The Raging Storm

Alderheart blinked the thoughts away. The deathberries had to work. The dream had promised that they would. Fire had made way for fresh growth. StarClan wouldn’t mislead him, would they? He pushed the thought away. He mustn’t doubt StarClan. They’d always been with him, he was sure, even before they’d sent him his very first vision, the one that had led him in search of SkyClan.

And yet worry sat like a stone in his belly as he buried the seeds he’d stripped from the berry. When he was sure they were safely disposed of, he scraped leaves from a small patch of earth he’d clawed up at the other side of the den. He wiped his paws in the crumbly dirt until they were clean and then carefully swept the leaves back to cover the poisoned patch. Finally he wrapped the berries back in their dock leaf and tucked them beneath Puddleshine’s nest.

He’d carried the berries to the ShadowClan camp, hidden in a bundle of tansy and marigold. Tigerstar hadn’t forbidden Alderheart from continuing with his treatment, but he hadn’t given permission either. Alderheart didn’t dare ask. He couldn’t risk Tigerstar saying no. The deathberries were his only hope. And yet they still showed no sign of working. He could only wait and pray to StarClan.

Frustration itched beneath his pelt. He felt powerless, and Tigerstar’s threats had made it worse. Didn’t he realize that any cat’s death was punishment enough for a medicine cat? Warriors were so rabbit-brained. They missed what was truly important in their scrabble for power and territory. Outside, he could hear Cloverfoot and Scorchfur murmuring to each other in hushed voices as they guarded the entrance. Tigerstar had ordered them not to leave their posts and promised to keep the medicine den guarded day and night. As if I might run away from a sick cat who needs treatment!

Growling to himself, Alderheart padded to a crevice in the bramble wall of the den where Puddleshine kept his herb store. He might as well make himself useful and sort through Puddleshine’s herbs. Reaching in, he scooped out the dried bundles and separated the leaves, making piles for each herb. Some crumbled in his paws; others were stiff and dry. It had clearly been a while since Puddleshine last collected fresh stores, before he got his infection. Carefully, Alderheart began to strip out the driest herbs—herbs that could no longer hold healing powers—and lay them to one side.

“What are you doing?” Cloverfoot thrust her head into the den. Her nose twitched. “Do you need those?” Her eyes sparked with indignation as she saw the leaves laid out in front of Alderheart.

He met her gaze levelly. “I’m clearing out the useless herbs.”

“How do I know you’re not destroying Puddleshine’s stocks?” she snapped.

“Why would I do that?” Alderheart glared at her. “I’m a medicine cat, not a warrior. I don’t want to harm any cat.”

Cloverfoot’s gaze flicked toward Puddleshine. “What about him? You fed him deathberries.”

“To cure him.” Alderheart snorted. “Do you seriously think I’d try to kill your medicine cat?”

She narrowed her eyes. “If we lose him, the whole of ShadowClan will suffer.”

“That’s why I’m trying to save him,” Alderheart hissed. “And because he’s a friend. But you’re not a medicine cat. You wouldn’t understand the bond we share.”

She eyed him wordlessly for a moment, then slid into the den. “Perhaps I don’t understand,” she meowed, “but I’m going to watch you sort those herbs, just to make sure you don’t ruin them.”

Scorchfur peered through the entrance. “Is everything okay in there?”

“It’s fine,” Cloverfoot told him. “I’m just watching Alderheart sort herbs.”

Alderheart forced his fur to stay flat as Scorchfur withdrew and Cloverfoot sat down at the edge of the den and stared at him. Slowly he carried on picking out useless herbs. “You need to gather more thyme,” he told Cloverfoot without looking up. “These leaves are so dry, there can’t be much strength left in them.”

“How do I know what thyme looks like?” Cloverfoot mewed testily.

“It looks like this.” He pushed a stalk toward her. “Sniff it. The smell is unmistakable.” He returned to the other leaves. “Fresh watermint will be sprouting soon. You should gather some of that too. And borage, and nettles . . .” He met her gaze. “You do know what nettles look like, I assume?”

“Of course I know,” she snapped. “But I’m a warrior! I don’t gather herbs.”

“Once Puddleshine’s fever has broken, you can escort me into the forest and I can gather some for you.” Alderheart unwrapped a dock leaf and sniffed the stale poppy seeds inside. “Puddleshine will be weak for some time, even when the sickness eases.”

As he spoke, the den entrance rustled. Stonewing limped into the shadowy den. “Scorchfur said it would be all right to come in.” His gaze slid nervously toward Puddleshine. “Is he okay?”

“Does he look okay?” Alderheart snapped.

Stonewing blinked at him uneasily. He lifted up a forepaw. “I’ve got a thorn in my pad.”