Into the Wild (3 page)

Rusty narrowed his eyes. This must be one of the wildcats Smudge had warned him about! Living rough in the woods, hunting and fighting each other for every last scrap of food. Yet Rusty didn't feel scared. In fact, it was hard not to admire this confident kitten. “So you're not a warrior yet?” he asked.

“Why? Did you think I was?” Graypaw purred proudly; then he shook his wide, furry head. “I won't be a real warrior for ages. I have to go through the training first. Kits have to be six moons old before they even
begin
training. Tonight is my first night out as an apprentice.”

“Why don't you find yourself an owner with a nice cozy house instead? Your life would be much easier,” Rusty meowed. “There are plenty of housefolk who'd take in a kitten like you. All you have to do is sit where they can see you and look hungry for a couple of days—”

“And they'd feed me pellets that look like rabbit droppings and soft slop!” Graypaw interrupted. “No way! I can't think of anything worse than being a
kittypet
! They're nothing but
Twoleg toys! Eating stuff that doesn't look like food, making dirt in a box of gravel, sticking their noses outside only when the Twolegs allow them? That's no life! Out here it's wild, and it's free. We come and go as we please.” He finished his speech with a proud spit, then meowed mischievously, “Until you've tasted a fresh-killed mouse, you haven't lived. Have you ever tasted mouse?”

“No,” Rusty admitted, a little defensively. “Not yet.”

“I guess you'll never understand.” Graypaw sighed. “You weren't born wild. It makes a big difference. You need to be born with warrior blood in your veins, or the feel of the wind in your whiskers. Kitties born into Twoleg nests could never feel the same way.”

Rusty remembered the way he had felt in his dream. “That's not true!” he mewed indignantly.

Graypaw did not reply. He suddenly stiffened midlick, one paw still raised, and sniffed the air. “I smell cats from my Clan,” he hissed. “You should go. They won't be pleased to find you hunting in our territory!”

Rusty looked around, wondering how Graypaw knew any cat was approaching. He couldn't smell anything different on the leaf-scented breeze. But his fur stood on end at the note of urgency in Graypaw's voice.

“Quick!” hissed Graypaw again. “Run!”

Rusty prepared to spring into the bushes, not knowing which way was safe to jump.

He was too late. A voice meowed behind him, firm and menacing. “What's going on here?”

Rusty turned to see a large gray she-cat strolling majestically out from the undergrowth. She was magnificent. White hairs streaked her muzzle, and an ugly scar parted the fur across her shoulders, but her smooth gray coat shone like silver in the moonlight.

“Bluestar!” Beside Rusty, Graypaw crouched down and narrowed his eyes. He crouched even lower when a second cat—a handsome, golden tabby—followed the gray cat into the clearing.

“You shouldn't be so near Twolegplace, Graypaw!” growled the golden tabby angrily, narrowing his green eyes.

“I know, Lionheart, I'm sorry.” Graypaw looked down at his paws.

Rusty copied Graypaw and crouched low to the forest floor, his ears twitching nervously. These cats had an air of strength he had never seen in any of his garden friends. Maybe what Smudge had warned him about was true.

“Who is this?” asked the she-cat.

Rusty flinched as she turned her gaze on him. Her piercing blue eyes made him feel even more vulnerable.

“He's no threat,” mewed Graypaw quickly. “He's not another Clan warrior, just a Twoleg pet from beyond our territories.”

Just a Twoleg pet!
The words inflamed Rusty, but he held his tongue. The warning look in Bluestar's stare told him that she had observed the anger in his eyes, and he looked away.

“This is Bluestar; she's
leader
of my Clan!” Graypaw hissed to Rusty under his breath. “And Lionheart. He's my mentor,
which means he's training me to be a warrior.”

“Thank you for the introduction, Graypaw,” meowed Lionheart coolly.

Bluestar was still staring at Rusty. “You fight well for a Twoleg pet,” she meowed.

Rusty and Graypaw exchanged confused glances. How could she know?

“We have been watching you both,” Bluestar went on, as if she had read their thoughts. “We wondered how you would deal with an intruder, Graypaw. You attacked him bravely.”

Graypaw looked pleased at Bluestar's praise.

“Sit up now, both of you!” Bluestar looked at Rusty. “You too, kittypet.” He sat up immediately and held Bluestar's gaze evenly as she addressed him.

“You reacted well to the attack, kittypet. Graypaw is stronger than you, but you used your wits to defend yourself. And you turned to face him when he chased you. I've not seen a kittypet do that before.”

Rusty managed to nod his thanks, taken aback by such unexpected praise. Her next words surprised him even more.

“I have been wondering how you would perform out here, beyond the Twolegplace. We patrol this border frequently, so I have often seen you sitting on your boundary, staring out into the forest. And now, at last, you have dared to place your paws here.” Bluestar stared at Rusty thoughtfully. “You do seem to have a natural hunting ability. Sharp eyes. You would have caught that mouse if you had not hesitated so long.”

“R-really?” Rusty stammered.

Lionheart spoke now. His deep meow was respectful but insistent. “Bluestar, this is a
kittypet
. He should not be hunting in ThunderClan territory. Send him home to his Twolegs!”

Rusty prickled at Lionheart's dismissive words. “Send me home?” he mewed impatiently. Bluestar's words had made him glow with pride. She had noticed him; she had been impressed by him. “But I've only come here to hunt for a mouse or two. I'm sure there's enough to go around.”

Bluestar had turned her head to acknowledge Lionheart's words. Now her gaze snapped back to Rusty. Her blue eyes were blazing with anger. “There's never enough to go around,” she spat. “If you didn't live such a soft, overfed life, you would know that!”

Rusty was confused by Bluestar's sudden rage, but one glance at the horrified look on Graypaw's face was enough to tell him he had spoken too freely. Lionheart stepped to his leader's side. Both warriors loomed over him now. Rusty looked into Bluestar's threatening stare and his pride dissolved. These were not cozy fireside cats he was dealing with—they were mean, hungry cats who were probably going to finish what Graypaw had started.

“Well?” hissed Bluestar, her face only
a mouse-length from his now. Lionheart remained silent as he towered over Rusty.

He flattened his ears and crouched under the golden warrior's cold stare. His fur prickled uncomfortably. “I am no threat to your Clan,” he mewed, looking down at his trembling paws.

“You threaten our Clan when you take our food,” yowled Bluestar. “You have plenty of food in your Twoleg nest already. You come here only to hunt for sport. But we hunt to survive.”

The truth of the warrior queen's words pierced Rusty like a blackthorn, and suddenly he understood her anger. He stopped trembling, sat up, and straightened his ears. He raised his eyes to meet hers. “I had not thought of it that way before. I am sorry,” he meowed solemnly. “I will not hunt here again.”

Bluestar let her hackles fall and signaled to Lionheart to step back. “You are an unusual kittypet, Rusty,” she meowed.

Graypaw's sigh of relief made Rusty's ears twitch. He heard the approval in Bluestar's voice and noticed as she swapped a meaningful glance with Lionheart. The look made him curious. What flashed between the two warriors? Quietly he
asked, “Is survival here really so hard?”

“Our territory covers only part of the forest,” answered Bluestar. “We compete with other Clans for what we have. And this year, late newleaf means prey is scarce.”

“Is your Clan very big?” Rusty meowed, his eyes wide.

“Big enough,” replied Bluestar. “Our territory can support us, but there is no prey left over.”

“Are you all warriors, then?” Rusty mewed. Bluestar's guarded answers were just making him more and more curious.

Lionheart answered him. “Some are warriors. Some are too young or too old or too busy caring for kits to hunt.”

“And you all live and share prey together?” Rusty murmured in awe, thinking a little guiltily of his own easy, selfish life.

Bluestar looked again at Lionheart. The golden tabby stared back at her steadily. At last she returned her gaze to Rusty and meowed, “Perhaps you should find out these things for yourself. Would you like to join ThunderClan?”

Rusty was so surprised, he couldn't speak.

Bluestar went on: “If you did, you would train with Graypaw to become a Clan warrior.”

“But kittypets can't be warriors!” Graypaw blurted out. “They don't have warrior blood!”

A sad look clouded Bluestar's eyes. “Warrior blood,” she echoed with a sigh. “Too much of that has been spilled lately.”

Bluestar fell silent and Lionheart meowed, “Bluestar is only offering you training, young kit. There is no guarantee
you would become a full warrior. It might prove too difficult for you. After all, you are used to a comfortable life.”

Rusty was stung by Lionheart's words. He swung his head around to face the golden tabby. “Why offer me the chance, then?”

But it was Bluestar who answered. “You are right to question our motives, young one. The fact is, ThunderClan needs more warriors.”

“Understand that Bluestar does not make this offer lightly,” warned Lionheart. “If you wish to train with us, we will have to take you into our Clan. You must either live with us and respect our ways, or return to your Twolegplace and never come back. You cannot live with a paw in each world.”

A cool breeze stirred the undergrowth, ruffling Rusty's fur. He shivered, not with the cold, but with excitement at the incredible possibilities opening up in front of him.

“Are you wondering if it's worth giving up your comfortable kittypet life?” asked Bluestar gently. “But do you realize the price you will pay for your warmth and food?”

Rusty looked at her, puzzled. Surely his encounter with these cats had proved to him just how easy and luxurious his life was.

“I can tell that you are still a tom,” Bluestar added, “despite the Twoleg stench that clings to your fur.”

“What do you mean—
still
a tom?”

“You haven't yet been taken by the Twolegs to see the Cutter,” meowed Bluestar gravely. “You would be very different then. Not quite so keen to fight a Clan cat, I suspect!”

Rusty was confused. He suddenly thought of Henry, who had become fat and lazy since his visit to the vet. Was that what Bluestar meant by the Cutter?

“The Clan may not be able to offer you such easy food or warmth,” continued Bluestar. “In the season of leaf-bare, nights in the forest can be cruel. The Clan will demand great loyalty and hard work. You will be expected to protect the Clan with your life if necessary. And there are many mouths to feed. But the rewards are great. You will remain a tom. You will be trained in the ways of the wild. You will learn what it is to be a real cat. The strength and the fellowship of the Clan will always be with you, even when you hunt alone.”

Rusty's head reeled. Bluestar seemed to be offering him the life he had lived so many times, and so tantalizingly, in his dreams, but could he live like that for real?

Lionheart interrupted his thoughts. “Come, Bluestar, let's not waste any more time here. We must be ready to join the other patrol at moonhigh. Tigerclaw will wonder what has become of us.” He stood up and flicked his tail expectantly.

“Wait,” Rusty meowed. “Can I think about your offer?”

Bluestar looked at him for a long moment and nodded. “Lionheart will be here tomorrow at sunhigh,” she told him. “Give him your answer then.”

Bluestar murmured a low signal, and in a single movement the three cats turned and disappeared into the undergrowth.

Rusty blinked. He stared—excited, uncertain—up past the ferns that encircled him, through the canopy of leaves, to the stars that glittered in the clear sky. The scent of the Clan cats
still hung heavy in the evening air. And as Rusty turned and headed for home, he felt a strange sensation inside him, tugging him back into the depths of the forest. His fur prickled deliciously in the light wind, and the rustling leaves seemed to whisper his name into the shadows.