THE GREAT FEAR | Prologue
Clans of the Waste Masterpost is HERE! Please review applicable TWs.
MOON 79, 15TH DAY
ROCKCLAN CAMP, SUNDOWN
“We really shouldn’t all be outside like this.”
“Especially after dark.”
“What was that noise?”
“What noise?”
“Alright, everyone!” a sandy brown tabby she-cat trilled, weaving through the crowd of her assembled Clanmates. “We’re almost ready to start. Where’s Whisperfur?”
“In her den,” an elderly silver and black tom muttered, his gold eyes gleaming in the shadows. He and the other elders gathered beneath a jutting outcrop of rock. “Where we all should be.”
“Ignore Coaldapple,” one of the other elders, Chervilfeather, rumbled. He flicked his tail over his denmate’s ears, causing Coaldapple to let out a low hiss.
“Tell your daughter that none of us wish to die just to see her perform some stupid ritual,” Coaldapple growled, his hackles raising. Silence fell around the camp, some cats looked at each other with agreement, others with exasperation at the grumpy old elder.
Volereader wove her way through the throng of cats until she stood in front of Coaldapple. She seemed unoffended. “It’s not a ritual, it’s a ceremony. And you know just as well as anyone, we need something to celebrate these days.”
“Can we not celebrate from inside our dens?” Coaldapple grumbled. “Don’t blame me when the smell all of us out here attract one of those damned Creatures.”
An uneasy feeling rippled through the gathered cats. Tails fluffed up; hackles begun to raise.
“Nevermind that!” Volereader meowed, turning away from the elders and bounding over to the clearing at the center of the camp. “Will someone fetch Whisperfur? It’s time to start.”
An apprentice darted away, leaping up the muddy cliffside with the agility of youth. The RockClan camp was situated on a rock-and-clay cliffside, on a slightly-sloped plateau that had been cleaved from the greater cliff by what must’ve been unnatural forces- or Twolegs. Their dens tunneled deep into the soft earth, connected by a network of well-trodden paths. A small, central clearing had been created by packing dirt and rocks into a platform. During the mid-morning, dazzling sunlight hit the camp directly, and large, flat rocks all around the cliffside provided great sunning spots. Now, in the dusky post-sunset air, the only light was from fireflies that danced just out of reach of the Clan cats.
“Ah!” Volereader chirped, her tufted ears pricking as the sound of clattering stones foretold Whisperfur’s arrival.
The dark gray she-cat picked her way down the cliffside, burdened by her rounded belly. The long white fur of her legs and underside was stained orange with clay and clumps of dirt were caught in her claws, as if she had been digging. Her yellow eyes scanned the assortment of gathered cats, first looking at the fireflies, then at the crowd, then at Volereader, standing beside a pile of flowers, practically bouncing on her paws.
Whisperfur made as if to turn away, but behind her, an orange tabby tom bound up and nudged her on. He whispered something in her ear and she sighed before leaping down the last couple mice-lengths of cliffside to stand in the clearing.
“Excellent, let’s begin!” Volereader mewed. “Peakwind, stand over there, and… can the Council come over to this side, and stand with Logstar?”
Cats slipped past one another, trading places, until Volereader was satisfied with the order.
“Can we get started already?” a striking golden-brown tabby tom grumbled. He sat with the other two Councilmembers, beside Logstar.
“Calm down, Hollowfur,” another of the Councilmembers mewed, blinking encouragingly at Volereader. “This is an important moment for the Clan. We need something to bring us all together. Have some respect for our Lorekeeper.”
“You only say that because it is your sister’s ceremony,” Hollowfur grumbled, but tucked his paws beneath his chest, as if he intended to remain in place despite his protests.
Volereader began to look nervous, her eyes flickering doubtfully around the camp.
“Now what?” Whisperfur mewed, sitting with her back to the crowd, facing Volereader, the Council and Speaker, and her mate, Peakwind.
“Okay, yes,” Volereader mumbled, and then furrowed her brow, as if trying to remember something. “Right. Okay, we are all gathered here today to celebrate the creation of new life, the beauty of motherhood, and the gift to the Clan that is a litter of kits!”
Peakwind’s emerald eyes shone with pride as he gazed upon his mate. Whisperfur shifted uncomfortably under the attention, her dark gray ears swiveling as she tried to take in all of the sounds- murmurs of support and agreement, and a little bit of scattered laughter.
“The bearing of kits is always something to honor,” Volereader continued, unperturbed by her Clanmates’ judgement and skepticism. “By gathering here under the spirits of our Ancestors, we pray to them to ensure a healthy pregnancy, and a safe birth, for Whisperfur, and her kits.”
The Lorekeeper picked up a white blossom, and dipped it in a small nut husk that was full of sticky tree sap. She carefully placed it near the base of Whisperfur’s tail. She continued placing sap-dipped flowers all around Whisperfur’s tail until she reached the tip. Volereader stepped back to admire her work, and swished her own sandy brown tail with satisfaction.
“Um… right! Whisperfur’s tail has been adorned with flowers to signify the creation of new life! May you and your kits have long, happy lives.”
“Hah!” someone shouted from the crowd. Volereader snapped her head around, trying to pinpoint who had said it, but couldn’t. A rare moment of anger flashed across her hazel eyes.
“Thank you, Volereader. Your ceremony was beautiful.” Whisperfur mewed, in an attempt to placate the poor Lorekeeper.
Sufficiently distracted, Volereader turned to Whisperfur and purred as she touched noses with the she-cat. Rainhawk stood from his place among the council and stepped forward to rub his head against Whisperfur’s. Bashfully, Whisperfur endured the affection. She glanced over the top of Rainhawk’s head and made eye contact with her mate, Peakwind. The orange tabby Healer looked on encouragingly.
“Oh, I almost forgot! We’re all to feast now!” Volereader exclaimed. It seemed to be an idea the rest of the crowd could get behind- tails shot up in excitement, anticipatory mews broke the awkward silence that had settled over camp previously. “Hunters, if you would… as we discussed?”
Having heard their cue, the youngest Hunters picked their way over to the storage den and pulled out one dry husk each. The carrying devices were shaped like acorn shells, but larger, and made from prey pelts sewn around sticks or bones, to maintain the concave shape of the object. Handles, made from dried grasses or from the dried innards of larger prey, allowed the cats to carry the husks with ease. The Hunters gripped the twisted handles in their mouths and trotted out of camp, to the Pits, to retrieve prey for the Clan.
The crowd broke up into smaller social groups as they waited for the Hunters to return with the feast. The apprehension about being outside seemed to fade as each cat’s mouth watered with the prospect of freshly-slaughtered prey from the Pits. Whisperfur and Peakwind settled down along the outskirts of the clearing. The expectant queen curled her flower-adorned tail around her paws, seeming to admire it now that she was out mostly of sight of her Clanmates.
Stormspeckle returned first, her dry husk swinging and thumping her in the chest with each bounding stride she took. The black tabby trotted up to Whisperfur and placed the husk before her, presenting a heap of still-warm prey. Whisperfur sifted through the pile, until she found a small quail. Peakwind chose next, selecting a plump mouse.
The other Hunters that had gone to collect prey returned. The Clan had separated into their social castes: the Speaker, Council, and Healers all congregated at one end of the clearing, while the Fighters, Hunters, Makers, and then the Elders separated into their respective groups. Milkface, a cream and black tabby she-cat, trotted over to the Speaker’s group, where each cat selected their prey in order of ranking. Cragwhistle, a dark gray tabby she-cat, presented her husk full of prey to the Fighters, and then to the Hunters, and then to the Makers. Stormspeckle brought her husk to the Elders, and then set it down in the middle of the clearing so that any cat who had not been able to select their prey yet could come and do so.
A few of the younger Makers came up to pick through the last dregs of prey- the smallest, squished ones that had been at the bottom of the husk. After everyone had eaten, leftover prey would be torn apart and the meat would be laid out to dry in the sun, while the innards of the animals would be picked over by the Makers and turned into whatever useful items they could come up with.
Volereader nibbled at her shrew as she studied the cats of her Clan. All traces of their reluctance to participate in the ceremony had been washed away by the feast. A prickle of embarrassment washed over the she-cat as she thought about how many cats had been skeptical, and hostile, about the idea of her ceremony. She had just wanted to do something to bring the Clan together again! She kneaded her paws in the dirt in frustration, churning up the soft reddish-brown clay.
She looked up as the lumbering steps of her father, Chervilfeather, grew closer. The elderly tom rasped his tongue over her forehead affectionately, something he hadn’t done since she was a young apprentice, before slowly settling down beside her. He moved with great care, as if the chilly leaf-fall evening had aggravated his sore joints.
Volereader leaned into the warmth of her father’s pelt and closed her eyes for a moment. She tried to let the feelings of anxiety seep out of her and into the earth through her still-kneading paws.
“I just wanted to start a new tradition,” Volereader blurted out, opening her eyes and glancing at her father, who was watching the Clan with an unreadable emotion in his eyes. “After everything that has happened, and changed, I thought…”
“You want to prove yourself,” Chervilfeather guessed.
“I guess,” Volereader mumbled, feeling defeated. “I know that not everyone thinks I should be the Lorekeeper, since Milkweedmist died before my training was finished.”
“You’re just as good a Lorekeeper as Milkweedmist was,” Chervilfeather insisted. “The Clan is scared right now. Emotions and tensions are high, and they are projecting their insecurities onto other things. If times weren’t as they are, no one would think twice about you being fit to be Lorekeeper.”
“Ceremonies have always been so important in Clan life, to all the Clans,” Volereader explained. “Apprenticing ceremonies, Healers being accepted by StarClan, all of that. The Clans have changed so much recently, I thought new traditions would help everyone feel more secure in our ways.”
“They will, once everyone allows them to,” Chervilfeather rumbled. “I’ve been around since RockClan was formed, and every change, no matter how small, was met with skepticism like this.”
Volereader purred in acknowledgement, and gratitude. She wished she could convince herself that her father was right, but her pelt still prickled with insecurity. She looked up from her half-finished meal and observed her Clanmates again. They were all finishing their meals and depositing the remains of their prey on the flat rocks above the Warriors’ den, near the Firepit. The lowest-rank Makers, Dropletlaurel and Alpinespots, were sitting there sorting the prey and tearing off usable parts.
“Did anyone hear that?” a long-haired, white she-cat yelled. She was sitting on the rocks above the Elders’ den, her white tufted ears pricked as she gazed out into the territory below with her sightless eyes.
“Hear what?”
“Is a Creature coming?”
“If Pranceowl heard something, one must be!”
“Pranceowl has the best hearing in the Clan, you don’t have to tell me twice!”
The Cats of RockClan quickly dropped off the rest of their prey to the Makers, who shoved it into crevasses within the rocks. Then they dove into their dens, burrowing deep into the tunnels within and below the rock formations.
Chest tightening with terror, Volereader helped nose Chervilfeather to his paws and escorted him to the Elders’ den at the bottom of the camp. She followed him inside, taking one last look around camp before she did so. She still didn’t hear or smell anything, and part of her doubted that what Pranceowl had heard had been a Creature, anyway, but she didn’t want to be the one to find out.
“Bed down with me tonight,” Chervilfeather rasped. “My denmates don’t mind, do they?”
Coaldapple grunted in what sounded more like annoyance than agreement, but didn’t argue. Mudfreckle shook her head kindly, and Curlewfoot shifted over to give Volereader room to curl up beside her father. She circled around on his bed of moss and rabbit down, curling up with her head resting on her paws, eyes and ears trained on the entrance of the den.
Though no one said it, Volereader knew that none of the Elders, nor any other cats within the camp, would sleep for some time yet, lest a Creature really have its sights set on the camp. Maybe having everyone outside for the ceremony had been a bad idea, Volereader worried. The scent of cats could have attracted a Creature, not to mention the smell of the prey.
Stop catastrophizing, she told herself. No Creature had come into the camp before, and it was unlikely one would ever, with so many cats around.
Volereader shut her eyes and let sleep overcome her.
Somewhere, not so far away, Something opened its eyes. And its eyes. And its eyes. And its other eyes.
