A small brown creature was scuttling along the wall, pressing its body to the stone. It was heading for a crack. Crookedkit crouched, tail swishing. With his heart pounding like a woodpecker battering a tree trunk, he shot forward, paws outstretched. Belly brushing the ground, he skidded toward the mouse.
Crash! He hurtled into the stone wall as the mouse dashed for the crack and disappeared into the shadow. Frog dung! He sat up and glanced sheepishly at Fleck.
Fleck shrugged. “Mice are dumb but not that dumb.”
“I attacked as fast as I could,” Crookedkit mewed apologetically.
“Speed isn’t everything,” Fleck warned. “The mouse had seen, heard, and smelled you before you jumped.”
“How?”
“Your tail was swishing over the straw,” Fleck told him. “And you were panting like a badger with your breath stinking of mouse meat.”
Crookedkit scowled. “I have to breathe.”
“Let me show you.” Fleck beckoned him back with a flick of his muzzle and Crookedkit hurried and crouched behind the ginger tom.
“Breathe through your nose,” Fleck ordered as they waited.
Crookedkit closed his mouth. His tail longed to twitch, but he held it still, copying Fleck. When a tiny nose twitched in the crack between the stones, Crookedkit stiffened.
Fleck seemed as relaxed as a basking trout beside him. “Wait,” the farm cat murmured.
Crookedkit swallowed the excitement rising in his belly as Fleck padded forward, shoulders loose, belly swinging. How was he going to catch a mouse moving that slowly? Crookedkit unsheathed his claws, preparing to make the attack, but, before he could lunge, Fleck darted forward. The fat farm cat covered a tail-length fast as a kingfisher, scooping the mouse from its hiding place with a nimble paw. He tossed it to Crookedkit.
It’s alive! Crookedkit stared at the stunned creature trembling on the straw-strewn stone.
“Kill it before it comes to its senses!” Fleck hissed.
Crookedkit froze.
“Bite its spine with the strong side of your jaw.”
Crookedkit ducked, tipping his head sideways and clamping his back teeth around the mouse’s spine. He felt it go limp and tasted blood on his tongue. He sat up. “It’s a strange-tasting mouse.”
“It’s a vole.” Fleck padded over. “Mitzi will be happy. Vole’s her favorite.”
Crookedkit purred. He’d killed his first prey. Wait till I tell Oakpaw! His heart dropped. Oakpaw was so far away. I should go back. With his belly full and the sun still climbing, he could be home by dark.
Fleck picked up the vole. “Come on, let’s take this to Mitzi.” He bounded away, climbing out through the hole Crookedkit had used last night.
“But —” Crookedkit scrambled after him.
“Keep your eyes open in the yard,” Fleck ordered as he jumped down on to the hard earth outside. “There are farm monsters everywhere. You’ll hear them but it’s not always easy to know where they’re coming from.”
Crookedkit pricked his ears. “I don’t hear anything.”
“We’re early.” Fleck darted through a gap in the stone wall that circled the flat open space outside the barn. Crookedkit hurried after him, alert for any sudden monster noise. On the track beyond the wall, Fleck slowed to a trot. Green meadows lay on either side and blue sky stretched overhead. The track, speckled with pebbles and lined with ruts, wound downhill toward a golden field. Crookedkit gazed at it, eyes wide. It shone like the sun and rippled like water.
“That’s Mitzi’s cornfield.” Fleck’s mew was muffled by the vole in his jaws. “She’s made a nest in that dip.” He flicked his tail toward the middle of the field. They followed the track down and, as it wound around the edge of the cornfield, Fleck veered on to a tiny path that was almost invisible. Pushing through long grass, the farm cat leaped a ditch and ducked through a hedge.
Crookedkit stopped. He watched Fleck disappearing into the corn beyond the hedge, his orange tail merging into the golden stalks.
“Are you coming?” Fleck called.
I should go home. Crookedkit opened his mouth to explain. But I promised I’d help Fleck. He nosed through the long grass and peered into the ditch. It was wide and deep and water trickled along the bottom. Curiosity pricked his paws. I wonder what farm kits are like? I’ll just say hi. Taking a deep breath, he sprang and at the same time grabbed for a clump of grass on the other side. His hindquarters swung down, his tail sweeping through the water. Scrabbling, he hauled himself up and squeezed under the hedge. “Wait for me!”
He plunged into the forest of corn, weaving among the stems. The stiff stalks reminded him of the reed bed. Their heavy heads rattled above him as the wind tugged at them. Crookedkit followed Fleck’s scent through the corn, noticing where the stalks were bent from cats using the tiny path regularly. He caught up to him where the field began to slope down toward the dip.
“Take this.” Fleck dropped the vole at Crookedkit’s paws. “Mitzi’s a bit protective of her kits. She’ll welcome a new face quicker if it’s carrying food.” Mewls sounded through the corn as he spoke.
“Come on.” Fleck pushed on.
Crookedkit picked up the vole and trotted after him until they emerged in a small clearing, enclosed by a wall of rustling yellow stalks. A black cat blinked up at them from a scoop in the earth. Four tiny kits fidgeted at her belly. Mitzi wriggled and sat up, heaving them away. Her nose twitched and her gaze settled on the vole in Crookedkit’s jaws.
“Who are you?” Her eyes narrowed.
Crookedkit tossed the vole down to her. “Crookedkit of RiverClan.”
Mitzi bristled. “What’s a Clan cat doing here?” she hissed at Fleck. “There haven’t been warriors around here for as long as I can remember.” She glanced warily around. “Where’s his kin?”
“He came alone.”
Mitzi frowned. “Alone? Ain’t he a bit young to be so far from home? I thought warriors lived up on the moors.”
“My Clan lives by the river,” Crookedkit told her. “Past the moors.”
Mitzi wrapped her tail over her kits. “And you’ve come all this way by yourself?”
Fleck sniffed. “He’s heading for the Foodstone.”
“Moonstone!” Crookedkit corrected.
A black she-kit scrabbled to the edge of the hollow. “Is that where the moon lives?” She stared at Crookedkit with wide green eyes like her mother’s.
“Now, now,” Mitzi chided. “It’s rude to start asking questions before you’ve been introduced.”
“Sorry,” squeaked the kit. “I’m Soot.”
“Hello, Soot.” For the first time since the accident, Crookedkit felt big.
“Does the moon live there?” Soot pressed.
“No,” he purred. “It’s where we visit our ancestors.”
Mitzi heaved herself out of the hollow and shook out her pelt. “Can you keep them busy while I eat?” she asked Fleck.
“I can!” Crookedkit offered.
Mitzi glanced at her littermate. “He’s okay,” Fleck reassured her.
Mitzi shifted her paws. “Hardly more than a kit himself.” She nodded to Crookedkit, then crouched and hungrily began eating the vole.
Crookedkit jumped down into the hollow. The tiny kits scattered, squeaking, out of his way, then trotted back and sniffed him gingerly.
The gray tom-kit stared at him. “Where’s your mother?”
“She’s back at camp,” Crookedkit told him. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Mist,” the gray kit mewed.
“And I’m Piper.” A silver-tabby-and-white she-kit scrambled over her brother.