Sign Of The Moon

A dark gray tom, longer legged than the other cats, bounded out of the shadows and skidded to a halt in front of Squirrelflight. “It’s great to see you again,” he meowed.

“Crag.” Squirrelflight’s voice was a warm purr. “It’s great to be here.”

More cats started to crowd around, offering greetings and asking questions about the Clans. Dovewing’s head began to spin; Squirrelflight tried to introduce every cat, but it was hard to remember, or to tell them all apart when they looked so much like one another: small and skinny, and mostly with gray-brown pelts.

And they have such long names! No wonder they cut them short.

“Remember when we ambushed you the first time you came here?” An old cat named Talon was speaking to Squirrelflight. “I nearly ripped your pelt off, but you managed to convince us you were on our side.”

“You might have been surprised at who did the pelt-ripping.” To Dovewing’s astonishment Squirrelflight butted the old tabby affectionately in the shoulder. “And we all fought on the same side against Sharptooth.”

Talon nodded, blinking sadly, then shook his head as if he was banishing painful memories. “Where’s Brook?” he asked, looking around. Pushing his way to the edge of the cats clustered around the visitors, he called out, “Brook, come see who’s here!”

A graceful tabby she-cat emerged from a corner near the back of the cave, herding two tiny kits in front of her.

Squirrelflight’s eyes widened, her green gaze sparkling. “Brook! You have kits!”

Brook padded up to Squirrelflight and touched noses with her, purring as if she would never stop. She parted her jaws to drink in Squirrelflight’s scent. “Welcome back,” she mewed, then added proudly, “This is Lark That Sings at Dawn, and Pine That Clings to Rock. Lark looks like her father, don’t you think?”

“I’m so happy for you and Stormfur!” Squirrelflight gasped. She bent her head to give each of the kits a sniff.

The two little creatures looked up at her with wide, curious eyes. “Have you come to join the Tribe?” Lark mewed.

Squirrelflight shook her head. “No, we’re just visiting.”

“You should stay,” Pine told her, his stumpy tail quivering eagerly. “Tribe cats are the best!”

“I’ll need some advice from you about raising kits,” Brook went on to Squirrelflight. “Your three turned out so well!”

Dovewing stiffened, waiting for Squirrelflight’s response. For a moment it looked as if Squirrelflight didn’t know what to say. Then she dipped her head. “You seem to be managing fine, without any help from me,” she mewed. “They’re lovely kits—so strong and healthy. Where’s Stormfur?” she added, clearly glad to change the subject.

“On border patrol,” Brook explained. “He should be back anytime now.”

“Yes, how are the patrols working out?” Squirrelflight asked. “Are you managing to defend the border against those rival cats?”

“It’s hard work,” a black tom replied; Dovewing remembered that his name was Screech of Angry Owl. “It doesn’t leave much time for catching prey when cats are tired from patrolling the border.”

“But you don’t have to go out all the time,” Foxleap protested, glancing around at the cave thronged with cats. “There are loads of you. Why don’t some of you patrol the border while others go hunting? That’s what we do.”

“The Tribe doesn’t work like that,” Squirrelflight explained. “They have two different kinds of cats, prey-hunters who catch prey and cave-guards who protect the prey-hunters. So more cats are needed to catch prey.”

“Yes, but they still could—”

Dovewing never found out what Foxleap was going to suggest. Her acute hearing picked up a soft paw step coming from the back of the cave. A voice rasped, “What are they doing here this time?”

Spinning around, Dovewing saw the crowd of cats part to reveal a skinny old tabby tom. He was no taller than a new apprentice, and his bony haunches strained at his patchy fur. As he paced forward, Dovewing was shocked to hear the uneven beating of his heart and his labored breathing. A whiff of scent like rotting crow-food came from his open jaws as he halted in front of Squirrelflight.

This cat is dying! Dovewing realized in alarm.

“Stoneteller…” Brook stammered. “Look who came to visit.”

“I can see who it is,” Stoneteller snapped. “I want to know what they’re doing here.”

Squirrelflight flashed a glance at Brook as she stepped forward and dipped her head courteously to the old tom. “Greetings, Stoneteller,” she meowed. “My Clanmates and I just came to visit. We wanted to see how you’re all getting on.”

“Do you think we can’t survive without you?” Stoneteller growled.

Dovewing could see that Squirrelflight was getting flustered, her claws scraping the hard floor of the cave. “It’s not like that—” she began.

Stoneteller cut her off with a snarl deep in his throat and a single lash of his tail. Foxleap’s eyes widened; he leaned over to Dovewing and hissed in her ear, “Who made dirt in his fresh-kill?”