by Erin Hunter
The three she-kits tumbled out of the nursery after her, huddling together and hunching their shoulders against the rain.
“Where’s Stream?” Moonlight asked briskly.
“I don’t know,” Earth answered. “He went . . .” He gestured with his tail toward the hill. “I tried to stop him.”
“Okay,” Moonlight mewed. As another bolt of lightning lit the clearing, she looked past Earth, her worried gaze searching the camp. “This way.” She brushed her tail across the kits’ backs, guiding them toward the far end of the clearing.
The rain beat against Earth’s face as he followed his mother. Other voices were calling across the camp, panicked. He narrowed his eyes to slits as lightning lit up the sky again. Beside him, Sunrise jumped as another crack of thunder sounded.
Moonlight led them to a large stone on the side of the clearing. “Stay here,” she ordered firmly. “I have to help the others.”
“We can help!” Earth volunteered. The she-kits yowled their agreement.
“You can help by staying put,” Moonlight replied, already turning away. “I need to gather the Sisters together.” She disappeared into the darkness.
The stone provided a little shelter from the rain. Earth pressed against it, the cold of the rock seeping into his wet skin. His heart was beating so wildly it felt as if there were a frantic bird trapped in his chest.
He could hear Moonlight calling to the Sisters, marshaling them into position to survive the storm. His tail lashed with irritation: Why was he too small to be of any use?
“Help! Help me!” A faint yowl came to them on the wind.
“That’s Stream!” Earth stepped out from the stone’s shelter, his ears pricked to catch his friend’s cry.
Sunrise followed him out into the rain. “I don’t think Moonlight can hear him,” she mewed worriedly. “She’s still gathering the Sisters.”
“Help!” Stream sounded even more frantic this time. Without pausing to think, Earth began to run toward his friend’s voice. He slipped in the mud and scrambled up again and kept running.
“Earth! Moonlight said to stay here!” Sunrise wailed behind him, but Earth didn’t turn back. Water streamed down his sides as he tried to get his bearings: in the dark and rain, the familiar camp was suddenly full of unidentifiable shapes and impossible to navigate. He took a few more tentative steps, his paws sinking into mud. Blundering against a bush—the den where Furze and Tempest were sleeping, maybe—he hissed as thorns scratched his pelt.
“Help!” Stream yowled again, and Earth changed course to head straight toward him.
Earth was moving uphill now, and it slowed him down. He tried to run faster. “I’m coming!” he yowled, but the wind whipped the words away so that he could barely hear his own voice. His paws slipped in the mud, making him slide backward. Thick mud splattered across his fur. He fell again and struggled to get up, the mud sticking to him and pulling him back.
The land is stopping me from getting to Stream, he thought. I couldn’t speak with it, and now it hates me. How had he managed to upset the land so badly?
Clenching his jaw, Earth felt carefully through the mud in front of him. There were rocks beneath the surface of the hill, and he extended his claws to grip their edges, slowly pulling himself up.
He slipped again, and again, mud now sticking to his fur and weighing him down. His claws ached, but he was making slow progress. The climb seemed like a nightmare: mud and darkness, sore muscles, and the rocks pulling at his claws.
As he finally came over the top of the hill, the wind caught Earth again, blowing rain into his face. He hunched automatically, blinking, as a dazzling bolt of lightning, accompanied by a crash of thunder, lit up the hilltop.
Stream was right in front of him, fur plastered to his sides, his eyes wide with panic. His mouth was half open in a yowl.
Everything went dark again, and Stream pressed his cold, shivering side against Earth’s. “I shouldn’t have run up here,” Stream panted. “I couldn’t get down, it was so dark. I didn’t know which way to go.” His meow was shaky. Earth had never heard his friend sound so frightened.
“It’s okay,” Earth told him. He was scared, too, but one of them had to be brave. “We’ll go downhill together.”
Another flash of lightning lit up the camp in the valley below them. Muddy streams of water were flowing through the clearing and flooding through the dens. The Sisters were wading through mud, running to save themselves and one another, the clearing more chaotic than anything Earth had ever seen.
As the world went dark, Stream pressed more closely to Earth. “This is bad.”
“Yeah.” Earth took a deep breath. “We can go down and help. There are rocks under the mud. If we dig our claws in, we can get down without falling.” I hope.
He went first, feeling carefully with one paw, then the other. He slipped several tail-lengths before he was able to stop himself, legs and claws aching. He could hear Stream behind him, thrashing through the mud.
He turned to call encouragement. “It’s not too—”
The world lit up bright white, with a simultaneous boom of thunder. His fur stood on end, and he could smell the sharp scent of lightning.
Then the world was dark again. Earth’s ears were ringing. Something fell past him in the darkness, sliding and rolling. Just a rock, Earth told himself, but his stomach twisted into a knot. Some tiny part of him knew it wasn’t a rock. It was . . .
“Stream!” he yowled, and tried to run. Losing his footing, he slithered and slipped down the hill, finally rolling, then landing in a heap in the valley, his fur clumped together with wet mud. “Stream,” he called again, but the rain was pounding down, drowning him out.
Blundering forward, his paws struck something soft and warm. “Stream?” Earth asked, bending to nose at the huddled shape. It was Stream, but with something strange beneath his scent. His body was hot as fire. His soft fur was standing on end. Earth stiffened, his stomach heavy with dread.
Stream smelled like burning. He smelled like fire and pain.
Earth gasped and staggered back a step, mud squelching beneath his paws.
Stream was dead.
Two days later, there was still evidence of the storm’s destruction everywhere. Earth and the remaining Sisters were huddled between the roots of a beech tree. Furze was scratched and cut all over from being washed through a thornbush as the river flooded their camp. Tempest had a sprained leg from pulling Ice out of a stream of mud, keeping her from being swept away. All the Sisters had scrapes and bruises, and their gazes were bleak.
Stream was not the only cat who had died. Haze, half a moon younger than they were, a close friend of Earth’s sister Sunrise, had drowned right in front of the Sisters as they struggled to reach her. Grief for the two lost kits battered the Sisters like another storm, Earth thought, drenching them in sorrow.
Sunrise was huddled close to Haze’s mother, Snow, her tail entwined with the white she-cat’s. They seemed to be taking comfort in each other. A little way from them, Stream’s mother, Petal, sat alone, her face somber.
Moonlight stood and brushed her tail comfortingly across Snow’s back. “We will sing for her,” she meowed softly. “Our sisters are never really lost.”
Snow nodded, her eyes closing for a moment. Moonlight headed toward the clearing, brushing her tail across Petal’s back too as she passed, but saying only, “I’m going to gather more herbs to treat injuries. We lost everything.” Petal said nothing.
Earth watched his mother walk away; then, with a sudden surge of anger, he jumped to his paws and followed her. “Mother,” he called, when they had walked out of earshot of the other cats.
Moonlight turned to him. “Are you going to help me find herbs?” she asked. “We can look for tansy and chervil farther from the river.”
Earth flexed his sore claws angrily. “Why are we singing for Haze and not Stream?” he asked angrily. “Stream was a kit of the Sisters, too.”
�
�Stream was a tom,” Moonlight answered gently.
“So?” Earth snapped. “That’s not fair.”
Moonlight sighed. “It’s not a matter of fairness,” she told him. “As a tom, Stream was always destined to return to the earth. We do not need to sing for him. Maybe we will see his spirit before he steps into his own afterlife; maybe we will not. The earth takes care of its own.” Her gaze grew stern. “Although, when I went back to the stone and you were gone, I was full of grief. You are far too young for me to accept the land’s taking you. Stream’s youth is the cause of Petal’s sorrow. You must not disobey me like that.”
Fur prickled uncomfortably along Earth’s spine. “You mean you won’t grieve for me if I die when I’m full-grown?” He couldn’t imagine his mother not loving him.
Moonlight’s gaze softened, and she bent to brush her muzzle against his. “Of course I would,” she told him. “I will never stop caring what happens to you. But before long, you’ll leave the Sisters for your wander. We might never see each other again. If the land takes you, I may never know.” She sighed again. “Mothers of toms have to take comfort in knowing that those toms will be taken by the land they guard during their lives. There is honor in a tom’s death.”
Earth stood silent, not knowing what to say. His mother touched her nose to his once more, then turned away. “I am going to look for herbs. I will be back soon.”
Earth watched her go, her pace steady and purposeful. He knew that Moonlight had had other litters, older sons who had gone on their wanders before he was born. But he had never thought about the fact that they had left and she had never seen them again. Was believing that a tom’s death was an honorable one, that he would die guarding the land, something a mother cat needed? He sat back and scratched thoughtfully at his ear. It was too big a question for him, he decided. How could he know how a mother felt?
Another thought occurred to him, and he dropped his paw, his chest tightening. Stream was gone, but Earth was still four moons old. In two moons, would he still be sent on his wander?
Alone?
As the sun set and the stars rose, the Sisters gathered once more, this time in the remains of their camp. Looking around, Earth saw that the bushes that had been the nursery and the Sisters’ dens had been torn apart and flattened by the streams of mud and water that had raced through camp. One bush—Moonlight’s den, he thought—had been entirely uprooted and washed to the edge of the woods.
His tail drooped at the devastation around the camp. We won’t stay here, he thought. It had been such a good camp. Stream’s bones would lie here, held safe by the land, but Earth and the Sisters would be gone.
The she-cats gathered around Moonlight, and Earth hung back at the fringes of the group. Being a tom hadn’t felt as separate from the Sisters when there had been four of them. It was weird to be the only tom now.
“Tonight we sing our sister Haze into the sky,” Moonlight began. “She was a good Sister, and we lost her far too young. She should have grown to have her own kits and to travel the Sisters’ path for many leafrises. We will show her the way to her afterlife. If she would like to speak to any of us first, we would welcome her.” She glanced briefly at Earth and added, “And if Stream, or any of our ancestors, wishes to visit us, we would be glad to speak to them again.”
Then she raised her head and looked to the sky. Moonlight sang first, a high, mournful note, and the Sisters chimed in, their voices blending with hers as they rose to the sky.
Good-bye, Haze, Earth thought. He hoped the younger kit would find happiness in the afterlife. Would she come and visit them first? Would Stream? His fur prickled uneasily. He had never seen a spirit, hadn’t really wanted to. But he wanted to see Stream, didn’t he? And he couldn’t imagine his best friend didn’t want to see him.
He glanced around, a nervous hope rising inside him. I do want to see him.
Gradually, the singing trailed off, and the Sisters waited, their gazes turned expectantly toward the stars. Earth waited, too, glancing around eagerly, his eyes on the trees lower down the hill. He’ll come from the land, won’t he?
Sunrise gave a squeal of delight and leaped to her feet. “Haze! Are you okay?” She paused, her head cocked as if she was listening, then went on. “I’m glad. I was so scared when the water took you away.”
One after another, the other she-cats rose, their welcoming faces turned toward cats Earth couldn’t see.
“It’s been so long . . .”
“A few moons ago, we went past that Twopawplace where we lost you. . . .”
“New kits in your family since we spoke last . . .”
Finally, Petal gave a warm purr. “Stream, my kit, are you well?” Then she listened, her eyes bright for the first time since dawn had risen over Stream’s broken body two days before. Earth stared, blinked hard, stared again. He strained his eyes and ears, hoping to see even the slightest outline of a cat, to hear the faintest whisper of Stream’s meow.
He saw nothing.
The sky was beginning to lighten by the time the Sisters called their good-byes to the dead. Sunrise ran to Moonlight and pressed her face against her mother’s fur. “She’s gone,” she wailed.
Earth watched, feeling cold and empty, as Moonlight comforted his littermate. He was hovering just outside the group: when he’d realized that he was the only cat who couldn’t see the dead walking among them, he’d backed away, ashamed.
When Sunrise was calmer, she and Ice began to talk quietly, their heads close together, and Moonlight walked toward Earth.
“So,” she meowed when she reached him. “Stream was here. How was that for you?” Her eyes were sharp, and fixed on him.
Does she know I couldn’t see him? Earth wondered. For a heartbeat, he thought of lying, but what good would that do? He was a cat of the Sisters—a tom of the Sisters—and he would need the spirits of his ancestors to help him on his path.
“I didn’t see him,” he said dully. “I didn’t see any of them.”
Concern flickered across Moonlight’s face, and then she purred soothingly, “It takes some cats longer than others. You’ll get there, I’m sure.”
“Really? You don’t think there’s something wrong with me?” Earth asked.
“Of course not.” Moonlight dipped her head to lick his shoulder.
Earth wanted to believe her, and to be comforted. But he remembered two other young toms who had been sent away before they ever saw spirits. “What about Mud and Spider? Do you think they ever saw spirits? Did our ancestors come to them?”
Moonlight sighed. “I have to believe that they did,” she told him. “But they wandered, so we can never know for sure.”
Earth’s mouth went dry with dread. I’m never going to see my ancestors, he knew suddenly. If he had been going to, he would have seen Stream.
If Stream had lived, he would have been able to speak to the dead. If he and Earth had gone on their wander together, as they’d planned, Stream would have listened to their ancestors’ guidance for both of them. But Stream was gone now. Once Earth left the Sisters, no spirits would come to him. Once he left, he would be alone.
Chapter 3
Glumly, Earth sniffed at the roots of a pine tree and wrinkled his nose at its sharp scent. I hate it here. He was supposed to be practicing hunting, but he didn’t smell any of the shrews or mice that Hawk, his teacher for the day, had told him to search for. I miss Stream. Learning to hunt had been more fun with his friend beside him.
It was full leafshine now, sun warming the beds of pine needles and glinting off a little pond nearby. Part of Earth had to admit that this—their second new territory in the last two moons—was a good place for the Sisters.
It’s not like it matters for me. I won’t be here long. Giving up his halfhearted effort at hunting, Earth batted a twig out of his way as he meandered beneath the trees.
Since they had left the camp where Stream and Haze had died, it had felt to Earth like the Sisters were always traveling. And he
was always trailing after them, alone, the only tom now except for one of Furze’s newborn kits, who was too young to count.
The Claw Stars would align to send him on his wander in just a few days. He’d been watching them, full of dread, as they moved closer and closer to where they’d be when he had to go. Earth’s stomach clenched anxiously at the thought.
If Stream had still been alive, they’d have been leaving together. They’d have looked out for each other, given each other courage. The ancestors would have come to them and guided their paw steps. If Earth saw the ancestor spirits on his own, he might run for his life like a hunted mouse, he thought glumly.
And what would happen if the ancestor spirits tried to speak to him, but he couldn’t see them? Would they be angry? Earth swallowed hard and swiped another twig out of his way.
“You call this hunting?” Earth jumped at Hawk’s sharp meow. He’d been thinking so hard he hadn’t even heard her come up behind him.
“Hawk!” he said. “Sorry, I was . . .” He found it hard to meet the stern gaze of the tall brown she-cat, so he stared at the ground instead. “I got distracted.”
Hawk sighed. “Earth, you haven’t been paying attention when I try to teach you, or when Furze does, or Snow, or any of us. We’re trying to show you skills you need to know.”
Earth felt his shoulders slump even further. He knew he wasn’t doing well. Nothing the Sisters had taught him since the storm had stuck. Stream was better at all of this. “Sorry,” he repeated, his pelt prickling with misery and embarrassment.
Hawk’s golden eyes seemed to soften. “I know you are, Earth,” she meowed. “But you need to learn to stay alert. In just a few days, you’ll begin your wander. You’ll have to take care of yourself.”
Panic stirred in Earth’s chest. “But I’m not ready,” he protested. “One of Furze’s kits is a tom, too. Maybe I should wait until he’s old enough to wander, and then we could go together. We’ll take care of each other.”
