Flintfang straightened up. “This was not your time to die.
For as long as I live, I will honor the warrior code and not train another kit who should still be at his mother’s belly. Go now, little one, and walk with warriors.”
-
Code Six
NEWLY APPOINTED WARRIORS WILL
KEEP A SILENT VIGIL FOR ONE NIGHT AF TER
RECEIVING THEIR WARRIOR NAME.
Being a warrior isn’t just about catching prey and fighting other Clans, you know. It’s about being part of a tradition that stretches back longer than any cat can remember, and one that will last for all the moons to come. It was a RiverClan medicine cat who learned that the time when every cat realizes this most is when they are first given their warrior name and become responsible for the safety and survival of their Clan.
A Night of Listening
“Meadowpelt! Meadowpelt, we need you!”
Meadowpelt put down the willow stick he was shredding and wove his way between the pale yellow stalks that shielded his den from the rest of the camp. It was greenleaf, and for once the ground underpaw was dry and dusty rather than pooling with water.
Several other RiverClan cats were in the clearing, looking anxious as their Clannmates crackled nearer. Suddenly the reeds rattled together and a small black tom burst out.
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“Snaketooth is hurt!” he yowled.
“What happened, Molewhisker?” Troutstar demanded. Just then, two more cats appeared with a third propped between them, his dark brown head lolling and one of his hind legs trailing uselessly behind.
Troutstar glanced over his shoulder. “Meadowpelt, take over.”
Meadowpelt ran forward to take a look at his latest patient.
This wasn’t the first injury he’d treated among these young warriors in the last moon. Molewhisker had ripped out one of his claws trying to jump across the river, and Lightningpelt, a light brown tabby with a distinctive white streak down her back, had nearly poked out her own eye chasing through the thickest part of the reeds. Every day, the warriors seemed to come up with yet another competition to discover who was the strongest, fastest… or most mouse-brained, Meadowpelt thought crossly.
Lightningpelt and Nettlepad laid Snaketooth on the ground in the middle of the clearing. Meadowpelt studied the twisted leg, noticing the way the snapped bone jutted out beneath the skin. There was a chance Snaketooth would never walk without a limp.
“What was it this time?” Meadowpelt sighed.
“Climbing one of the Great Oaks,” Snaketooth muttered through gritted teeth. “I won.”
“You should have seen him!” Lightningpelt burst out. “He practically climbed onto a cloud!”
“If I had seen him, I wouldn’t have let him do something so utterly mouse-brained,” Meadowpelt growled. “When will you learn to stop showing off and start putting your Clan first?
At this rate there’ll be no warriors left by leaf-bare.” Lifting his head, he looked around and spotted Oatpaw, whom he was thinking of taking as his apprentice. “Oatpaw, fetch me some poppy seeds, will you?”
Oatpaw ducked his head and ran to the den, quickly returning with several tiny black seeds stuck to his forepaw.
“Lick these up,” Meadowpelt told
Snaketooth. He turned back to Oatpaw.
“Help me carry him to my den. He’ll need to stay there tonight.”
Moonlight filtered through the reeds, striping the floor of the medicine cat’s den with sharp, thin shadows. Meadowpelt checked that the reeds on Snaketooth’s splint were bound tightly enough, and then padded heavily across the clearing to his nest.
The reeds slid apart and Molewhisker, Lightningpelt, and Nettlepad squeezed into the tiny space beside their sleeping friend. “We wanted to see if he was okay,” Molewhisker explained in a loud whisper.
“That’s up to StarClan now,” Meadowpelt replied. “I’ve done as much as I can. Now go to your own dens and let him sleep.”
It was too late. Snaketooth stirred and lifted his head a little way off the pillow of moss. “Hey, guys!” he croaked.
Nettlepad bent over him. “How’s your leg? It looked really gross!”
Meadowpelt flicked his tail. “You can stay for a few moments, but no more, understand?”
The three healthy warriors looked at the medicine cat and nodded solemnly. With a grunt, Meadowpelt threaded his way between the reeds that circled his nest and settled down.
Tired as he was—and getting a little deaf in his old age, he had to admit—he could still hear the warriors whispering to Snaketooth.
“You’ve got to get better real soon!”
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“We’re going to jump into the gorge on the full moon, remember?”
“Yeah, I dared you, so if you don’t do it, I win!” That was Nettlepad, his voice rising with excitement.
“Hush!” Lightningpelt hissed. “Don’t let every cat hear you!
You know what the old ones are like—they never want us to have fun.”
“They just wish they were young enough to jump into the gorge. But I bet they were never brave enough to try. Not like us!”
Molewhisker sounded as if he thought he could grow wings and glide safely into the river as it thundered and foamed through the steep-sided canyon at the edge of their territory.
“Look, he’s gone to sleep,” whispered Lightningpelt. “Come on, let’s leave him.”
Meadowpelt listened to them padding away, bristling at their foolishness. His mind filled with shadows, and sleep was a long time coming.
“Troutstar? May I speak with you?” It was the following day, with hot, merciless sunshine bouncing off the reeds and the surface of the river.
The RiverClan leader opened his eyes from his doze. He was curled on a flat stone by the shore, his gray fur blending into the sun-bleached rock. “Is Snaketooth all right?” he asked anxiously.
Meadowpelt grunted. “You mean apart from having no sense at all? He’ll live. But whether he’ll be able to hunt and fight again, I’m not sure.”
Troutstar shook his head. “I don’t know why those warriors keep doing such ridiculous things.”
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I want to go to the Moonstone to ask StarClan for advice.”
The gray cat looked at him in surprise. “Do you really think
StarClan needs to be involved?”
Meadowpelt nodded. “Yes, I do. We have raised a whole generation of warriors who only want to amuse themselves. There aren’t enough apprentices for them all to be mentors, so they’re wasting time making up stupid, dangerous games. They’ve all been hurt, but it hasn’t stopped them. Did you know they’re planning to jump into the gorge on the full moon?”
Troutstar’s tail bristled. “No, I didn’t know that. Meadowpelt, if you think StarClan can help, then you must go. May StarClan be waiting for you with answers.”
It was past nightfall by the time Meadowpelt reached the entrance to Mothermouth. The Highstones jabbed angrily into the sky, black against dove-gray. Meadowpelt let his mind empty as he felt his way down the long, dark tunnel. At the bottom, the flattened-egg moon made the Moonstone glow brightly enough to light up the chamber. Meadowpelt lay down at the foot of the Moonstone and pressed his muzzle against the sharp, cold rock.
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“StarClan, please show me how to make my Clanmates understand that the Clan depends on them for its survival, and that they can’t play like kits now that they are warriors.”
He closed his eyes, and at once the scents of the riverbank brushed against his fur. He could hear the water rolling past, whispering against the stones, and the reeds rattling together as they were bent over by the breeze. When he opened his eyes, he found that he was lying in the center of the RiverClan camp with cats stirring softly around him, preparing for the night. With a shock, Meadowpelt realized that he didn’t recognize any of them—no, it was more that he couldn’t see them clearly enough, as if their faces were always in shadow and their scents too mixed by the breeze to distinguish one cat from another. Even their voices sounded muffled, almost familiar but not quite. He lay still with his chin on his paws and listened.