Tallstar’s Revenge

Does Heatherstar ever patrol underground? Tallkit watched the WindClan leader curiously. She’d trained as a moor runner, but surely as leader, she needed to understand what it was like to be a tunneler too.

“Hurry up, Tallkit!” Barkkit called.

Tallkit jerked his attention away and scurried after his denmates. Barkkit and Shrewkit were already at the Hunting Stones. The smooth, low rocks huddled like rabbits in the grass near the elders’ den. Sprigs of heather poked between them and moss clumped at their base. Shrewkit leaped onto the highest stone and crowed down at Barkkit. “I am leader of the Hunting Stones!”

Barkkit scrambled onto the boulder beside him. “I’m deputy!”

Tallkit reached the rocks and waded through the thick moss at the bottom. Reaching up with his forepaws, he kicked out with his hind legs and tried to jump up beside Barkkit. His claws slithered on the frosty stone and he slid back into the chilly moss.

“Hey, Wormkit!” Shrewkit called down. “Why don’t you tunnel underneath? You’re not supposed to be a moor runner like us!”

Tallkit’s pelt pricked with confusion. “I’m not Wormkit. I’m Tallkit!”

“You’re going to spend your life wriggling underground like a worm, aren’t you?” Shrewkit taunted. “That’s where you should be now—under the rocks, not on them.”

Tallkit frowned. He knew that his mother and father were tunnelers, but did that really mean he couldn’t play on the Hunting Stones?

Barkkit reached down with his forepaw. “Ignore him and try again, Tallkit!” he mewed.

Tallkit leaped for his denmate’s paw and felt it curl beneath his own. He churned his hind legs while Barkkit heaved. Scrabbling against the stone, he flung himself onto the rock. “Thanks!” He sat up beside Barkkit, his pads stinging on the frozen rock.

He gazed across the camp. Sun shone from a crisp, blue sky, thawing the grassy hummocks, which bulged like clumped fur across the frosty clearing. The tunnelers’ bracken patch glowed orange while the long grass enclosing the moor runners’ nests drooped lower as the frost slowly loosened its grip.

A white face appeared at the entrance of the elders’ den. “You young’uns are up early.” Whiteberry slid out and sat gingerly on the cold grass a tail-length from the Hunting Stones.

Lilywhisker limped after him and stood tasting the air. She was the youngest in the elders’ den, far younger than Whiteberry, Flamepelt, and Flailfoot. She’d retired to the den after a tunnel collapse had smashed her hind leg and left it useless. “Do you want to come onto the moor?” she asked Whiteberry.

The white elder looked at her. “So long as you don’t try to get me down any rabbit holes.”

“Not after last time,” Lilywhisker purred. “I’ve never seen a cat chased out of a tunnel by a rabbit.”

Whiteberry shifted his paws. “I thought it was a fox.”

“Your sense of smell must be worn out.” Flicking her tail teasingly, Lilywhisker hopped toward the camp entrance. Her lifeless hind leg left a trail through the shallow snow.

Whiteberry heaved himself to his paws and followed. “Yours will wear out too after a few more moons sharing a den with Flailfoot. He’s got fox-breath.”

“It’s not that bad,” Lilywhisker called over her shoulder.

“Do you want to swap nests?” Whiteberry caught up to her. “Last night he snored right in my muzzle. I dreamed I’d fallen into a badger den.”

As they disappeared into the heather tunnel, a pale ginger tom nosed his way past them, heading into camp. Sandgorse! Tallkit lifted his tail as his father trotted into the clearing.

The ginger warrior’s pelt was speckled with earth. “I’ve left a stack of sticks at the tunnel entrance,” he called to Woollytail.

The gray-and-white tunneler lifted his nose. “Great!” he meowed. “We can start shoring up the roof this afternoon.”

“You’ll have to manage without me.” Sandgorse headed toward the Hunting Stones. “Tallkit! I want to show you something.”

Tallkit blinked excitedly at his father. “What is it?” Was Sandgorse going to show him the moor? Tallkit slid off the rock and scrambled over the tussocky grass. He skidded to a halt at Sandgorse’s paws.

Sandgorse licked a sprig of moss from Tallkit’s ear and spat it onto the grass. “It’s time you learned to dig.”

Disappointment dropped like a stone in Tallkit’s belly. He didn’t want to dig. He wanted to see the moor and feel the wind in his pelt.

“Tallkit’s going to go worming!” Shrewkit jeered from the Hunting Stones.

Tallkit spun around crossly. “Worms don’t dig!”

“Ignore Shrewkit!” Barkkit stepped in front of his littermate. “He’s just teasing.”

Sandgorse snorted. “Typical moor-kit, scared of getting sand in his eyes.” He headed for the tunnelers’ bracken patch. Tallkit scrambled after him and ducked under Sandgorse’s belly as he stopped beside Woollytail’s nest. Tallkit peeped out, relishing the warmth of his father’s fur on his spine.

“Do you think sticks will be strong enough to hold up the roof?” Sandgorse wondered.