Crowfeather's Trial

Chapter 12

The yowls and screeches of battle rose all around Crowfeather. The air was thick with the stench of blood. As far as he could see in all directions, the ground was covered in tussling cats, and beside Crowfeather lay the body of his daughter, Hollyleaf, her black fur soaked in her own blood. Recognition tingled through his pads.

This is the Great Battle! Crowfeather thought, realizing that he was dreaming. It’s exactly as I remember it.

The memory grew sharper, even more painful, as he saw Breezepelt leap onto Lionblaze, catching him off-balance and taking him to the ground and raking his claws along his cheek. “You’re not as strong as I expected,” Breezepelt gloated.

Crowfeather charged forward, hearing Ivypool pleading with Breezepelt not to destroy the Clans.

“Lionblaze should never have been born,” Breezepelt told her. “None of them should…”

Then his tail flicked triumphantly, spitefully, toward Hollyleaf’s body. “She’s dead; now it’s your turn, Lionblaze.” And then he bit into Lionblaze’s neck.

Finally reaching his sons, Crowfeather gripped Breezepelt’s shoulders with his claws. “This has to stop!” he yowled as he dragged him off his other son.

But then the dream changed. As Crowfeather released Breezepelt, and Lionblaze dived back into the battle, Breezepelt took a step forward, then turned to face Crowfeather, whose neck fur rose at the look in his son’s eyes. Before he could react, Breezepelt raised a paw and slashed his claws down Crowfeather’s face.

Dazzling light, unimaginable pain, exploded inside Crowfeather’s head and faded, leaving him in darkness. I’m blind! Breezepelt blinded me… Does he hate me that much?

For a moment Crowfeather was too stunned to do more than crouch close to the ground, feeling a pelt sticky with blood pressing against his side. That must be Hollyleaf’s body, he thought. He knew this wasn’t what had happened in the waking world.

“Now you’ve got what you deserve!” Breezepelt taunted him. His voice sounded unnaturally loud, as if it was echoing inside Crowfeather’s mind. “For never loving your WindClan mate, and for choosing your ThunderClan kits over me. Why did you do that, Crowfeather?”

Feeling blood trickle from his ruined eyes, Crowfeather couldn’t answer his son’s challenge. I hardly know Lionblaze and Jayfeather… but I couldn’t let Breezepelt kill my other son. Could I? There would have been no way back for Breezepelt if he had killed Lionblaze. But if Breezepelt can’t see that, can there ever be any help for him?

Dizziness swept over Crowfeather, and he felt the scene shift around him. The shrieks of battle faded, though he could sense that some cat was still close by. Maybe more than one, he thought, peering around uselessly through the black fog of his blindness.

Then, gradually, the darkness Breezepelt’s claws had created began to lift. The forest swam into Crowfeather’s vision, lit by a gray, weak dawn. Standing in front of him was a muscular dark tabby tom. Even before his sight had cleared completely, Crowfeather recognized him by his powerful shape and brown tabby pelt, and at last by his piercing ice-blue eyes.

Hawkfrost!

This was the treacherous cat from RiverClan, the cat who had supported Mudclaw when the former WindClan deputy had tried to oust Onestar from the leadership of his Clan. The cat who had given Hollyleaf her fatal wounds.

Rage surged through Crowfeather, driving out the pain in his eyes. It’s because of you, you piece of fox dung, that I’ll never know my daughter!

Summoning every scrap of his strength, Crowfeather launched himself at Hawkfrost, but the sleek tabby tom simply darted aside, his scarred muzzle curling in contempt.

Crowfeather charged again, and again Hawkfrost nimbly stepped aside. “I’m too quick for you, rabbit-chaser,” he sneered. “Give it up, before you make me angry.”

Crowfeather knew his vision was still too blurred for him to fight effectively. It’s a dream, he told himself. I can’t really take vengeance for Hollyleaf’s death. But his grief and fury propelled him forward to attack Hawkfrost one more time.

Hawkfrost slipped aside with a disdainful twitch of his tail-tip. As Crowfeather landed from his leap, he felt his body slam into another cat. He lost his balance and fell, paws flailing, and looked up into the face of his son Breezepelt.

Breezepelt stood over him, fixing him with an amber glare, pinning him down with his forepaws. “Why are you fighting for your ThunderClan kin?” he hissed. “What about your WindClan son?”

Crowfeather tried to reply, but no sound came out of his mouth. Breezepelt drew back, raising one paw as if he was about to strike again.

Crowfeather jerked awake. Darkness surrounded him; the moon had set, though he could see the top of the moor and the pile of memorial stones outlined against a sky that showed the first pale traces of dawn. Around him he could make out the curled-up bodies of his sleeping Clanmates and hear their faint snores and snuffles.

After his terrible dream, Crowfeather’s mind felt heavy and yet restless. He was sure that he wouldn’t sleep again, and he couldn’t bear to go on lying still in his nest. His whole body demanded movement, but if he paced up and down in camp he would just wake his Clanmates. Instead he crept out of the warriors’ den and up the slope to the edge of the camp, with a nod to Larkwing, who was on watch.

Outside the camp, padding to and fro on the frosty grass, Crowfeather could at last be alone with his troubling thoughts.

He was missing Nightcloud more than he’d ever thought he could. And he couldn’t work out what he felt about Breezepelt. Sometimes he annoys me out of my fur, but at other times it’s as if — almost as if — I’m starting to love him.

Crowfeather remembered too the curious sadness he had felt at the Gathering when he’d seen the animosity between Lionblaze and Breezepelt. They’re both my sons, even though neither of them probably wants me for a father. And I don’t even know what’s going on with Jayfeather.

He sent his thoughts out across the moor to the tunnels, where Breezepelt, Heathertail, and Weaselfur would be still investigating the stoats. I hope they’re all okay — even Weaselfur. Crowfeather wanted to believe that Breezepelt genuinely meant to prove himself, though he couldn’t entirely banish the nagging fear that his son wasn’t the loyal WindClan cat he pretended to be. That one day his emotions would get the better of him and lead him into reckless behavior — or worse, down a dark path from which there would be no return.

And that’s what my dream was about, Crowfeather realized. Deep down, I still don’t trust my own son. I don’t trust that he won’t fall prey to some snake-tongued cat who can encourage him to give way to his bad instincts. If that happens, what difficulties could it cause for WindClan — or even for all the Clans?

The thought knotted Crowfeather’s muscles and made him dig his claws deep into the earth. Why does everything have to be so difficult? For StarClan’s sake, we fought off the Dark Forest cats. So why do disagreements within the Clan seem to matter so much?

Crowfeather was beginning to realize that outside threats like the Dark Forest could destroy a Clan, but it was emotion that would destroy a single warrior from within. I want things to be simpler, he thought. All this messy emotion only weakens a cat. I’d rather live my life without it.

A paw step behind him distracted Crowfeather from his musing. He whirled, his claws at the ready, then relaxed as he saw that the newcomer was Kestrelflight.

“Are you okay?” the medicine cat asked.

“Fine,” Crowfeather responded, retracting his claws. “You startled me, that’s all. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“No, it wasn’t your fault,” Kestrelflight told him. “I’ve been awake for a while — and it looks like you have, too.”

Crowfeather nodded. “I had a dream…,” he began. He was reluctant to reveal the details, but a heartbeat later he found himself pouring out the story of how he had found himself back in the Great Battle, how Breezepelt had blinded him, and how he had tried in vain to fight with Hawkfrost.

“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an actual prophecy,” he finished. “But I can’t help feeling it means something. Maybe my mind is dwelling on cats like Hawkfrost, and that horror Mapleshade, because it’s… warning me?”

“Warning you about what?” Kestrelflight asked.

Crowfeather was reluctant to answer. He knew that many of his Clanmates didn’t trust Breezepelt, and if he — Breezepelt’s own father — expressed his doubts, he might make everything worse.

But if I can’t trust our own medicine cat, who can I trust?

“About Breezepelt,” Crowfeather confessed at last. “I’ve been feeling better about him lately, and at the Gathering he vowed to get rid of the stoats, but I still can’t shake off the worry that he can’t be trusted.”

Kestrelflight let out an amused purr. “I’m the medicine cat,” he pointed out. “It’s usually me who gets the visions.”

His words reminded Crowfeather of Kestrelflight’s latest vision: water pouring out of the tunnels, the wind driving it back, then fading away, allowing the surge of water to engulf everything.

“When you had your vision at the medicine cats’ meeting,” he meowed thoughtfully, “StarClan must have been warning us about the stoats in the tunnels, but… surely the vision seems more complicated than that? Do you think there could be more to it? That the stoats are just the first problem we’ll face?”

Kestrelflight let out a weary sigh. “I’ve been wondering the same thing, ever since it happened,” he replied. “The stoats could have crept onto our territory at any time while we were recovering after the Great Battle, but even so, they’re the sort of enemy that the Clan should have been able to deal with easily.”

Crowfeather nodded. “That’s true. That skirmish shouldn’t have gone so badly. We should never have lost Nightcloud.”

“That’s what makes me wonder what the vision of water means,” Kestrelflight continued. “At first I thought that the way the wind drove back the water meant that WindClan would win a victory, but there was a second surge, and no wind to defeat that. Does that mean WindClan will be defeated? And what will that mean for the other Clans? Will we have to face the teeth and claws of another enemy, whether that’s the stoats or some other hostile force lurking in the darkness?”

“I’ve wondered the same,” Crowfeather admitted. “Well, what the second surge means — and if it implies we should be working with the other Clans.” A chill ran through Crowfeather from ears to tail-tip as he considered the medicine cat’s words. He asked himself whether this hostile force in the darkness could be Breezepelt’s rage and bitterness, lurking within him.

But the wind in Kestrelflight’s dream did have an effect on the first flood that threatened to drown their camp. Maybe that meant there was a chance of victory.

And a breeze is a type of wind… Hope and excitement warred with disbelief inside Crowfeather, swelling just as the dawn light grew in the sky above the moor. What if the wind in Kestrelflight’s vision didn’t mean the whole of WindClan, but just referred to Breezepelt? A breeze is a soft, weak wind, for sure, but… what if Breezepelt is to play a role in saving us?

Could there be a better redemption?