“My stock of chamomile is low, too,” Mudfur was saying. “I can’t spare any. But have you tried burnet?”
Cinderpelt blinked thoughtfully. “You know, there should be some growing near the Twolegplace now. Maybe all the medicine cats could …”
Mothwing crept closer, intrigued. Medicine cats worked together sometimes, no matter what Clan they were from. No other warriors did that. Cinderpelt looked up as Mothwing moved closer, and Mothwing froze. Would the medicine cats be angry that she was eavesdropping?
But Cinderpelt only gave a small nod of greeting. Relaxing, Mothwing nodded back.
And then something slammed into her side, knocking her across the clearing.
“I’m a ShadowClan warrior,” Hawkfrost snarled playfully. “Sneak attack!”
Mothwing struggled beneath her brother’s paws, trying to throw him off. “Stop it!” What will Cinderpelt think of us? Behaving like kits! She couldn’t get away. Purring with laughter, Hawkfrost pushed down harder, pinning her beneath him.
“Surrender!” he yowled. “Or I’ll drag you off to my boggy forest!”
“I don’t want to play,” Mothwing told him flatly. She stopped struggling and lay still, glaring up at her brother.
“Come on,” Hawkfrost pleaded. He let his claws slip out and pricked her lightly on the shoulder. “What kind of RiverClan warrior doesn’t fight back?”
“A tired one,” Mothwing retorted, not moving a muscle.
“You’re no fun,” Hawkfrost told her. Letting her go, he strolled off toward the warriors’ den. Mothwing got to her feet and shook out her pelt, her shoulder aching. Why can’t I fight as well as he does? Hawkfrost was bigger than her, but he was faster, too, and he seemed to learn fighting moves the moment they were shown to him. Maybe he inherited that from Tigerstar.
Mothwing shook her pelt again, shaking off the thought. They needed to forget that Tigerstar was their father: Sasha had made it clear that if the Clan cats found out, they would never trust them, never let them stay.
The medicine cats were still discussing herbs. Mothwing glanced tentatively at them, but Cinderpelt wasn’t looking at her now.
“Are you all right? Skyheart came over from where she had been watching her kits play at the edge of camp, her green eyes wide. “Hawkfrost was pretty rough.”
“I’m fine,” Mothwing mewed, standing straighter. “I’m used to my brother’s games.”
“Hmm.” Skyheart eyed her skeptically. “You were moving kind of slowly.”
Mothwing stiffened. Is she worried about me, or is she wondering whether I’m good enough to be in RiverClan? Maybe Hawkfrost was right that they needed to prove themselves. “I’m fine,” she repeated. “A little tired from patrolling with Mistyfoot, I guess.”
Before Skyheart could respond, there was a commotion at the entrance to camp. All the cats looked up as Heavystep burst through the reeds. “Blackclaw’s stuck in the mud,” he panted. “We can’t pull him out.”
Horror shot through Mothwing. The mud at the edge of the river was a worse threat than the water itself. Every RiverClan cat could swim. But the lack of rain the past moon had made the river run low. The thick, sucking black mud at the water’s edge could trap a cat and drag them down.
She raced toward the entrance, other cats on her heels. Heavystep led them to a steep part of the river bank. “We were coming back from hunting,” he explained, “and he slipped off a stone.”
Below, two voles lay abandoned, half sunk into the mud, while Blackclaw strained toward the shore, already up to his knees in muck.
“The bank’s too steep here for me to reach him alone,” Heavystep added, obviously distressed.
Mothwing stepped forward to the edge of the bank. Maybe I’m light enough to get across the mud to him. Blackclaw looked up at her and struggled forward a few steps, but he only sank deeper. Mud splattered his chest, and he slipped face-first into it, floundering for several heartbeats before he pulled himself back up to his paws. The crowd of cats on the bank gasped.
No! Mothwing recoiled. She remembered another black tom’s face, staring up at her with the same desperation. He’s going to sink like Tadpole, she thought, dizzy with fear. He’s going to drown. I can’t save him.
“Hold my legs,” Leopardstar told Heavystep. The broad-shouldered tom lay across her hind legs, holding their golden-furred leader as she wriggled forward on her belly, her front paws reaching for Blackclaw. The black tom struggled forward a few more paces, sinking deeper into the mud with every step, until Leopardstar’s claws caught in his fur. As she dragged Blackclaw forward, other paws reached out to help, and finally, with a sucking sound, Blackclaw burst out of the mud and collapsed on the riverbank.
Mothwing let out her breath in relief. Blackclaw was covered in muck, and he looked exhausted, but he was whole and safe.
But instead of getting to his paws, Blackclaw let out a strange, strangled sound and flailed his legs, his claws scraping at the grass.
“He can’t breathe!” Leopardstar yowled, crouching to paw at Blackclaw’s face. The black tom opened his mouth, gagging, and Mothwing saw that it was full of thick mud. His eyes rolled back in his head and he made a horrible choking sound.
He’s going to die! They pulled him out of the mud, but he’s still drowning! Mothwing couldn’t move.
“Let us through!” Cinderpelt, the ThunderClan medicine cat, wormed her way between the gathered cats, Mudfur close behind her. The gray she-cat hurried to Blackclaw and, without pausing, pushed at his side, rolling him onto his back. Mudfur held Blackclaw’s jaws open and began to scoop mud from his mouth as Cinderpelt reared back on her hind paws and drove her front paws into Blackclaw’s stomach. As the RiverClan cats watched in stunned silence, she threw her weight against Blackclaw again and again.
It’s too late. They can’t help him. Mothwing remembered Tadpole’s limp body when Sasha had finally managed to get him out of the Twoleg nest, after the rain had stopped. He hadn’t been breathing, and there had been no way to bring him back. Her shoulders sank and her tail drooped as she watched Blackclaw’s limp body jerking under Cinderpelt’s repeated blows.
Then, suddenly, he coughed. Cinderpelt pulled back, and Blackclaw rolled onto his side, retching weakly, a steady stream of mud and saliva coming from his mouth.
Mothwing watched in amazement as Cinderpelt gently helped Blackclaw to his paws. Leaning on Mudfur, he began to head slowly back toward camp.
They saved him. He hadn’t sunk like Tadpole. He hadn’t died. The medicine cats had been able to save Blackclaw when no other cats could.
While the sun began its slow descent beneath the tree line, Mothwing hovered near the medicine den, peeking through the reeds that shielded its entrance. The mud had been carefully cleaned from Blackclaw’s fur, and now he was sleeping in a nest in the corner of the medicine den, his breathing hoarse but steady.
Mudfur was sorting through some dried leaves, his back to the entrance, but he cocked a brown ear back toward her. “Do you need something, Mothwing?” he asked. “Feeling sick?”
“No, I’m okay,” Mothwing told him, leaning in to look more closely at the medicine den. There were little caves dug in the earth at the sides of the den where Mudfur stored herbs, and three more nests, empty now, soft with fresh moss.
Mudfur looked over his shoulder, fixing a bright golden eye on her. “Then why are you here?”
“Oh,” Mothwing meowed, embarrassed heat spreading through her. “I just … I’m just interested. In how you’re taking care of Blackclaw.”