by Erin Hunter
“Can we play sliding in the hollow?” Barkkit mewed.
“I want to go to the Hunting Stones,” Shrewkit insisted. He scraped up a pawful of snow and flung it at Barkkit. The wind snatched the flakes and tossed them back into his whiskers.
As he sneezed, Barkkit purred with amusement. “Wow! You’re scary!”
“I’ll show you!” Shrewkit hurled himself at his brother and sent him rolling over the grass.
Tallkit backed away as their dark brown pelts scuffed the snow. It must be fun to have a littermate to play fight with. If only Finchkit hadn’t died.
Shrewkit leaped free of his brother’s grip. “Look at Tallkit!” he teased. “He’s blinking like he’s just opened his eyes!”
Tallkit bristled. “I’m nearly half a moon old and Sandgorse says I opened my eyes quicker than any kit in the nursery.” He glared at his denmates. “I’m just not used to snow.” The ground sparkled, and the heather that formed the camp boundary—so dark against the sky yesterday—now glittered brightly with frost. What would the moor look like when the heavy snows came and the world turned completely white? Palebird had warned Tallkit that leaf-bare hit WindClan hardest of all the Clans, because the moor touched the sky. But this also made them more special, and safer.
“We’re closer to Silverpelt than any Clan,” she’d told him as she snuggled him in their mossy nest. “Which means that StarClan watches us more closely.”
Tallkit heard worry in her mew. “Is that why we tunnel under the moor?” he asked. “To hide from the dead warriors in other Clans?”
“Don’t be silly.” Palebird had licked his ear. “We tunnel because we’re stronger and cleverer than all the other Clans together.” Her washing became brisker, silencing him.
“I’m going to the Hunting Stones!” Shrewkit charged across the grass.
Barkkit raced after him. “What about sliding in the hollow?”
“There’s not enough snow for real sliding.” Shrewkit veered away from Tallrock.
“You’re just scared.” Barkkit swerved after his brother, sending a shower of frozen flakes up from his paws.
“Am not!” Shrewkit called back.
Tallkit followed, not caring where they chose to play. It felt great to be outside, the grass cold on his pads as he raced across it.
“Watch out!”
Tallkit skidded to a halt as Cloudrunner yowled at him. The pale gray tom was crossing his path with Aspenfall. The warriors were heading to the prey heap, carrying fresh-kill. Wind-ruffled from the moor, they’d brought food for the Clan. Tallkit gazed at them, impressed by their long legs and wiry tails. They were moor runners, which meant they served WindClan by hunting and patroling the borders, and Tallkit could smell heather on their pelts.
In the brittle patch of bracken where the tunnelers made their nests, Woollytail looked up from washing his mud-streaked belly. Like all the cats who served the Clan by carving out new tunnels and shoring up old ones far beneath the moor, his pelt was permanently stained with sand and dust. He nodded at the rabbit swinging from Cloudrunner’s jaws. “Did you catch that on the high-moor?”
“Yes.” At the prey heap, Cloudrunner kicked away a stale mouse left from the previous day’s hunt and dropped his catch. “You’re right, as usual, Woollytail.”
Tallkit blinked at Woollytail. “How did you know?”
“I can smell the sand in its fur.” Woollytail flicked his tail and returned to washing.
Hickorynose, his tunnelmate, shifted on the bracken beside him. “You only find sand tunnels on the high-moor.” The brown tom lifted a forepaw and rubbed dirt from his ear. “Not like the gorge tunnel. That’s all soil and grit. But it’ll open the way to fresh prey beside the river.”
Cloudrunner snorted. “If you ever find a way to stop the cave-ins.”
Aspenfall laid a vole beside the rabbit. “The grit makes it unstable. It’s not safe to tunnel there.”
Woollytail narrowed his eyes. “It is if you know what you’re doing.”
Tallkit glanced from tunneler to moor runner as an awkward silence fell between them.
Heatherstar cut through it. She padded from her den and followed the rim of the Meeting Hollow. Passing the grass nests of the moor runners, she brushed by Cloudrunner and stopped beside the bracken patch. “Will the new tunnels be ready before newleaf, Woollytail?”
Woollytail sniffed. “It takes time to shore up the roofs.”
Heatherstar flicked her tail. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.” She turned back to the prey heap and sniffed Cloudrunner’s rabbit.
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.
Woollytail frowned. “They’ll do until we can roll stones into place.”
“Perhaps we should take a different route to the gorge.” Above Tallkit’s head, Sandgorse’s belly twitched.
Woollytail shook his head. “We can’t be far from clay now. It’ll be harder digging, but there’ll be fewer cave-ins.”
Sandgorse glanced toward the elders’ den. Tallkit guessed he was thinking about Lilywhisker’s crushed leg. “Perhaps we should explore the rabbit warrens higher up. There may be a clay seam there we can dig into.”
“But we’ve made so much progress over leaf-bare,” Woollytail argued. “It’d be a shame to start again.” The tom’s muscular shoulders twitched. They were as wide and toned as Sandgorse’s.
Will I have shoulders like that when I’m a tunneler? Tallkit’s gaze strayed across the camp to Cloudrunner and Aspenfall. They were much sleeker: built for speed, not strength. Tallkit wondered what it felt like to run across the moor with the wind rushing through his fur. Surely that would be better than being squashed underground? He imagined his ears and nose filling up with mud, and shuddered.
“Come on, Tallkit.” Sandgorse’s mew broke into his thoughts. His father was heading for the moor runners’ nests. Tallkit scampered after him and followed him past the swishing stalks to a patch of bare earth behind Tallrock.
“There’s good digging here,” Sandgorse explained, running his paw over the ground. “This is where I first learned to tunnel.”
Tallkit gazed down at the churned earth and wondered how many times this patch had been dug and refilled, ready for new tunnelers to practice. “Don’t you ever get bored of digging?” he mewed.
“Being a tunneler doesn’t just mean digging,” Sandgorse retorted. “Hollowing out new earthroutes is part of being a tunneler. But we patrol them, too, and it’s a great place to hunt, especially during leaf-bare. Don’t forget, that’s why Shattered Ice first tunneled through the rabbit warrens.”
Tallkit already knew the legend of Shattered Ice. It was one of the first nursery stories Palebird ever told him. Long ago, the moor was gripped by the worst leaf-bare the Clan had ever known. There was no prey to be found in the snow-drowned stretches of heather and gorse. So one of WindClan’s bravest warriors had gone into the rabbit warrens and dug deep beyond them in search of food for their Clan.
“He cared more for his Clan than his own safety,” Sandgorse meowed solemnly. “And he didn’t have any of the training or experience we have now.”
He had only his courage and strength. Tallkit stifled a yawn.
“He had only his courage and strength,” Sandgorse went on. “WindClan has tunneled ever since, learning more with each generation.” He lifted his chin. “Without its tunnelers, WindClan would have suffered many hungry, preyless moons.”
Tallkit’s pelt pricked guiltily. How could he dream of running across the moors like Cloudrunner and Aspenfall? One day his Clan would depend on him. He should be proud to follow in his father’s paw steps. Unsheathing his claws, he began to scrape at the earth, sending it showering behind him.
“Wait.” Sandgorse swept his tail over Tallkit’s spine. “You’re not digging a hole to make dirt.”
Tallkit sat back and shook his head to dislodge some flakes of dirt. There were different ways to dig?
Sandgorse thrust a paw into the soft soil and scooped out a lump of earth. Pushing it firmly to one side, he dug another. Within moments, he was hollowing out dirt, paw over paw, while a pile grew beside him, neat and compact. Tallkit felt a quiver of pride. His father looked strong and determined, as if there was no hole he couldn’t dig, no earth he couldn’t shape with his paws.
“Let me try.” Tallkit reached down past his father and gouged out a pawful of the crumbling earth.
Sandgorse sat back. Tallkit felt his father’s gaze on his pelt, warmer than sunshine. He dug harder, dragging up pawfuls and throwing them into a loose pile beside his fast-growing hole. “I’m tunneling!” he squeaked.
“Watch out!”
As Sandgorse mewed a warning, Tallkit’s flank bumped his dig-pile. Cold, crumbly soil cascaded around his ears. It sprinkled over his muzzle, making him sneeze. He sat up, shaking out his fur, and stared crossly at the earth that was still showering into his hole.
Sandgorse pressed his paw against the pile to stop the flow. “Your dig-pile is as important as your hole. You must keep it compact. Press your dug-earth down firmly or you’ll have to dig every pawful twice.”
Tallkit frowned. This was harder than he thought. Concentrating, he dove back into his hole and hauled up a fresh pawful of soil. He carefully patted it into the side of his dig-pile. This time it stayed where he put it, and he reached into the hole with both paws and began scooping, paw over paw, taking time to press each lump into his pile just as Sandgorse had done.
“Very good, Tallkit.” There was pride in Sandgorse’s mew.
Tallkit swallowed back a purr and kept digging. The hole was so deep now that his hind legs ached each time he reached down.
“Slow down,” Sandgorse warned.
“I’m okay—” As Tallkit answered, his hind paws shot out from beneath him. Muzzle first, he crashed into the hole. Pain seared through his paws as they twisted the wrong way, his claws bending back as they caught on the soil. A wave of earth smothered him, choking him and pushing him farther into the hole. Help! I’m being buried alive!
Teeth sank into his tail, dragging him up. “Are you okay?” Sandgorse let go and stared into Tallkit’s face.
“No!” Tallkit’s muzzle throbbed and his claws burned. “I can’t do this! I hate digging holes, and I don’t want to be a tunneler!” A wail rose in his belly as soil stung his eyes. “Palebird!” Chest heaving, he turned and raced for the nursery.
CHAPTER 2
Sandgorse bounded after him. “You were doing really well.”
“I was not!” Anger surged through Tallkit as his eyes watered from the grit. “I fell in! And hurt my claws!” He stumbled to a halt outside the nursery and held up a paw.
“You just snagged them. They’ll be okay.”
Tallkit blinked through tears. “You don’t know that!” Hazily he spotted Palebird’s black-and-white pelt at the nursery entrance.
“Tallkit!” She slid onto the grass.
“What happened?”
Tallkit flung himself against her soft fur. “I fell in and soil got in my eyes.” He screwed them up as Palebird began to lap at them gently.
“Is that better?” She paused and waited while he opened them gingerly. The stinging had stopped. He shook his head, spraying earth from his ears.
“I hurt my paws, too.”
Palebird leaned down and sniffed them. “They’re fine,” she mewed. “Let’s go inside.”
“Tallkit!” Sandgorse stepped closer. “You can’t give up yet!”
“Leave him,” Palebird murmured. “He’s frightened.”
Tallkit glanced over his shoulder. Sandgorse’s green eyes were round with worry. “I’ll try again later,” he meowed reluctantly.
“We’ll see.” Palebird nosed him gently into the den.
“He’s got to learn—”
Tallkit didn’t hear the rest of his father’s mew. Palebird’s fur was swishing in his ears as she guided him to their nest. He curled into the soft sheepswool lining. “Where’s Brackenwing?” Barkkit’s mother was gone. “And Mistmouse?” The ginger queen’s nest was empty and there was no sign of Ryekit, Doekit, or Stagkit.
“Brackenwing’s at the prey heap.” Palebird settled into the nest beside him. “Mistmouse went hunting.”
“Hunting?” Queens didn’t hunt. They looked after their kits.
Palebird sighed. “She’s missed being out on the moor these past moons. And her kits don’t need her anymore.”
The entrance to the nursery rustled as Brackenwing pushed her way in. She carried with her the scent of fresh rabbit. “Who’s missed the moor?” Heather rustled as she settled into her nest.
“Mistmouse,” Palebird told her.
Brackenwing ran her tongue around her lips. “I haven’t felt the wind in my fur for too long,” she mewed wistfully.
Tallkit nestled against Palebird. “Do you miss being underground?” She’d been a tunneler before he’d been born.
“Of course.”
Tallkit wasn’t convinced. Who’d want to spend the day in the dark?
