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“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 when 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 i
t 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.
