Crowfeather's Son Part 8

Crowfeather padded up to Heatherpaw, twitching his whiskers in amusement at the excitement in her eyes.

“Today is your first solo hunt,” he told her. “I want you to bring everything back to camp by sunset, and show it to me or Owlwhisker.”

She nodded, trying to keep from bouncing in pleasure. “Prey by sunset,” she repeated. “Got it!” Then she turned tail and ran out of the camp, batting at a moth as it fluttered by.

Crowfeather watched her, his tail twitching in amusement. Was this what his kits would become when they got older? Bouncy apprentices with endless energy flowing through their paws? If so, he could hardly wait!

uddenly, he sensed something wrong in the camp. Turning around, he saw Rushtail collapsed on the ground, his flank heaving.

“Rushtail!” he cried, racing over to him. “What’s happened?”

The elder couldn’t reply; his mouth was wide with fear, and his breathing was labored. He coughed feebly.

“Barkface!” called Crowfeather, and for a heartbeat, he thought he was reliving Shadekit’s death. “She can’t die,” he murmured. “Shadekit mustn’t die!”

Then Barkface came scurrying toward them, and the warrior remembered where he was. “Barkface!” he cried in relief. “What’s wrong? Can you save him?”

“Hush!” the medicine cat snapped. “Help me carry him to my den.”

Crowfeather did as he was asked, and he hovered around the den as Barkface examined his patient.

“Greencough,” he said at last. “But I haven’t the faintest idea how. It’s not greencough season…” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I didn’t spot it earlier. He must have had the fever for weeks!”

He shot a sharp glance at Crowfeather. “Warn your mate,” he advised. “Kits are more susceptible to illness than other cats.”

Crowfeather nodded and watched as he bustled about, treating Rushtail with tansy, catnip, and chickweed, muttering to himself all the while.

Finally, Crowfeather backed out of the den and headed for the nursery. He shouldered his way inside and waited as his eyes adjusted to the light. He saw Nightcloud in one corner, and he padded over to her.

“Crowfeather?” she muttered sleepily. “What is it?”

“Nightcloud,” he said urgently, “You must let Barkface or I know if you see anything unusual about the kits. Promise me you will.”

“Why?” she asked, puzzled. “Are they in danger?” She curled the kits’ sleeping forms closer to her with her tail.

Crowfeather hesitated. “Greencough has invaded the camp,” he admitted. “Promise me you’ll tell Barkface if you notice anything unusual!”

Nightcloud nodded soberly. “I promise.”

As Crowfeather left the nursery to check on Heatherpaw, he felt the fear welling up inside his heart.

What if he lost his remaining two kits as well?

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