The black tom had had this dream before. It was a dream of a forest, one that he had never visited in his waking life, and whose silence was unnerving to a cat who had grown up surrounded by Thunderpaths. As the dream took shape around him, he felt pine needles beneath his paws, and musty scents filled his nose. A thick bramble wall enclosed the clearing he stood in. It was swollen here and there by dens that seemed to have been woven into it. Cats squeezed in and out of them. Some crossed the clearing; some stopped to talk to one another; others padded eagerly toward a pile of prey at the far end, sometimes walking right by the black tom as if they didn’t see him.
Because they didn’t. He wasn’t really there.
He’d seen these same cats each time he visited the dream, and he was learning to recognize their pelts. Now a brown tom with white splotches and light blue eyes carried a bundle of fragrant-smelling leaves toward one of the dens. A skinny old tom slid out to greet him. “I’m glad you’ve come.” The old cat nudged him inside. “He’s been coughing all night.”
At the other side of the clearing, a tortoiseshell she-cat murmured anxiously to a large ginger tom. A pure white she-cat watched, her pelt ruffled. Behind them, three young cats shifted their paws uneasily.
The dreaming tom pricked his ears. These cats have never been this worried in their lives . . . and they don’t know what to do.
Anxiety was fluttering in his belly. Why did he dream of this place? What did it mean? As he wondered this, the forest blurred around him. The ground seemed to shift beneath his paws; then suddenly it fell away, and he swirled into darkness.
Stars spun around him until, with a jolt, he felt solid ground beneath his paws again. Soft green meadows rolled away from him on every side. Above him, a wide blue sky stretched to the distant horizon.
More cats. The dreaming tom blinked as he saw ranks of cats lined before him, their pelts sparkling with starlight and their eyes flashing eagerly. They were staring straight at him. His belly tightened with alarm. “How . . . how can you see me?”
A black she-cat stepped forward and dipped her head. Her fur was sleek, her frame well-muscled, as though she’d never known the hardships of hunger or cold. “Don’t be frightened,” she told him softly. “We mean you no harm.”
A broad-shouldered dark tabby tom joined her. “We need you to do something for us.”
“What can I do?” The dreaming tom stared at her. “I’m not like you cats. . . .”
“You take care of those around you, don’t you?” the black she-cat asked.
“I do what I can to ease their illness and heal their wounds.”
The she-cat blinked slowly. “A cat who cares for others is special to us,” she mewed. “That is why we chose you to be our messenger.”
“Strangers will come to your home,” the broad-shouldered tabby chimed in. “They will need your help, just as we need it.”
Puzzled, the dreaming tom frowned. “And you need me to give them a message?”
“Not exactly,” the black cat meowed quickly. “But let these strangers guide your paws.”
The dreaming tom’s gaze drifted past the she-cat to the starry cats gathered behind her. Their eyes were fixed on him, burning with need. He backed away, his heart quickening. Why had they chosen him? “I don’t understand.”
“Please!” The black she-cat’s mew was tinged with fear. “If you don’t help . . .” Then her voice trailed away, and the vision of the starry cats and meadows began to dissolve into darkness. In its place the dreaming tom saw the forest clearing once more. But the bramble walls were torn, the dens ripped open. The tortoiseshell she-cat lay at the head of the clearing, blood oozing from wounds scarring her pelt. The three young cats he’d seen stumbled past. One collapsed, a gash showing across his belly. The old tom lay panting beside shredded branches. A brown cat was sitting nearby, so thin that his bones showed though his thin pelt. His pale blue eyes stared desolately at the fallen cats as though he were frozen to stone by their suffering.
With a jolt, the dreaming tom woke. The first thing he felt was the weight of the small tom-kit sleeping in the curve of his belly. He lifted his head and blinked into the darkness, his heart pounding. The kit whimpered and twitched, clearly having a dream of his own.
He wondered, just for a moment, if it was a similar dream.
“Rest, little one.” The tom leaned down and soothed the kit with a soft lap of his tongue. His dream lingered, unsettling him. If you don’t help . . . The black she-cat’s frightened words stuck in his mind. He tried to tell himself it was just a meaningless voice in his head. And yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was important. . . . He’d dreamed of the brambled clearing before, but his dream had never shifted to the dark place of starry cats. He wondered if it meant something. As the kit quieted and relaxed once more into deep sleep, the tom stared into the shadowy night. Dreams are just dreams. He tried to dismiss it. But this dream had felt too real to be ignored.