Into the Wild

by Erin Hunter

  Firepaw carried on fiercely: “You’re just going to have to get used to being cared for until you are well enough to look after yourself, you spiteful old bone bag!”

  He stopped as Yellowfang began to make a low, harsh, wheezing sound.

  Alarmed, Firepaw took a step toward her. The she-cat was trembling all over and her eyes had narrowed into tiny slits. Was she having some kind of a fit?

  “Look, I didn’t mean . . .” he began, before he suddenly realized that she was laughing!

  “Mr-ow, ow-ow,” she mewled, a purr rumbling up from deep inside her chest.

  Firepaw didn’t know what to do.

  “You have spirit, kittypet,” Yellowfang croaked, stopping at last. “Now, I’m tired and my leg hurts. I need sleep and something to put on this wound. Go and find that pretty little medicine cat of yours and ask her for some herbs. I think you’ll find a goldenrod poultice would help. And, while you’re at it, I wouldn’t mind a few poppy seeds to chew on. The pain is killing me!”

  Stunned by her change of mood, Firepaw turned quickly and sprinted toward Spottedleaf’s den.

  He had never been in this part of the camp before. With his ears pricked, he padded through a cool green tunnel of ferns that led into a small grassy clearing. A tall rock stood at one side, split down the middle by a crack wide enough for a cat to make its den inside. Out of this opening trotted Spottedleaf. As usual, she looked bright-eyed and friendly, her dappled coat gleaming with a hundred shades of amber and brown.

  Firepaw shyly mewed a greeting, and reeled off Yellowfang’s list of herbs and seeds.

  “I’ve got most of those in my den,” replied Spottedleaf. “I’ll fetch some marigold leaves too. If she dresses her wound with that, it’ll keep off any infection. Wait here.”

  “Thanks,” Firepaw mewed as the medicine cat disappeared back into her den. He strained his eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of her inside. But the den was too dark to see anything; he could only hear the sound of rustling and smell the heady scents of unfamiliar herbs.

  Spottedleaf emerged from the gloom and dropped a bundle folded in leaves by Firepaw’s feet. “Tell Yellowfang to go easy on the poppy seeds. I don’t want her to deaden the pain entirely. A little pain can be useful, as it will help me judge how well she is healing.”

  Firepaw nodded and picked up the herbs with his teeth. “Thanks, Spottedleaf!” he mewed through the mouthful of leaves, then headed back through the fern tunnel into the main clearing.

  Tigerclaw was sitting outside the warriors’ den, watching him closely. As Firepaw trotted over to Yellowfang, carrying the herbs, he could feel the amber-eyed stare burning the fur on the back of his neck. He turned his head and looked at Tigerclaw curiously. The warrior narrowed his eyes and looked away.

  Firepaw dropped the bundle beside Yellowfang.

  “Good,” she meowed. “Now, before you leave me in peace, find me something to eat. I’m starving!”

  The sun had risen three times since Yellowfang had entered the camp. Firepaw woke early and nudged Graypaw, who was still asleep beside him, his nose tucked under his thick tail. “Wake up,” Firepaw mewed. “Or you’ll be late for training.”

  Graypaw lifted his head sleepily and growled in reluctant agreement.

  Firepaw prodded Ravenpaw.

  The black cat opened his eyes immediately and leaped to his feet. “What is it?” he mewed, looking around wildly.

  “Calm down, Ravenpaw. It’s time for training soon,” Firepaw soothed.

  Dustpaw and Sandpaw began to stir too, in their mossy nests on the far side of the den. Firepaw stood up and pushed his way out of the ferns.

  The morning was warm. Firepaw could see a deep blue sky through the leaves and branches that overhung the camp. Today, however, a heavy dew glistened on the fern fronds and sparkled on the grass. Firepaw sniffed the air. Greenleaf was drawing to a close, and soon it would start to feel colder.

  He lay down and rolled in the earth beside the tree stump, stretching his legs and tipping his head back to rub it on the cool ground. Then he flipped over onto his side, and looked across the clearing to see if Yellowfang was awake yet.

  She had been given a resting place at the other end of the fallen tree where the elders gathered to eat. Her nest lay tucked against its mossy trunk, out of hearing of the elders, but in full view of the warriors’ den across the clearing. Firepaw could just see a mound of pale gray fur, rising and falling in time to a gentle rumble of sleep.

  Graypaw trotted out of the den behind him, followed by Sandpaw and Dustpaw. Ravenpaw appeared last, with a nervous glance around the clearing before he emerged fully into the open.

  “Another day looking after that mangy old fleabag, eh, Firepaw?” mewed Dustpaw. “I bet you wish you were out training with us.”

  Firepaw sat up and shook the dust from his fur. He wasn’t going to let himself get annoyed by Dustpaw’s taunts.

  “Don’t worry, Firepaw,” murmured Graypaw. “Bluestar will have you back in training before long.”

  “Perhaps she thinks a kittypet is better off staying in camp, tending to the sick,” mewed Sandpaw rudely, tossing her sleek ginger head and throwing him a scornful look.

  Firepaw decided to ignore her barbed comments. “What is Whitestorm teaching you today, Sandpaw?” he mewed.

  “We’re doing battle training today. He’s going to teach me how a real warrior fights,” Sandpaw replied proudly.

  “Lionheart’s taking me to the Great Sycamore,” mewed Graypaw, “to practice my climbing. I’d best go. He’ll be waiting.”

  “I’ll come with you to the top of the ravine,” mewed Firepaw. “I have to catch breakfast for Yellowfang. Coming, Ravenpaw? Tigerclaw must have something planned for you.”

  Ravenpaw sighed and nodded, then followed Graypaw and Firepaw as they trotted out of the camp. Even though his injury was completely healed, he still seemed to have little enthusiasm for warrior training.

  “Here,” mewed Firepaw. He dropped a large mouse and a chaffinch onto the ground beside Yellowfang.

  “About time,” she growled. The she-cat had still been sleeping when Firepaw had entered the camp after his hunting trip. But the smell of fresh-kill must have woken her, for now she had pulled herself into a sitting position.

  She dropped her head and hungrily gulped down Firepaw’s offerings. She had developed a massive appetite as her strength returned. Her wound was healing well, but her temper remained as fierce and unpredictable as ever.

  She finished her meal and complained, “The base of my tail itches like fury, but I can’t reach it. Give it a wash, will you?”

  With an inward shudder, Firepaw crouched down and set to work.

  As he cracked the plump fleas between his teeth, he noticed a gang of small kits tumbling in the dusty earth nearby. They were mauling each other and play-fighting, sometimes quite viciously. Yellowfang, who had closed her eyes as Firepaw groomed her, half opened one eye to observe the kits as they played. To his surprise, Firepaw felt her spine stiffen beneath his teeth.

  He listened for a moment to the tiny yelps and squeaks of the kits.

  “Feel my teeth, Brokenstar!” mewed one small tabby. He leaped onto the back of a little gray-and-white kit, who was pretending to be the ShadowClan leader. The two kits bundled toward the Highrock. Suddenly the gray-and-white kit gave a mighty heave and flung the tabby from his back. With a startled squeak, the little tabby cannoned into Yellowfang’s side.

  Instantly the old she-cat leaped to her feet, fur on end, spitting violently. “Stay away from me, you scrap of fur!” she hissed.

  The tabby kit took one look at the furious cat, turned tail, and ran. He hid himself behind a tabby queen, who was staring furiously across the clearing at Yellowfang.

  The gray-and-white kit froze where he stood. Then, paw by paw, he cautiously backed away toward the safety of the nursery.

  Yellowfang’s reaction had shocked Firepaw. He thought he’d seen her at her most vicious wh
en they fought after their first meeting, but her eyes burned with a new rage now. “I think the kits are finding it hard being confined to camp,” he mewed cautiously. “They’re getting restless.”

  “I don’t care how restless they are,” growled Yellowfang. “Just keep them away from me!”

  “Don’t you like kits?” Firepaw asked, curious in spite of himself. “Did you never have kits of your own?”

  “Don’t you know medicine cats don’t have kits?” hissed Yellowfang furiously.

  “But I heard you were a warrior before that,” Firepaw ventured.

  “I have no kits!” Yellowfang spat. She snatched her tail away from him and sat up. “Anyway”—her voice suddenly lowered, and she sounded almost wistful—“accidents seem to happen to kits when I’m around them.”

  Her orange eyes clouded with emotion. She laid her chin flat on her forepaws and stared ahead. Firepaw watched her shoulders sink as she released a long, silent sigh.

  Firepaw looked at her curiously. What could she mean? Was the old she-cat being serious? It was hard to tell; Yellowfang seemed to swing from mood to mood so quickly. He shrugged to himself and went on with the grooming.

  “There are a couple of ticks I couldn’t pull out,” he told her when he had finished.

  “I should hope you didn’t even try, you idiot!” snapped Yellowfang. “I don’t want any tick heads embedded in my rear, thank you very much. Ask Spottedleaf for a little mouse bile to rub on them. A splash of that in their breathing holes and they’ll soon loosen their grip.”

  “I’ll get some now!” Firepaw offered. He was glad of a chance to get away from the grumpy cat for a while. And it was certainly no hardship to go and see Spottedleaf again.

  He walked toward the fern tunnel. Cats crossed the clearing around him, carrying sticks and twigs in their teeth. While he had been grooming Yellowfang, the camp had grown active. It had been like this every day since Bluestar had announced WindClan’s disappearance. The queens were weaving twigs and leaves into a dense green wall around the sides of the nursery, making sure that the narrow entrance was the only way in and out of the bramble patch. Other cats were working at the edges of the camp, filling in any spaces in the thick undergrowth.

  Even the elders were busy, scraping out a hole in the ground. Warriors filed steadily past, piling pieces of fresh-kill beside them, ready to be stored inside the newly dug hole. There was an air of quiet concentration, a determination to make the Clan as secure and well supplied as possible.

  If ShadowClan made a move on their territory, ThunderClan would shelter inside the camp. They would not let themselves be driven from their hunting grounds as easily as WindClan had been.

  Darkstripe, Longtail, Willowpelt, and Dustpaw were waiting silently at the camp entrance. Their eyes were fixed on the opening to the gorse tunnel. A patrol was just returning, dusty and paw-sore. As soon as the warriors entered the camp, Darkstripe and his companions approached and exchanged words with them. Then they slipped quickly out of the camp. ThunderClan’s borders were not being left unguarded for a moment.

  Firepaw headed down the fern tunnel that led to Spottedleaf’s den. As he entered the clearing, he could see Spottedleaf was preparing some sweet-smelling herbs.

  “Can I have some mouse bile for Yellowfang’s ticks?” Firepaw mewed.

  “In a moment,” replied Spottedleaf, pawing two piles of herbs together and mixing the fragrant heap with one delicately extended claw.

  “Busy?” Firepaw asked, settling down on a warm patch of earth.

  “I want to be prepared for any casualties,” Spottedleaf murmured, glancing up at him with her clear amber eyes. Firepaw met her gaze for a moment, then looked away, an uncomfortable feeling prickling his fur. Spottedleaf turned her attention back to the herbs.

  Firepaw waited, happy to sit quietly and watch her at work.

  “Right,” she mewed at last. “What was it you wanted? Mouse bile?”

  “Yes, please.” Firepaw stood up and stretched each back leg in turn. The sun had warmed his fur and made him feel sleepy.

  Spottedleaf bounded into her den and brought something out. She held it gingerly in her mouth. It was a small wad of moss dangling on the end of a thin strip of bark. She passed it to Firepaw. He tasted her warm, sweet breath as he took the bark strip between his teeth.

  “The moss is soaked in bile,” Spottedleaf explained. “Don’t get any in your mouth, or you’ll have a foul taste for days. Press it onto the ticks and then wash your paws—in a stream, not with your tongue!”

  Firepaw nodded and trotted back to Yellowfang, feeling suddenly cheerful and tingling with energy.

  “Hold still!” he mewed to the old she-cat. Carefully he used his forepaws to press the moss onto each tick.

  “You may as well clear away my dirt now your paws are already foul!” she meowed when he had finished. “I’m going to take a nap.” She yawned, revealing her blackened and broken teeth. The warmth of the day was making her sleepy, too. “Then you can go and do whatever it is you apprentices do,” she murmured.

  When Firepaw had cleared away Yellowfang’s dirt, he left her dozing and made his way to the gorse tunnel. He was keen to get to the stream and rinse his paws.

  “Firepaw!” a voice called from the side of the clearing.

  Firepaw turned. It was Halftail.

  “Where are you off to?” meowed the old cat curiously. “You ought to be helping with the preparations.”

  “I’ve just been putting mouse bile on Yellowfang’s ticks,” replied Firepaw.

  Amusement flickered through Halftail’s whiskers. “So now you’re off to the nearest stream! Well, don’t come back without fresh-kill. We need as much as we can find.”

  “Yes, Halftail,” Firepaw replied.

  He made his way out of the camp and up the side of the ravine. He trotted down to the stream where he and Graypaw had hunted on the day he had found Yellowfang. Without hesitating he jumped down into the cold, clear water. It came up to his haunches, and wet his belly fur. The shock made him gasp, and he shivered.

  A rustle in the bushes above him made him look up, although the familiar scent that reached his nose told him there was nothing to be alarmed about.

  “What are you doing in there?” Graypaw and Ravenpaw were standing looking at him as if he were mad.

  “Mouse bile.” Firepaw grimaced. “Don’t ask! Where are Lionheart and Tigerclaw?”

  “They’ve gone to join the next patrol,” answered Graypaw. “They ordered us to spend the rest of the afternoon hunting.”

  “Halftail told me the same thing,” Firepaw mewed, flinching as a chilly current of water rushed around his paws. “Everyone’s busy back at camp. You’d think we were about to be attacked at any moment.” He climbed up onto the bank, dripping.

  “Who says we won’t be?” mewed Ravenpaw, his eyes flicking from side to side as if he expected an enemy patrol to leap out of the bushes at any time.

  Firepaw looked at the heap of fresh-kill that was piled beside the two apprentices. “Looks like you’ve done all right today,” he mewed.

  “Yeah,” mewed Graypaw proudly. “And we’ve still got the rest of the afternoon to hunt. Do you want to join us?”

  “You bet!” Firepaw purred. He gave himself a final shake, then bounded into the undergrowth after his friends.

  Firepaw could tell that the cats back at camp were impressed with the amount of prey the three apprentices had managed to catch during their afternoon hunt. They were welcomed back with high tails and friendly nuzzles. It took them four journeys to carry their bumper catch to the storage hole the elders had dug.

  Lionheart and Tigerclaw had just returned with their patrol as Firepaw, Graypaw, and Ravenpaw carried their last load into the camp.

  “Well done, you three,” meowed Lionheart. “I hear you’ve been busy. The store is almost full. You might as well add that last lot to the pile of fresh-kill for tonight. And take some of it back to your den with you. You de
serve a feast!”

  The three apprentices flicked their tails with delight.

  “I hope you’ve not been neglecting Yellowfang with all this hunting, Firepaw,” Tigerclaw growled warningly.

  Firepaw shook his head impatiently, eager to get away. He was starving. He had obeyed the warrior code this time and not eaten a morsel while he was hunting for the Clan. Nor had Graypaw or Ravenpaw.

  They trotted away and dropped the last of their catch on the fresh-kill that already lay at the center of the clearing. Then each of them took a piece and carried it back to their tree stump. The den was empty.

  “Where are Dustpaw and Sandpaw?” asked Ravenpaw.

  “They must still be out on patrol,” Firepaw guessed.

  “Good,” meowed Graypaw. “Peace and quiet.”

  They ate their fill and lay back to wash. The cool evening air was welcome after the heat of the day.

  “Hey! Guess what!” mewed Graypaw suddenly. “Ravenpaw managed to squeeze a compliment out of old Tigerclaw this morning!”

  “Really?” Firepaw gasped. “What on earth did you do to please Tigerclaw—fly?”

  “Well,” Ravenpaw began shyly, looking at his paws, “I caught a crow.”

  “How’d you manage that?” Firepaw mewed, impressed.

  “It was an old one,” Ravenpaw admitted modestly.

  “But it was huge,” added Graypaw. “Even Tigerclaw couldn’t find fault with that! He’s been in such a bad mood since Bluestar took you on as her apprentice.” He licked his paw thoughtfully for a moment. “Hang on, make that since Lionheart was made deputy.”

  “He’s just worried about ShadowClan, and the extra patrols,” mewed Ravenpaw, hastily. “You should try not to annoy him.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a loud yowl from the other side of the clearing.

  “Oh, no.” Firepaw groaned, getting to his paws. “I forgot to take Yellowfang her share!”

  “You wait here,” mewed Graypaw, leaping up. “I’ll take her something.”

  “No, I’d better go,” Firepaw protested. “This is my punishment, not yours.”

  “No one will notice,” argued Graypaw. “They’re all busy eating. You know me: quiet as a mouse, quick as a fish. Wait here.”