A Warrior's Spirit

by Erin Hunter

Ahead of her, Hawkfrost sniffed eagerly at a small, limp-leaved plant. “Is this it?” he asked.

  Mistyfoot circled back around to look, Mosspelt and Swallowpaw close behind. “No,” she told him. “Didn’t Mudfur tell you all what watermint looks like? The leaves are lighter-colored and more oval.”

  Mosspelt flicked her ears. “I knew that.”

  Swallowpaw peered at the plant. “Those are sort of oval,” she mewed. “Are you sure this isn’t right?”

  Mothwing yawned. Her eyelids felt so heavy. Mistyfoot’s blue eyes passed over her, then looked around the circle of cats.

  “We don’t really need so many cats on a patrol like this,” she decided. “Mothwing and Hawkfrost, why don’t you head back to camp? Mothwing looks like she could use some sleep.”

  Mothwing ducked her head and licked at her chest hot with embarrassment. “I’m okay,” she insisted, but Mistyfoot waved her off.

  “The three of us can handle it,” the deputy told her.

  Hawkfrost dipped his head and replied, “Yes, Mistyfoot,” while shooting Mothwing a threatening glance. He swept past her, and she followed him back toward camp, eyes fixed on his brown tabby tail.

  When they were out of sight and hearing of the patrol, Hawkfrost whipped around to face Mothwing. “Moth, we need to do well on patrols. We have to be the best. You know that.”

  Mothwing stiffened. “It’s Mothwing now. You know that.”

  “Exactly.” Hawkfrost relaxed a little and brushed his tail over hers. “It’s okay. We can practice some fighting moves when we get back to camp. That’s more important than looking for herbs anyway.”

  Mistyfoot told me to get some rest, not to play-fight. Mothwing’s pelt prickled with irritation, but she didn’t say anything. She’d rather practice battle moves with her littermate than argue with him.

  Pushing her way through the reeds at the entrance to camp, Mothwing sniffed, picking up a strange smell. The mustiness of oak leaves mixed with the familiar scents of the RiverClan camp. “What’s that?” she asked.

  Hawkfrost gestured with his tail toward the medicine den. “The ThunderClan medicine cat,” he said. “She must have come to talk to Mudfur.”

  Mothwing looked at the strange cat curiously. She had never seen her before—Leopardstar hadn’t taken her and Hawkfrost to a Gathering yet—but the dark gray she-cat must be Cinderpelt. She looked small next to the broad-shouldered RiverClan medicine cat, whose light brown fur was speckled with gray. Mudfur had been a warrior before he became a medicine cat, and he still looked as powerful as any RiverClan warrior.

  The two were deep in discussion. Mothwing pricked up her ears, intrigued. There was something fascinating about medicine cats. They knew so much! This past newleaf, Mothwing—she had still been Mothpaw then—had been bothered by pains in her belly, and Mudfur had been so kind, and so confident, as he fed her herbs to make her feel better, and he had reassured an anxious Sasha that Mothpaw was in no danger.

  “My stock of chamomile is low, too,” Mudfur was saying. “I can’t spare any. But have you tried burnet?”

  Cinderpelt blinked thoughtfully. “You know, there should be some growing near the Twolegplace now. Maybe all the medicine cats could . . .”

  Mothwing crept closer, intrigued. Medicine cats worked together sometimes, no matter what Clan they were from. No other warriors did that. Cinderpelt looked up as Mothwing moved closer, and Mothwing froze. Would the medicine cats be angry that she was eavesdropping?

  But Cinderpelt only gave a small nod of greeting. Relaxing, Mothwing nodded back.

  And then something slammed into her side, knocking her across the clearing.

  “I’m a ShadowClan warrior,” Hawkfrost snarled playfully. “Sneak attack!”

  Mothwing struggled beneath her brother’s paws, trying to throw him off. “Stop it!” What will Cinderpelt think of us? Behaving like kits! She couldn’t get away. Purring with laughter, Hawkfrost pushed down harder, pinning her beneath him.

  “Surrender!” he yowled. “Or I’ll drag you off to my boggy forest!”

  “I don’t want to play,” Mothwing told him flatly. She stopped struggling and lay still, glaring up at her brother.

  “Come on,” Hawkfrost pleaded. He let his claws slip out and pricked her lightly on the shoulder. “What kind of RiverClan warrior doesn’t fight back?”

  “A tired one,” Mothwing retorted, not moving a muscle.

  “You’re no fun,” Hawkfrost told her. Letting her go, he strolled off toward the warriors’ den. Mothwing got to her feet and shook out her pelt, her shoulder aching. Why can’t I fight as well as he does? Hawkfrost was bigger than her, but he was faster, too, and he seemed to learn fighting moves the moment they were shown to him. Maybe he inherited that from Tigerstar.

  Mothwing shook her pelt again, shaking off the thought. They needed to forget that Tigerstar was their father: Sasha had made it clear that if the Clan cats found out, they would never trust them, never let them stay.

  The medicine cats were still discussing herbs. Mothwing glanced tentatively at them, but Cinderpelt wasn’t looking at her now.

  “Are you all right? Skyheart came over from where she had been watching her kits play at the edge of camp, her green eyes wide. “Hawkfrost was pretty rough.”

  “I’m fine,” Mothwing mewed, standing straighter. “I’m used to my brother’s games.”

  “Hmm.” Skyheart eyed her skeptically. “You were moving kind of slowly.”

  Mothwing stiffened. Is she worried about me, or is she wondering whether I’m good enough to be in RiverClan? Maybe Hawkfrost was right that they needed to prove themselves. “I’m fine,” she repeated. “A little tired from patrolling with Mistyfoot, I guess.”

  Before Skyheart could respond, there was a commotion at the entrance to camp. All the cats looked up as Heavystep burst through the reeds. “Blackclaw’s stuck in the mud,” he panted. “We can’t pull him out.”

  Horror shot through Mothwing. The mud at the edge of the river was a worse threat than the water itself. Every RiverClan cat could swim. But the lack of rain the past moon had made the river run low. The thick, sucking black mud at the water’s edge could trap a cat and drag them down.

  She raced toward the entrance, other cats on her heels. Heavystep led them to a steep part of the river bank. “We were coming back from hunting,” he explained, “and he slipped off a stone.”

  Below, two voles lay abandoned, half sunk into the mud, while Blackclaw strained toward the shore, already up to his knees in muck.

  “The bank’s too steep here for me to reach him alone,” Heavystep added, obviously distressed.

  Mothwing stepped forward to the edge of the bank. Maybe I’m light enough to get across the mud to him. Blackclaw looked up at her and struggled forward a few steps, but he only sank deeper. Mud splattered his chest, and he slipped face-first into it, floundering for several heartbeats before he pulled himself back up to his paws. The crowd of cats on the bank gasped.

  No! Mothwing recoiled. She remembered another black tom’s face, staring up at her with the same desperation. He’s going to sink like Tadpole, she thought, dizzy with fear. He’s going to drown. I can’t save him.

  “Hold my legs,” Leopardstar told Heavystep. The broad-shouldered tom lay across her hind legs, holding their golden-furred leader as she wriggled forward on her belly, her front paws reaching for Blackclaw. The black tom struggled forward a few more paces, sinking deeper into the mud with every step, until Leopardstar’s claws caught in his fur. As she dragged Blackclaw forward, other paws reached out to help, and finally, with a sucking sound, Blackclaw burst out of the mud and collapsed on the riverbank.

  Mothwing let out her breath in relief. Blackclaw was covered in muck, and he looked exhausted, but he was whole and safe.

  But instead of getting to his paws, Blackclaw let out a strange, strangled sound and flailed his legs, his claws scraping at the grass.

  “He can’t breathe!” Leopardstar yowl
ed, crouching to paw at Blackclaw’s face. The black tom opened his mouth, gagging, and Mothwing saw that it was full of thick mud. His eyes rolled back in his head and he made a horrible choking sound.

  He’s going to die! They pulled him out of the mud, but he’s still drowning! Mothwing couldn’t move.

  “Let us through!” Cinderpelt, the ThunderClan medicine cat, wormed her way between the gathered cats, Mudfur close behind her. The gray she-cat hurried to Blackclaw and, without pausing, pushed at his side, rolling him onto his back. Mudfur held Blackclaw’s jaws open and began to scoop mud from his mouth as Cinderpelt reared back on her hind paws and drove her front paws into Blackclaw’s stomach. As the RiverClan cats watched in stunned silence, she threw her weight against Blackclaw again and again.

  It’s too late. They can’t help him. Mothwing remembered Tadpole’s limp body when Sasha had finally managed to get him out of the Twoleg nest, after the rain had stopped. He hadn’t been breathing, and there had been no way to bring him back. Her shoulders sank and her tail drooped as she watched Blackclaw’s limp body jerking under Cinderpelt’s repeated blows.

  Then, suddenly, he coughed. Cinderpelt pulled back, and Blackclaw rolled onto his side, retching weakly, a steady stream of mud and saliva coming from his mouth.

  Mothwing watched in amazement as Cinderpelt gently helped Blackclaw to his paws. Leaning on Mudfur, he began to head slowly back toward camp.

  They saved him. He hadn’t sunk like Tadpole. He hadn’t died. The medicine cats had been able to save Blackclaw when no other cats could.

  While the sun began its slow descent beneath the tree line, Mothwing hovered near the medicine den, peeking through the reeds that shielded its entrance. The mud had been carefully cleaned from Blackclaw’s fur, and now he was sleeping in a nest in the corner of the medicine den, his breathing hoarse but steady.

  Mudfur was sorting through some dried leaves, his back to the entrance, but he cocked a brown ear back toward her. “Do you need something, Mothwing?” he asked. “Feeling sick?”

  “No, I’m okay,” Mothwing told him, leaning in to look more closely at the medicine den. There were little caves dug in the earth at the sides of the den where Mudfur stored herbs, and three more nests, empty now, soft with fresh moss.

  Mudfur looked over his shoulder, fixing a bright golden eye on her. “Then why are you here?”

  “Oh,” Mothwing meowed, embarrassed heat spreading through her. “I just . . . I’m just interested. In how you’re taking care of Blackclaw.”

  “Blackclaw will be fine,” Mudfur replied calmly. “But taking care of him is medicine-cat business. I’m sure you have some warrior tasks you should be doing.”

  “I guess.” Mothwing shuffled her paws. She took a few steps away from the den, then stopped.

  I feel like I belong in this medicine den.

  When Mudfur and Cinderpelt had saved Blackclaw, Mothwing had felt something she’d never felt when she’d learned to hunt, or to fight. She wanted to be able to save sick and hurt cats, not just fight for them.

  Maybe I feel like I belong here because this is what I should be doing.

  She turned back to the medicine den. “What if I trained to be a medicine cat?” she blurted out, then held her breath.

  Mudfur turned then and gave her a long, searching look. “You’d better come in.”

  Inside the medicine den, Mothwing sniffed the air eagerly. It smelled mysterious and rich, full of the scents of so many different herbs. Mudfur watched her for a moment, his golden gaze thoughtful, then asked, “Why do you want to be a medicine cat?”

  Mothwing shuffled her paws nervously. “When Hawkfrost and I were kits, our littermate drowned,” she began. “I saw how you and the other medicine cats saved Blackclaw today, and I thought . . . maybe he didn’t have to. I want to save other cats from dying if I can.”

  Mudfur gave a short, pleased purr at her answer. “Usually, a medicine cat starts their training as an apprentice,” he told her. “You’re already a warrior. You’ve served one apprenticeship. But I was a warrior before I trained to be a medicine cat, too.”

  Mothwing’s chest felt tight with excitement. Mudfur had been a warrior for a long time; he had even mated and fathered a litter. He was Leopardstar’s father. Maybe her idea wasn’t so crazy. “You’d train me?” she asked.

  Mudfur shook his head. “Don’t get excited just yet. I’d have to talk to Leopardstar and Mistyfoot first. It’s not like we’ve had a sign from StarClan about you.”

  “StarClan?” Mothwing cocked her head, confused. She’d heard of StarClan, of course. RiverClan thanked them every time they caught a piece of prey, and she’d heard the elders tell kits that StarClan was watching over them. But she’d always thought it was just something they said to honor their ancestors. It was a surprise to hear that the medicine cats actually consulted with StarClan before making major decisions. “I’m right here, willing to do the work to help my Clan. Why would we need a sign from StarClan?”

  Mudfur blinked. “Of course, you weren’t born in the Clans,” he muttered. “Listen, Mothwing, StarClan guides the Clan’s paws. Medicine cats don’t just take care of their sick Clanmates. Medicine cats also advise Clan leaders as they make their decisions. And for that, we have to speak to StarClan. We tell the rest of our Clan what our ancestors see in our future and what they want us to do.”

  Mothwing felt her eyes widening. “You talk to StarClan?” she asked, nearly squeaking in surprise. She could accept that her Clanmates had been showing respect for their ancestors when they talked about StarClan. But she found it harder to believe that the ancestors spoke back. “They tell you what to do?”

  Mudfur nodded, his golden eyes fixed on hers. “A medicine cat must have a special connection to StarClan,” he told her solemnly. “It’s the most important part of our duties.”

  Mothwing sat back on her haunches, feeling breathless. Mudfur could talk to the spirits of dead cats? And Cinderpelt could, and the other Clans’ medicine cats? If she became a medicine cat, maybe someday she would, too. She remembered how much she would have given to be able to talk to Tadpole after he died. Her pelt prickled with excitement. I hope StarClan believes I can do it.

  Mothwing hurried across the camp toward the medicine den. It had been days since she’d spoken to Mudfur, and he didn’t let her sleep there yet—he was still waiting for a sign from StarClan. But Leopardstar had agreed that she could start helping Mudfur to care for their Clanmates.

  “Off to play healer?” Mistyfoot was in the clearing, the remains of a fish at her paws.

  “I—” Mothwing didn’t know what to say. Was her former mentor angry with her? “I like healing,” she meowed softly.

  “It’s all right, Mothwing.” Mistyfoot’s gaze softened. “I think you were a good warrior, and I spent a lot of time training you. But if StarClan decides you can be a medicine cat, it’ll be useful. Mudfur isn’t getting any younger. It’s time he took an apprentice,” she added, licking a front paw, “but try not to be too disappointed if it can’t be you.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be me?” Mothwing wondered aloud after Mistyfoot walked away.

  “You’d better hope it is you,” growled Hawkfrost. “Or else we’re ruined.”

  Mothwing spun around in alarm. She hadn’t seen her brother lurking among the reeds outside the medicine den. “What do you mean?” she mewed.

  Hawkfrost sat on his haunches, his eyes glinting with anger. “We finally became real RiverClan warriors. We have a place here, a purpose. Then you go and decide you want to be a medicine cat. If you fail, how do you think that will look for us?”

  Mothwing hesitated. She hadn’t thought about how the Clan might see her change of course. She’d only wanted to follow what she believed to be her calling. When she didn’t respond, Hawkfrost continued.

  “It will look like you couldn’t commit to being a warrior and weren’t good enough to be a medicine cat. They might decide that means you shouldn’t be part o
f RiverClan, and I shouldn’t either.”

  Mothwing shook her head. “No, they wouldn’t do that,” she insisted.

  “It’s not only up to them,” Hawkfrost reminded her. “It’s like Mistyfoot said—StarClan decides if you have what it takes.”

  Hawkfrost was right. So much had been left up to ancestors Mothwing didn’t even know. But she had to believe that her skills would count just as much as StarClan’s wishes. “This is our home now,” she stated firmly, trying to feel as confident as her words. “I’ll work hard. I’ll prove to them that I can be a great medicine cat.”

  Hawkfrost rose to his paws and started to walk away, stopping after a few steps to peer over his shoulder at Mothwing. “You’d better,” he growled. “For both our sakes.”

  As she watched her brother disappear into the reeds, her confidence faltered. Surely StarClan wouldn’t tell Mudfur not to let her be a medicine cat? She didn’t know a lot about StarClan, but she knew they acted for the good of the Clans—how could having another medicine cat not be good for RiverClan? It wasn’t like any other cat was asking Mudfur to train them.

  Inside the medicine den, Blackclaw was coughing, a hoarse, painful sound. Mudfur was rubbing his back with one firm paw and talking to him soothingly: “You breathed in too much of that river mud. Go ahead and get it out. You’re getting better all the time.”

  Eager to help, Mothwing hurried over to the little caves full of Mudfur’s collection of herbs. What does he use to help Blackclaw breathe? She found some purple juniper berries and began to mash them, then pulled a few coltsfoot leaves from another cave and chewed them to a pulp.

  “Nicely done,” Mudfur meowed. Startled, Mothwing looked up from mixing the coltsfoot and berries together and saw him regarding her with approval. “You seem to have a real talent,” the medicine cat added. “Maybe StarClan is guiding your paws.”

  Mothwing hesitated. No cat is guiding my paws. I just remembered what herbs you used yesterday! “Th-thanks,” she stammered.

  Mudfur blinked at her, his eyes warm. “You know, any doubts I had about making you my apprentice are disappearing. You’ve been working hard, Mothwing.”