the to-bes and kits romping together for a few heartbeats before he headed back toward his tunnel. As he approached it, a gray-brown she-cat rose to her paws and padded up to him.

“Stoneteller, I must talk to you.”

The old tabby glared at her. “I’ve said all I have to say. You know that, Bird.”

Bird did not reply, merely stood there waiting, until the old cat let out a long sigh. “Come, then. But don’t expect any different answers.”

Stoneteller led the way into the second tunnel, and Bird followed. The sounds of the young cats died away behind them, replaced by the steady drip of water.

The tunnel led into a cave much smaller than the one the cats had left. Pointed stones rose up from the floor and hung down from the roof. Some of them had joined in the middle, as if the cats were threading their way through a stone forest. Water trickled down the stones and the cave walls to make pools on the floor; their surface reflected a faint gray light from a jagged crack in the roof. All was silent except for the drip of water and the distant roaring of the falls, now sunk to a whisper.

Stoneteller turned to face Bird. “Well?”

“We’ve spoken about this before. You know you should have chosen your successor long ago.”

The old cat let out a snort of disgust. “There’s time yet.”

“Don’t tell that to me,” Bird retorted. “My mother was your littermate. I know exactly how old you are. You were chosen from that litter by the Tribe’s previous Healer, the last Teller of the Pointed Stones. You have served the Tribe well, but you can’t expect to stay here forever. Sooner or later you will be summoned to the Tribe of Endless Hunting. You must choose the next Stoneteller!”

“Why?” Bird flinched at the harshness of the old cat’s retort but Stoneteller continued. “So that the Tribe can go on, generation after generation, scrabbling their lives from these uncaring stones?”