One by one, the cats crept into the cave. Their fur was streaked with mud and their eyes stretched wide with fear, reflecting the cold moonlight that filtered through a crack in the roof. They crouched low with their bellies close to the ground, their gazes flickering from side to side as if they expected to see danger lurking in the shadows.
The glimmer of moonlight was caught in pools of water on the cave floor. It lit up a forest of pointed stones, some rising from the ground and others hanging from the cave roof. Some of the stones joined in the middle to form slender trees of gleaming white rock. Wind gusted through them, ruffling the cats’ fur. The air smelled damp and clean, and was filled with the distant roar of falling water.
A cat stepped out from behind one of the pointed stones. He was long-bodied, with lean, muscular limbs, and his pelt was completely covered in mud that had dried into spikes, so that he looked like a cat carved in stone.
“Welcome,” he meowed in a rasping voice. “Moonlight lies on the water. It is time for a Telling, according to the laws of the Tribe of Endless Hunting.”
One of the cats crept forward, dipping his head to the mud-covered cat. “Stoneteller, have you had a sign? Has the Tribe of Endless Hunting spoken to you?”
Another cat spoke from behind him. “Is there hope at last?”
Stoneteller bowed his head. “I have seen the words of the Tribe of Endless Hunting in the pattern of moonlight on rock, in the shadows cast by the stones, in the sound of raindrops as they fall from the roof.” He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the cats around him. “Yes,” he went on. “They have told me there is hope.”
A faint murmur, like the rustle of leaves in the wind, passed through the group of cats. Their eyes seemed to grow brighter, and their ears pricked. The one who had come forwards first mewed hesitantly, “Then you know what will rid us of this dreadful danger?”
“Yes, Crag,” Stoneteller replied. “The Tribe of Endless Hunting has promised me that a cat will come, a silver cat not from this Tribe, who will rid us of Sharptooth once and for all.”
There was a pause, then: “Are there other cats, not in the Tribe of Rushing Water?” a voice asked from the back of the group.
“There must be,” another cat replied.
“I have heard tell of strangers,” meowed Crag, “though we’ve seen none here in our lifetimes. But when will the silver cat come?” he added desperately, and other mews rose from all around him.
“Yes, when?”
“Is it really true?”
Stoneteller signalled for silence with a twitch of his tail. “Yes, it is true,” he meowed. “The Tribe of Endless Hunting has never lied to us. I have seen the sheen of his silver fur myself, in a moonlit pool.”
“But when?” Crag persisted.
“The Tribe of Endless Hunting has not shown that to me,” Stoneteller replied. “I do not know when the silver cat will come, or from where, but we will know it when he arrives.”
He raised his head towards the cave roof, and his eyes shone like two tiny moons. “Until then, cats of my Tribe, we can only wait.”
Stormfur opened his eyes, blinking away sleep, and struggled to remember where he was. Instead of his nest of reeds in the RiverClan camp, he was lying curled in dry, crunchy bracken. Above his head was the earth roof of a cave, crisscrossed with tangled roots. He could hear a rhythmic roaring sound faintly in the distance. At first it puzzled him; then he remembered how close they were to the sun-drown water, washing endlessly onto the edge of the land. He flinched as a vision burst into his mind, of how he and Brambleclaw had struggled in the water for their lives; he spat, still tasting the salty tang at the back of his throat. At home in RiverClan he was used to water—his was the only Clan that could swim comfortably in the river that ran through the forest—but not this surging, salty, pushing-and-pulling water, too strong even for a RiverClan cat to swim in safely.
Other memories came rushing back. StarClan had sent cats from each of the four Clans on a long, dangerous journey, to hear what Midnight had to tell them. They had fought their way across unknown country, through Twoleg nests, facing attacks from dogs and rats, to make the last incredible discovery: that Midnight was a badger.
Stormfur felt ice creeping along his limbs as he recalled Midnight’s dreadful message. Twolegs were destroying the forest to make a new Thunderpath. All the Clans would have to leave, and it was the task of StarClan’s chosen cats to warn them and lead them to a new home.
Stormfur sat up and looked around the cave. Faint light filtered down the tunnel that led out onto the clifftop, along with a gentle current of fresh air that carried the scent of salt water. Midnight the badger was nowhere to be seen. Close beside Stormfur, his sister, Feathertail, was sleeping, her tail curled over her nose. Just beyond her was Tawnypelt, the fierce ShadowClan warrior; Stormfur was relieved to see that she was resting quietly, as if the rat bite she had suffered in the Twolegplace was troubling her less. Midnight’s store of herbs had yielded something to soothe the infection and help her sleep. On the opposite side of the cave, a little way apart, was the WindClan apprentice Crowpaw, his dark grey pelt barely visible among the fronds of bracken. Nearest the cave entrance, Tawnypelt’s brother, Brambleclaw, was stretched out beside Squirrelpaw, who slept in a tight ball. Stormfur felt a stab of jealousy at the sight of the two ThunderClan cats close together, and tried to push it away. He had no right to admire Squirrelpaw, and her courage and bright optimism, as much as he did, when they came from different Clans. Brambleclaw would make her a much better mate.
Stormfur knew that he ought to rouse his companions so that they could begin their long journey back to the forest. Yet he was strangely reluctant. Let them sleep a little longer, he thought. We’ll need all our strength for what lies ahead.
Shaking scraps of bracken from his pelt, he picked his way across the sandy floor of the cave and out through the tunnel. A stiff breeze ruffled his fur as he emerged onto the springy grass. He was dry at last, after his near-drowning the night before, and sleep had refreshed him. He stood gazing around him; just ahead was the edge of the cliff and beyond it lay an endless stretch of shimmering water, reflecting the pale light of dawn.
Stormfur opened his jaws to drink in the air and catch the scent of prey. Instead his senses were flooded by a strong reek of badger. He caught sight of Midnight sitting on the highest point of the cliff, her small, bright eyes fixed on the fading stars. In the sky behind her, on the far side of the moorland, a strip of creamy light showed where the sun would rise. Stormfur padded over, dipping his head respectfully before sitting beside her.
“Good morning, grey warrior,” Midnight’s voice rumbled in welcome. “Sleep you have enough?”
“Yes. Thanks, Midnight.” Stormfur still found it strange to be exchanging friendly greetings with her, when badgers had always been deadly enemies of the warrior Clans.
Yet Midnight was no ordinary badger. She seemed closer to StarClan than any warrior, except perhaps the medicine cats; she had travelled far and somehow had found the wisdom to foretell the future.
Stormfur gave her a sidelong glance, to see her eyes still fixed on the remaining stars in the dawn sky. “Can you really read signs there from StarClan?” he asked curiously, half hoping that her terrible predictions from the night before would vanish in the light of morning.
“Much