I remember everything, though I wish I didn't. I remember how the fog felt so thick I could swallow it, how it choked me when I tried, how I couldn't see for the white curtain before my very face. I looked down, and I couldn't see my paws. It might not have had alarmed me, as my fur was the same color as the low born clouds, and could have easily been hidden by something mild, if it weren't for the three cats in the nursery with me, yowling and and prancing in their places by my side, their fur brushing mine, invisible to me though they were so near. It was what we called, back then, the days of the Crimson Moon. Crimson for blood, and it was aptly named, for in that single moon, more blood was shed then in any season, any lifetime prior. It was, in a word, horrific.
Those were bad times, alright, really tough, tough times. I don't know what we did to deserve what we got, but it must have been something really vile for Starclan to have put down on us what they did. Our own home, nature itself, rebelled against us. Thunderclan, Windclan, Shadowclan, Riverclan; it didn't matter during those days, when every cat, old or young, would shake under their fur when the shadows crawled upon the horizons. As if mocking us, our own patrons destroyed us all, in the end, I suppose. Most of Windclan was wiped out by giant hurricanes that wracked their territory, and though a few cats from other clans were killed from the winds and falling trees, it was the Windclan cats that were strewn throughout their barren territory, a week later, all dead, save a few scrawny survivors. There was a drought in Riverclan, one like never before. The entire lake dried up, and their churning river, once so strong. You could walk freely on their land, now, there was no left to guard the borders, and if you came upon a body, they were so shrunken from starvation and dehydration, their pelts so matted from lack of care, it was hard to remember they were the same cats, once so healthy and strong and beautiful...and alive. I think only four cats from that once mighty clan stayed alive during that period, where every cat was at his brothers throat for a drop of water.
It was the very darkness that unhinged Shadowclan. How ironic, since they embrace it like family, like their own flesh and blood. Black fog, stormclouds hovering too low, perturbed their lands, and no one could see, no one could move, no one could hunt or talk for the vile stuff. They died where they stood, the shadows enveloping them like long lost friends. Thunderclan was the most drawn out, though. Storms, so vicious they set forest fires blazing every night with their lightning, only to set it out again by pouring buckets of rain and hail down on the flames, wet those lands. Most died. Even the leader, who, I've head, was a kind cat, if a little young. I never met him. I remember, too, hearing the screams and yowls of the dying, far off in the distance, where the Thunderclan territory was. It shook me to my bones, that sound. The screams in the night. The booming, final sounds of thunder, as if to mock them.
I don't really remember from what clan I was, though I know for a fact it was never Thunderclan. I remember, once, my mother, whose face I can't quite recall, telling me a myth about the Thunderclan cats, about how whenever there was a storm they went outside and danced around in strange movements, in some good luck prayer. I remember how I thought that was so strange, and how annoying it would be, to have to go out in the rain, every time it stormed, to dance about and get mud all over my coat. I've always hated washing it, so I would have remembered if I'd had to after every storm. Other then that, though, I don't really know. Riverclan, Shadowclan, Windclan, Thunderclan, does it really matter, now, though? All that is left of those long forgotten bands are emaciated survivors who jump at the crack of a branch.
One of my friends who helped me make the journey, when I was just a kit, up the mountains, tells me all the time what happened, so I feel as if I remember it, myself. It's clear as day in my head. The faces, the words, the entire quest. What they've always said was that somehow the survivors, or rather, most of them, since some died in their attempt, swam to the island that used to serve as a gathering place. The tree bridge had fallen away from one of the winds that rolled off Windclan's old territory. We all met there, under the cold stars, and we were too weary to fight or hate each other, or even to cry. We'd all cried our last tears long ago, and our bodies couldn't make any more even if they tried. It was decided collectively that night, under the full, round moon, that we would try to leave this forsaken place. This place of such bloodshed and crime. Four clans had basically been wiped out in a single moon. The blood of our sisters and brother ran into the water, tinging it red, so we could not even drink for the pain of it. The land itself hated us with such a passion that staying here any longer was impossible.
The question was, and the real problem, was how to leave. Cats were weak, they were in pain, and grieving for the family and friends and their clans, now disbanded. We were all confused. My friend told me once that I was the only kit there, that there had been a second from Windclan who had survived the gusts, but he had died of green cough a few days before the last gathering on the island. I was the only one. There were only a few apprentices, and a hodgepodge of warriors. One queen, in the early stages of expecting, and two elders. Not a single deputy or leader had survived. I still remember their names, though, or rather, I've been told them so many times I feel like I remember them. From Riverclan, there was Brookstar. She was apparently very quick witted, and she had a strong deputy, Ironfur. From Thunderclan, the leader was young, just appointed in the last three moons, named Owlstar, and I almost remember him being the most handsome tom I've ever seen, but of course, I never met him. Still, I can almost see his face, if I think about it really hard and long. That deputy, I think her name was Ivyheart, but I can't quite remember. She died, struck by lightning. In Shadowclan, their leader was Needlestar. He died first, of the leaders, he was caught in a bought of darkness so thick you could hardly breathe or see, and he tried to walk back to his camp. He led his entire patrol over a cliff into a rocky valley his clan used for hunting snakes. His deputy was Flamewhisker, but I don't remember how he died. Windclan's leader's name was Bunnystar. Kind of a silly name for a leader, I think, but the warriors now a days from that clan tell me she was very noble, and quite strict. No funny business under Bunnystar, apparently. Her deputy was a meek she-cat, called Brownfoot, or so I've heard.
None of our leaders made it though, and only one medicine cat, from Shadowclan, and the medicine cat apprentice from Windclan, though he was blinded in one eye from a flying branch, and had scars down his back, from the hail. Really, it seemed we were doomed from the start.
But somehow, and don't ask me, because I don't know, we made it up there. I don't remember who, but one cat had the idea to try and climb the cliffs and mountains that range around us, that maybe that land is friendlier, that Starclan might be closer and more forgiving, up there. And what else could we do? No one else had any suggestions, and no one wanted to sleep another night in their territory, so haunted and dampened by the spirits of the dead, so gruesomely ripped from their lives and clan.
So somehow, and don't ask me how, we made the trip upstairs. I know it was hard, I remember that much, thank goodness, but my sense of self was a bit messed up at the time, and I wasn't at my best. I wouldn't have made it if if weren't for Wolfpaw, he saved my life. I know it.
There's this one memory I have, that's really clear. We were climbing a steep part of the mountain, and one of the elders, behind me, the last one, seeing as the other had decided not to come, being too weak and old, was trying to scrabble up some loose rocks, but they were more level. I remember he had really green eyes, like grass in the new leaf season. Warriors kept telling him sharply to follow the line, that it was safer this way, but he wouldn't have it. He was much to set on his way. Well. I remember turning my head, curious to see what everyone was snapping about behind me, taking a break from climbing, and for a very small moment, we locked eyes. The young and the old. It was strange, neither of us were trying to look at eachother, but we ended up with a moment of gazing into each others eyes. His were so green. And then, almost like he was dazed, the elder fell backwards. Wolfpaw told me, afterwards, a rock he was putting weight on came loose. I didn't see him hit the bottom, it was much to far a fall for me to see, and the fog that was even still so deep in the territories was much to thick even if we'd been lower down. But that wasn't the reason. I didn't see him I turned away, first.
The next thing I remember is coming here, to this little camp we've made up here, so close to the stars, not that I put much weight in them now, anyways. Wolfpaw keeps trying to tell me they mean something, that they're kind and gentle and they love us. But that's rubbish, isn't it? If they loved us, if they were anything but cold, they wouldn't have done this to us. Done this to me. I lost whatever youth I could have had. I lost everything and everyone. I can't even remember my mothers own face. Isn't that pathetic? Isn't that sad? I think so. It makes me what to cry, sometimes, it really does. As of yet, though, I never have. It's too late for whatever could have been, so I suppose I need to move on in my life. That's what they tell me, anyway.
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Those were bad times, alright, really tough, tough times. I don't know what we did to deserve what we got, but it must have been something really vile for Starclan to have put down on us what they did. Our own home, nature itself, rebelled against us. Thunderclan, Windclan, Shadowclan, Riverclan; it didn't matter during those days, when every cat, old or young, would shake under their fur when the shadows crawled upon the horizons. As if mocking us, our own patrons destroyed us all, in the end, I suppose. Most of Windclan was wiped out by giant hurricanes that wracked their territory, and though a few cats from other clans were killed from the winds and falling trees, it was the Windclan cats that were strewn throughout their barren territory, a week later, all dead, save a few scrawny survivors. There was a drought in Riverclan, one like never before. The entire lake dried up, and their churning river, once so strong. You could walk freely on their land, now, there was no left to guard the borders, and if you came upon a body, they were so shrunken from starvation and dehydration, their pelts so matted from lack of care, it was hard to remember they were the same cats, once so healthy and strong and beautiful...and alive. I think only four cats from that once mighty clan stayed alive during that period, where every cat was at his brothers throat for a drop of water.
It was the very darkness that unhinged Shadowclan. How ironic, since they embrace it like family, like their own flesh and blood. Black fog, stormclouds hovering too low, perturbed their lands, and no one could see, no one could move, no one could hunt or talk for the vile stuff. They died where they stood, the shadows enveloping them like long lost friends. Thunderclan was the most drawn out, though. Storms, so vicious they set forest fires blazing every night with their lightning, only to set it out again by pouring buckets of rain and hail down on the flames, wet those lands. Most died. Even the leader, who, I've head, was a kind cat, if a little young. I never met him. I remember, too, hearing the screams and yowls of the dying, far off in the distance, where the Thunderclan territory was. It shook me to my bones, that sound. The screams in the night. The booming, final sounds of thunder, as if to mock them.
I don't really remember from what clan I was, though I know for a fact it was never Thunderclan. I remember, once, my mother, whose face I can't quite recall, telling me a myth about the Thunderclan cats, about how whenever there was a storm they went outside and danced around in strange movements, in some good luck prayer. I remember how I thought that was so strange, and how annoying it would be, to have to go out in the rain, every time it stormed, to dance about and get mud all over my coat. I've always hated washing it, so I would have remembered if I'd had to after every storm. Other then that, though, I don't really know. Riverclan, Shadowclan, Windclan, Thunderclan, does it really matter, now, though? All that is left of those long forgotten bands are emaciated survivors who jump at the crack of a branch.
One of my friends who helped me make the journey, when I was just a kit, up the mountains, tells me all the time what happened, so I feel as if I remember it, myself. It's clear as day in my head. The faces, the words, the entire quest. What they've always said was that somehow the survivors, or rather, most of them, since some died in their attempt, swam to the island that used to serve as a gathering place. The tree bridge had fallen away from one of the winds that rolled off Windclan's old territory. We all met there, under the cold stars, and we were too weary to fight or hate each other, or even to cry. We'd all cried our last tears long ago, and our bodies couldn't make any more even if they tried. It was decided collectively that night, under the full, round moon, that we would try to leave this forsaken place. This place of such bloodshed and crime. Four clans had basically been wiped out in a single moon. The blood of our sisters and brother ran into the water, tinging it red, so we could not even drink for the pain of it. The land itself hated us with such a passion that staying here any longer was impossible.
The question was, and the real problem, was how to leave. Cats were weak, they were in pain, and grieving for the family and friends and their clans, now disbanded. We were all confused. My friend told me once that I was the only kit there, that there had been a second from Windclan who had survived the gusts, but he had died of green cough a few days before the last gathering on the island. I was the only one. There were only a few apprentices, and a hodgepodge of warriors. One queen, in the early stages of expecting, and two elders. Not a single deputy or leader had survived. I still remember their names, though, or rather, I've been told them so many times I feel like I remember them. From Riverclan, there was Brookstar. She was apparently very quick witted, and she had a strong deputy, Ironfur. From Thunderclan, the leader was young, just appointed in the last three moons, named Owlstar, and I almost remember him being the most handsome tom I've ever seen, but of course, I never met him. Still, I can almost see his face, if I think about it really hard and long. That deputy, I think her name was Ivyheart, but I can't quite remember. She died, struck by lightning. In Shadowclan, their leader was Needlestar. He died first, of the leaders, he was caught in a bought of darkness so thick you could hardly breathe or see, and he tried to walk back to his camp. He led his entire patrol over a cliff into a rocky valley his clan used for hunting snakes. His deputy was Flamewhisker, but I don't remember how he died. Windclan's leader's name was Bunnystar. Kind of a silly name for a leader, I think, but the warriors now a days from that clan tell me she was very noble, and quite strict. No funny business under Bunnystar, apparently. Her deputy was a meek she-cat, called Brownfoot, or so I've heard.
None of our leaders made it though, and only one medicine cat, from Shadowclan, and the medicine cat apprentice from Windclan, though he was blinded in one eye from a flying branch, and had scars down his back, from the hail. Really, it seemed we were doomed from the start.
But somehow, and don't ask me, because I don't know, we made it up there. I don't remember who, but one cat had the idea to try and climb the cliffs and mountains that range around us, that maybe that land is friendlier, that Starclan might be closer and more forgiving, up there. And what else could we do? No one else had any suggestions, and no one wanted to sleep another night in their territory, so haunted and dampened by the spirits of the dead, so gruesomely ripped from their lives and clan.
So somehow, and don't ask me how, we made the trip upstairs. I know it was hard, I remember that much, thank goodness, but my sense of self was a bit messed up at the time, and I wasn't at my best. I wouldn't have made it if if weren't for Wolfpaw, he saved my life. I know it.
There's this one memory I have, that's really clear. We were climbing a steep part of the mountain, and one of the elders, behind me, the last one, seeing as the other had decided not to come, being too weak and old, was trying to scrabble up some loose rocks, but they were more level. I remember he had really green eyes, like grass in the new leaf season. Warriors kept telling him sharply to follow the line, that it was safer this way, but he wouldn't have it. He was much to set on his way. Well. I remember turning my head, curious to see what everyone was snapping about behind me, taking a break from climbing, and for a very small moment, we locked eyes. The young and the old. It was strange, neither of us were trying to look at eachother, but we ended up with a moment of gazing into each others eyes. His were so green. And then, almost like he was dazed, the elder fell backwards. Wolfpaw told me, afterwards, a rock he was putting weight on came loose. I didn't see him hit the bottom, it was much to far a fall for me to see, and the fog that was even still so deep in the territories was much to thick even if we'd been lower down. But that wasn't the reason. I didn't see him I turned away, first.
The next thing I remember is coming here, to this little camp we've made up here, so close to the stars, not that I put much weight in them now, anyways. Wolfpaw keeps trying to tell me they mean something, that they're kind and gentle and they love us. But that's rubbish, isn't it? If they loved us, if they were anything but cold, they wouldn't have done this to us. Done this to me. I lost whatever youth I could have had. I lost everything and everyone. I can't even remember my mothers own face. Isn't that pathetic? Isn't that sad? I think so. It makes me what to cry, sometimes, it really does. As of yet, though, I never have. It's too late for whatever could have been, so I suppose I need to move on in my life. That's what they tell me, anyway.
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