“You’re a natural,” he told her. “And though you don’t know it, you’re practicing valuable battle and hunting skills.”
Bluepaw blinked. “How?”
“With each slice of your claw, you’re getting more and more controlled,” Stonepelt explained. “By the time you’ve mastered this, you’ll be able to rake your enemy’s muzzle with a flick of your paw, and to kill prey quickly and cleanly.”
Bluepaw purred, suddenly pleased with the pile of moss she had collected.
“And now,” Stonepelt went on, “we have to carry it home.”
Bluepaw instantly leaned down to grasp a bunch between her teeth.
“If we carry it like that, then we’re going to have to make several journeys,” Stonepelt warned. Bluepaw had managed to pick up only a few small scraps from the top of the pile.
“Squash it down like this.” Deftly Stonepelt pressed the moss beneath his paws, squeezing out the moisture. “Now, roll a bundle together and grasp it under your chin.” He gripped a large wad beneath his own chin and held it there while he went on. “That will leave your jaws free to carry more.”
Bluepaw stifled a purr of amusement. Stonepelt looked so funny with his chin clamped to his chest and moss spilling out from either side.
“Don’t twitch your whiskers at me!” he meowed sternly. “I know it looks odd, but would you rather climb the ravine twice?”
Bluepaw shook her head.
“I didn’t think so.” Stonepelt flicked his tail. “Imagine this was prey we were carrying home to a hungry Clan. The more we can carry, the sooner our Clan will be fed.”
Bluepaw shifted her paws. She hadn’t thought of it like that. She began pummeling the pile of moss, rolling a ball as Stonepelt had done, then leaned down to grasp it under her chin. It was harder to hold in place than she’d thought, especially when she picked up a second bundle between her jaws. She dropped each of the bundles twice before they reached the edge of the ravine. Each time, Stonepelt waited patiently while she picked it up. He didn’t offer more advice, just watched and nodded as she persevered.
At the top of the rocky slope, Bluepaw sniffed the air for any sign of Snowpaw. She didn’t want her sister to witness her awkward progress: chin squashed down, chest fur dripping from the wet moss.
Scrambling down the ravine was even less dignified; she couldn’t see her paws and had to feel for every clawhold. She was relieved that Stonepelt was a few steps ahead, breaking her fall every time she slipped until at last they reached the bottom. Even the gorse tunnel proved a problem. Half the bundle underneath her chin caught on the spiky walls and was yanked out of her grip.
“Mouse dung!” she cursed, wriggling around to retrieve it before hauling it into the clearing.
I must be the first cat to enter the camp backward! Her pelt was hot with embarrassment as she shuffled tailfirst from the tunnel, moss trailing from her chin.
Leopardpaw padded past. “Busy?” The apprentice gazed down her raven-black muzzle at Bluepaw.
Bluepaw dropped her moss and looked Leopardpaw in the eye. “I’ve learned how to use my claws properly and how to carry two bits of prey at once.”
“In other words, you’ve been gathering moss.” Leopardpaw sniffed.
Bluepaw whipped her tail crossly as Leopardpaw padded away toward the fresh-kill pile. Then she spotted Stonepelt watching from the fallen tree, moss piled at his paws, eyes sparkling with amusement. Growling under her breath, Bluepaw rebundled her moss and stamped across the clearing to join him.
“Is there something in the warrior code that says you’re allowed to put thistles in your denmate’s nest?” Bluepaw asked, spitting out her moss.
Stonepelt shook his head, his whiskers twitching. “I don’t think so, but I’m sure you wouldn’t be the first.” He gathered up his moss and pushed his way between the branches of the fallen tree.
Sighing, Bluepaw followed.
“Oh, good,” Larksong meowed as they entered the elders’ den. “I don’t think I could sleep another night in plain bracken. It’s too cold!”
Mumblefoot, who had been resting his head on his front paws, raised his chin and gazed at Bluepaw. “How does it feel to be an apprentice at last?”
“Great!” she lied. At least it would be if I were hunting instead of collecting bedding. She pushed the thought away. This is important, too, she reminded herself, still not entirely convinced.
Stonepelt was already rootling through Weedwhisker’s nest, plucking out stale, stinky strands of bracken. Bluepaw hurried to help him while Weedwhisker sat to one side, his eyes half-closed as though he was dozing.
“Pass the moss,” Stonepelt meowed once they’d removed most of the bedding.
Bluepaw picked up a wad and dropped it into Weedwhisker’s bed. Stonepelt expertly tore it apart with his claws and tucked it among the remaining stems of bracken until the nest was deeply lined, soft and green. “We’ll get fresh bracken tomorrow to bolster the sides,” he promised Weedwhisker.
“Good.” Weedwhisker yawned. “My bones ache in this weather.”
He didn’t even say thank you! Bluepaw whisked some spare moss aside but held her tongue.
Weedwhisker climbed into his nest as they began work on Larksong’s. “There’s a thorn!” he complained.
“Let me look,” Stonepelt offered at once. While Weedwhisker leaned stiffly out of the way, Stonepelt rummaged through the bedding until he found a tough piece of moss. “Just a bit of root,” he meowed, plucking it out and tossing it onto the pile with the old bedding.
Weedwhisker shook his head. “That’s the trouble with new apprentices,” he sighed. “They leave every bit of stick and stone in the moss.” He climbed back into the nest and curled down. “Couldn’t you have found some that was drier? This is a bit damp.”
“It’ll dry now that it’s away from the tree,” Stonepelt promised.
Bluepaw had to hold her tail still, though she couldn’t stop it trembling. How ungrateful! Her claws still ached from slicing that moss, and all Weedwhisker could do was find fault. But Stonepelt showed no sign of annoyance, just turned to Larksong’s nest and went back to work.
Stiff with anger, Bluepaw crouched next to him and helped. She was worn out by the time they’d finished all three nests, carried the old bedding away, and dumped it beside the dirtplace. The leaf-fall sun was starting to sink behind the treetops.
“You deserve a meal,” Stonepelt told her. “Get something from the fresh-kill pile and go share with your denmates.” He nodded to where Leopardpaw and Patchpaw were eating beside the tree stump. “You’ve worked hard today.”
His praise lifted Bluepaw’s spirits. Dipping her head to him, she padded to the fresh-kill pile and picked up a mouse. As she settled beside Patchpaw, she eyed Leopardpaw coldly. Some denmate she’d been, teasing Bluepaw like that.
The black she-cat was eating a thrush. She paused for a moment. “I bet they didn’t even thank you.”
Bluepaw stared at her. “You mean the elders?”
“Every cat knows they complain about everything,” Leopardpaw mewed. “I suppose they’ve earned the right, but it doesn’t help when you’re stuck with cleaning out their smelly bedding.”
Patchpaw rubbed his muzzle with a paw. “Fuzzypelt says they’re grumpy because they can’t do it for themselves anymore.”
“They’re lucky they don’t have to do it themselves anymore!” Leopardpaw commented. “Here.” She tossed a morsel of thrush to Bluepaw. “That mouse won’t fill you up if you’ve been clearing out nests all day.”