Crookedstar’s Promise

“What?” Crookedkit cocked his head. “I can wait.”

Fleck shook his head. “You may have grown this past moon, but you’re still as impatient as a kit.”

Crookedkit sniffed. “I’ll show you!” He crouched beside the nettles and curled his tail beside him.

Fleck’s eyes glowed. “While you’re busy waiting,” he meowed, “I’ll go and see what I can catch behind the wood store.”

Crookedkit shifted his paws as Fleck padded away and disappeared around the corner. I can wait! Crookedkit flicked his tail. He stared at the nettles, ears pricked, whiskers stiff, ready to detect any movement. Nothing stirred.

I can wait a moon if I have to.

He curled and uncurled his claws. Then he opened his mouth and tasted for mouse scent. Nothing.

They’ll be out before long.

An itch made his tail quiver. Crookedkit stared at the nettles. The itch grew stronger till it was unbearable. He twisted and nibbled at it, relived when it stopped.

Perhaps the hole’s empty, he thought. It’s dumb to waste my time waiting for nothing when I could be doing some proper hunting. He stared at the corner where Fleck had disappeared. The wood store was probably alive with mice. Fleck would need help. Crookedkit glanced at the nettles. I’ll come back later, he told himself, when the mice are awake. Chin high, he trotted back along the wall, around the corner, and across the open space.

“That didn’t take you long,” Fleck commented as Crookedkit reached the wood store. “Did you catch many?” The ginger tom was crouching at the bottom of a stack of chopped wood, staring at a gap between logs.

“They’d all gone,” Crookedkit told him.

Fleck didn’t move his gaze. “You can help me then.” He shuffled closer to the gap. “I can hear them, I just can’t see them.”

Crookedkit peered into the darkness, then glanced up at the top of the woodpile. “I’ve got an idea.” He leaped up, clearing two tail-lengths in one bound, and clung on to the logs. They shifted beneath his weight and he heard a squeak below. Scrabbling higher, he clawed his way to the top, then looked down.

Fleck had caught a mouse and laid it behind him. “Can you shift them again?” he called. “It looks like you’re scaring them out.”

Crookedkit jumped across the long stretch of logs. He landed as heavily as he could and heard the wood creak beneath him. Another mouse shot out from the bottom and Fleck caught it with a swift paw. Crookedkit pricked his ears. Tiny paws scrabbled behind the logs. He focused on the sound. Then, in one swift movement, he pressed his belly to the wood and reached down behind the pile. His outstretched claws felt warm as he hooked a mouse from the shadows and killed it expertly with a quick nip from his back teeth.

“Got one!” he called down to Fleck. “Should we take it to Mitzi? I bet she’s hungry.”

“She will be.” Fleck lined up his catch. “And the kits’ll be restless.” They were growing fast and exploring farther from the nest every day.

“I’ll take them on an expedition to the ditch if Mitzi says it’s okay.” Crookedkit picked up his catch and jumped down from the woodpile.

Fleck was watching him. “Don’t you miss your own kin?” he asked softly.

“Of course.” Crookedkit dropped his mouse and met Fleck’s gaze. “But they don’t need me like Mitzi and the kits do.”

“I can take care of—”

Crookedkit grabbed his mouse and ran out of the wood store before Fleck had finished. Fleck caught up as Crookedkit was squeezing through the gap in the wall. Crookedkit glanced at him anxiously. Was the farm cat going to tell him he wasn’t needed here anymore?

Fleck’s catch swung by their tails from his mouth. He gazed at the distant meadows. “Fine day,” was all he said. The tails muffled his mew.

Crookedkit felt weak with relief. I am needed.

Sunshine glared on the farm track as they headed toward the cornfield. The crest of the hill cut into blue, cloudless sky. The hedgerows spilled over the verges, blousy with fading lushness, while the corn looked dull, its golden sheen dusty. Crookedkit’s ears twitched. A strange noise stirred the hot air. He dropped his mouse and stared down the track. “What’s that noise?”

Rumbling sounded in the distance.

Fleck halted, nose twitching. “Smells like a farm monster is working already.”

“But all the monsters are in their dens.”

Fleck dropped his mice. “Harvest!” Panic edged his mew. Pelt spiking, he raced away.

Crookedkit stared in surprise at Fleck’s abandoned fresh-kill. “What’s harvest?” he called. His pads pricked nervously as he smelled fear-scent in Fleck’s wake.

“They’re cutting the corn!” Fleck yowled back.

Horror gripped Crookedkit. He shot after his friend, grit cracking beneath his paws.