Yellowfang’s Secret

“Raggedpelt deserves to know the truth,” Yellowpaw whispered out loud. “Whatever happens, nothing is more important than that, surely? I have to find out who his father is!”

She woke as dawn light began to seep into the apprentices’ den. Careful not to disturb her denmates, she slid into the open. Everything was quiet in the camp. Hollyflower, who was on guard duty beside the gap in the brambles, was yawning, but no other cat was stirring.

I have to get this done before Deerleap comes looking for me.

Yellowpaw padded across the camp to the elders’ den and poked her head inside. She still felt a pang of grief to see only two cats curled up in the thick moss. Silverflame should be here too.

Scrambling inside, Yellowpaw gave Lizardfang a gentle prod. “Wake up!” she mewed. “I need to ask you something.”

Lizardfang twitched an ear. “Sure, ask away,” he mumbled, and sank back into sleep.

Suppressing a hiss of frustration, Yellowpaw turned to Littlebird, jabbing her a bit less gently in the ribs. “Littlebird, please wake up! It’s important.”

Littlebird blinked up at her. “What’s the matter?” She stretched her jaws in a huge yawn. “Yellowpaw… what do you want?”

“I have to talk to you,” Yellowpaw mewed.

Roused again by the noise and movement, Lizardfang heaved himself out of his nest, scrabbling at the moss. “Is it an attack?”

“No, it’s okay, Lizardfang,” Yellowpaw soothed. “I just need you to answer some questions.”

“Questions?” the old tom spat. “It’s the middle of the night!”

Littlebird sighed. “Well, we’re awake now. Ask away, Yellowpaw.”

Yellowpaw took a deep breath. “What can you tell me about Raggedpelt’s father?”

Lizardfang let out a disbelieving hiss. “You woke us up so that we can gossip about Featherstorm? That’s not going to happen.” Turning his back on Yellowpaw, he curled up again among the moss, closed his eyes, and wrapped his tail over his nose.

Yellowpaw turned to Littlebird. “Please!” she begged. “This is really important to Raggedpelt. He has to know the truth about his father!”

The small ginger she-cat hesitated for a couple of heartbeats. “Well…” she began. “I’m like Lizardfang, I don’t want to gossip—”

“But Raggedpelt—”

“Let me finish,” Littlebird went on. “You’re like all the young cats, Yellowpaw. No patience at all. What I was going to say was, I don’t know very much. But in the moons before Raggedpelt and Scorchpaw were born, Featherstorm spent a lot of time near the border with the Twolegplace—not far from the big sycamore tree with the dead branch.”

“I know where that is!” Yellowpaw meowed. “Do you think if I go there, I might find Raggedpelt’s father?” Excitement tingled in her paws.

“Don’t you do anything foolish, now,” the elder warned her as she settled back in her bedding.

“I won’t, I promise!”

Yellowpaw scrambled out of the elders’ den. By now the dawn light was brightening, and Stonetooth was organizing the day’s patrols in the middle of the clearing. Yellowpaw spotted Deerleap emerging from the warriors’ den and bounded over to meet her.

There’s no time to do anything about Raggedpelt’s father today, she thought. But tonight… I’m going to help him discover the truth!

Yellowpaw waited impatiently for her denmates to go to sleep. Nutpaw and Scorchpaw had burrowed into their bedding immediately and the soft sound of their snoring filled the den. Rowanpaw spent some time grooming her tail, then curled up neatly with it wrapped over her nose. But Wolfpaw and Foxpaw went on chattering like a pair of starlings until Yellowpaw could have cheerfully shredded their ears.

“Settle down, you two,” she meowed at last. “Can’t a cat get any sleep around here?”

“You’re not our mentor. You can’t tell us what to do,” Foxpaw muttered.

The two young cats went on telling each other about their catches at hunting practice, but to Yellowpaw’s relief they soon were yawning more than they talked, and moments later both of them were quiet and breathing steadily. Yellowpaw waited a little longer to make sure they were really asleep, and then crept out.

The sky was clear and the moon filled the camp with an eerie, pale light. Nettlespot, on duty beside the entrance, looked like a cat made of ice. We don’t want her asking what we’re doing outside the camp at night, Yellowpaw thought. We’ll need to use the dirtplace tunnel to get out.

Cautiously, slipping from shadow to shadow, she crossed the clearing to the warriors’ den. She could make out Raggedpelt’s tabby pelt through the gaps between the branches, but it was too far for her to reach through and prod him with a paw.

“Raggedpelt!” she whispered. “Wake up!”