MIDNIGHT. Эрин Хантер
Читать онлайн книгу.
1
Leaves rustled as the young tabby cat slid through a gap between two bushes, his jaws wide open to drink in the scent of prey. On this warm night in late greenleaf, the forest was full of the scuffles of tiny creatures. Movements twitched endlessly at the edge of his vision, but when he turned his head he could see nothing but thick clumps of fern and bramble, dappled with moonlight.
Suddenly he stepped out into a wide clearing and gazed around in confusion. He could not remember being in this part of the forest before. Smooth-cropped grass, glowing silver in a cold wash of moonlight, stretched in front of him as far as a softly rounded rock where another cat was sitting. Starlight sparkled in her fur, and her eyes were two small moons.
The young tabby’s bewilderment increased as he recognised her. “Bluestar?” he meowed, his voice shrill with disbelief.
He had been an apprentice when the great leader of ThunderClan had died, four seasons ago, leaping into the gorge with a pack of blood-hungry dogs after her. Like all her Clan, he had grieved for her and honoured her for the way she had given up her life to save them. He had never thought to see her again, and he realised for the first time that he must be dreaming.
“Come closer, young warrior,” Bluestar meowed. “I have a message for you.”
Shivering with awe, the tabby tom crept across the shining stretch of turf until he crouched below the rock and could look up into Bluestar’s eyes.
“I’m listening, Bluestar,” he mewed.
“A time of trouble is coming to the forest,” she told him. “A new prophecy must be fulfilled if the Clans are to survive. You have been chosen to meet with three other cats at the new moon, and you must listen to what midnight tells you.”
“What do you mean?” The young cat felt a prickle of dread, cold as snowmelt, creep down his spine. “What kind of trouble? And how can midnight tell us anything?”
“All will be made clear to you,” Bluestar replied.
Her voice faded, echoing strangely as if she were speaking from a cavern far beneath the earth. The moonlight also began to grow dim, leaving thick black shadows to creep out of the trees around them.
“No, wait!” the tabby cat cried out. “Don’t go!”
He let out a terrified yowl, thrashing his paws and tail, as darkness rose up and engulfed him. Something poked him in the side and his eyes flew open to see Greystripe, the ThunderClan deputy, standing over him with one paw raised to prod him again. He was scuffling among the moss in the warriors’ den, with the golden sunlight leaking through the branches above his head.
“Brambleclaw, you crazy furball!” the deputy meowed. “What’s all the noise about? You’ll scare off all the prey from here to Fourtrees.”
“Sorry.” Brambleclaw sat up and began picking scraps of moss from his dark fur. “I was just dreaming.”
“Dreaming!” grunted a new voice.
Brambleclaw turned his head to see the white warrior Cloudtail heave himself out of a mossy nest nearby and give a long stretch. “Honestly, you’re as bad as Firestar,” Cloudtail went on. “When he slept in here he was always muttering and twitching in his sleep. A cat couldn’t get a good night’s rest for all the prey in the forest.”
Brambleclaw twitched his ears to hear how disrespectfully the white warrior spoke about the Clan leader. Then he reminded himself that this was Cloudtail, Firestar’s kin and former apprentice, well known for his barbed tongue and ready scorn. His impudent talk didn’t stop him from being a loyal warrior to his Clan.
Cloudtail gave his long-furred white coat a shake and slipped out of the den, flicking the end of his tail at Brambleclaw in a friendly way to take the sting out of his words as he went by.
“Come on, you lot,” meowed Greystripe. “It’s time you were moving.” He picked his way through the moss on the floor of the den to prod Ashfur awake. “Hunting patrols will be going out soon. Brackenfur is organising them.”
“Right,” Brambleclaw mewed. His vision of Bluestar was fading, though her ominous message echoed in his ears. Could it really be true that there was a new prophecy from StarClan? It seemed fairly unlikely. For a start, Brambleclaw could not imagine why she would choose to give it to him, of all the cats in ThunderClan. Medicine cats frequently received signs from StarClan, and ThunderClan’s leader, Firestar, had often been guided by his dreams. But they were not for ordinary warriors. Trying to blame his wild imaginings on too much fresh-kill the night before, Brambleclaw gave his shoulder one last lick and followed Cloudtail out through the trailing branches.
The sun was barely up above the hedge of thorns that surrounded the camp, but the day was already warm. Sunlight lay like honey on the bare earth in the centre of the clearing. Sorrelpaw, the oldest of the apprentices, lay stretched out beside the ferns that sheltered the apprentices’ den, sharing tongues with her den mates Spiderpaw and Shrewpaw.
Cloudtail had gone over to the nettle patch where the warriors ate and was already gulping down a starling. Brambleclaw noticed that the pile of fresh-kill was very low; as Greystripe had said, the Clan needed to hunt right away. He was about to go and join the white warrior when Sorrelpaw sprang up and came bounding across the clearing towards him.
“It’s today!” she announced excitedly.
Brambleclaw blinked. “What is?”
“My warrior ceremony!” With a little mrrow of happiness, the tortoiseshell she-cat hurled herself at Brambleclaw; the unexpected attack bowled him over and they wrestled together on the dusty ground, just as they used to when they were kits together in the nursery.
Sorrelpaw’s hind paws battered Brambleclaw in the belly, and he thanked StarClan that her claws were sheathed. There was no doubt that she would make a strong and dangerous warrior, one that every cat would respect.
“All right, all right, that’s enough.” Brambleclaw cuffed Sorrelpaw gently over one ear and scrambled up. “If you’re going to be a warrior, you’ll have to stop behaving like a kit.”
“A kit?” Sorrelpaw meowed indignantly. She sat in front of him, her fur sticking up in clumps and covered with dust. “Me? Never! I’ve waited a long time for this, Brambleclaw.”
“I know. You deserve it.”
Sorrelpaw had ventured too close to the Thunderpath while she was chasing a squirrel in newleaf. A Twoleg monster had struck her a glancing blow, injuring her shoulder. While she lay in Cinderpelt’s den for three long, uncomfortable moons, under the gentle care of the medicine cat, her brothers, Sootfur and Rainwhisker, had become warriors. Sorrelpaw had been determined to follow them as soon as Cinderpelt declared her fit enough to begin training again; Brambleclaw had watched how hard she had worked with her mentor, Sandstorm, until her shoulder was as good as new. She had never shown any bitterness at being forced to train for several moons longer than the usual apprenticeship. She really deserved her warrior ceremony.
“I’ve just taken fresh-kill to Ferncloud,” she meowed to Brambleclaw. “Her kits are beautiful! Have you seen them yet?”
“No, not yet,” Brambleclaw replied. Ferncloud’s second litter of kits had been born only the day before.
“Go now,” Sorrelpaw urged him. “You’ve just enough time before we hunt.” She sprang up and danced a few steps sideways, as if all her energy had to go somewhere.
Brambleclaw set off for the nursery, which was hidden in the depths of a bramble thicket near the centre of the camp. He squeezed through the narrow entrance, wincing as thorns scraped against his broad shoulders. Inside it was warm and quiet. Ferncloud was lying on her side in a deep nest of moss. Her green eyes glowed as she gazed at the three tiny kits curled up snugly in the curve of her body: one was pale grey like her, the other two brown tabbies like their father, Dustpelt. He was in the nursery too, crouched beside Ferncloud with his paws tucked under