“You were given a warning to turn in your books or be raided,” the Striga addressed the crowd. “Prepare to light the pyre.”
Now Doc Finebeak saw exactly what a pyre was. How clever! This blue owl and his helpers were using plants that grew here naturally to make a fire. There was a large huckleberry bush and right next to it an immense creosote bush, two of the most combustible plants in the entire Southern Kingdoms. And since there were no trees in this region, there was no threat of forest fires. But still, fire was fire and it could destroy. Finebeak watched in horror as the objects for destruction were ferreted out from the surrounding burrows. The owls of this Blue Brigade came out with scrolls, books, and the occasional sparkly bauble.
“Kalo, let go of it. It’s not worth it,” Burrowing Owl shouted. “Please, Kalo.”
A lovely-looking Burrowing Owl stood in the center of the clearing, clutching a book in her talons. “I just got this book! It is worth it,” Kalo protested. A Great Horned with a blue feather stuck right between his horn tufts was wrenching the book from her.
“What’s the problem here, Field Marshal Cram?” The Striga lighted down.
“Oh, we get one of these book huggers now and again. Won’t let go.”
“What sort of book is it?” the Striga asked, wondering if it might be a study of something useful like metallurgy and worthy of sparing.
“Looks like a legend of sorts,” Cram said.
“Take it away from her,” the Striga ordered harshly. “What about fripperies?”
“Some pearls. They look valuable,” Field Marshal Cram said, holding up a strand of pink pearls.
“They are!” the owl named Kalo said. “Genuine saltwater pearls. Take them. Just leave me my book!”
“Books, pearls, it makes no difference!” the Great Horned said.
“Let her keep her book,” another owl said. He was younger than Kalo, but not young enough to be her son.
“Coryn, stay back,” Kalo commanded.
“Did you say ‘Coryn’?!” The blue owl wilfed, as did his companions.
“Yes,” replied Kalo. “Although sometimes we call him Cory.” Planting her long, slender, featherless legs in the ground, she drew herself up to her full height, which was impressive. “My brother was named for our king.” The nearly horizontal band of white feathers across the top of her brown head framed her yellow eyes, giving them a powerful intensity. Doc was impressed with this Kalo. She could certainly stand up to a threat.
“That’s blasphemy—using the name of our revered king,” the Striga spat.
“I knew the king when he was but a lad and I was a lass. We were both young’uns.” A quiet had settled on the owls. “When he was not a king but an outcast.” Kalo extended her wing and gently touched her brother’s shoulder with the tip. “He saved my mother’s egg. And from that egg came Coryn.”
“Da, what is happening to Mummy?” a little hatch-ling screeched from where she crouched between her father’s legs.
“Hush, Siv,” Kalo said.
“Siv?” The blue owl blinked. “I’ve heard that name. Who is she?”
“A queen. A queen from long, long ago in the time of the legends and these are her stories.” Kalo was standing on one leg, balancing perfectly as Burrowing Owls could, and with her other talon she clutched to her breast the book entitled Siv, a Queen’s Tale.
Doc blinked away tears. This was some owl, this Kalo!
The Striga opened his beak wide and cried out, “Ignite!” There was a great explosion and the creosote bush erupted into a ball of fire. The Striga ripped the book from Kalo’s talons.
“Who ordered this…this insanity?” Kalo cried above the roar of the flames.
“Your precious king, madam, your precious king!” the Striga said.
What! Doc Finebeak thought. Has the entire world gone yoicks? And as if to confirm this, he heard a triumphant, maniacal hooting overhead. A formation of owls from the Blue Brigade was flying over the pyre. Each owl carried a book and dropped it into the fire. The flames seemed to reach up for the books, craving them, thirsting for them, and as each book dropped, the fire raged more fiercely. Random white pages fluttered up like scorched doves, the edges of their wings turning black and curling up until the page was consumed and disintegrated into a swirl of ash.
Doc Finebeak observed it all. He could not tear his eyes away, he felt that he should not. There must be a witness to this horror. His gizzard was in turmoil as he noted every sickening little detail. Just before a book caught the flames, when it was still fresh to the fire, it was seized with a series of odd little movements. Its pages, stirred by the heated wind, began to turn by themselves. The glue in the spines burbled and thin tendrils of dark smoke rose. And finally the edges of the pages darkened to amber. The amber turned to black, and then the book consumed itself. Some books, perhaps newer ones in which the glue was fresher, simply exploded.
Doc Finebeak finally turned his gaze from the fire and looked in a mixture of horror and curiosity upon the face of the Striga. Nearly featherless now, the puckered skin was bathed in the shifting orange light of the flames. His yellow eyes glimmered and his beak hung open as he watched, transfixed by the terrible beauty of this forest of flames.
“He’s mad,” Doc Finebeak murmured. I must take Plonkie far away, as far away as possible, he thought. Maybe to the Northern Kingdoms, who knows? She could become a gad-feather. Those are her roots. And the Snowy knew that if they were burning books now, what would be next, owls? And the first owls to be burned would probably be artists, great artists like Madame Plonk, the love of his life.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mists of Ambala
I was expecting you,” came the familiar voice. The vaporous scarves of swirling mist that had seconds before seemed so random sorted themselves into spots, patches of light and dark, and gradually into a shape, a shape not unlike that of a Spotted Owl. Before them, perched on the edge of the huge eagle’s nest, was the elusive, ethereal owl known as Mist by most, except for a very few who called her by her original name, Hortense.
“Hortense,” Soren blurted out. Gylfie and Soren had come to know her years before when they were both imprisoned in St. Aggie’s.
A glimmer shivered through the vapors. “Ooooh!” Hortense said. “It’s so nice to hear my real name. You know, no one calls me that anymore and yet there are all these little Hortenses flying about in Ambala.”
It was true, of course, that in Ambala the name Hortense was the most popular for either girl or boy hatchlings. There was a saying in Ambala that a hero was known by only one name and that name was Hortense. Before the Pure Ones, St. Aggie’s had wreaked terror and havoc on the Southern Kingdoms, owl-napping hatch-lings and even eggs from nests. In that time, Hortense had infiltrated St. Aggie’s, posing as a young defenseless owl. She had succeeded in penetrating the eggorium and, with the help of two bald eagles, rescued countless eggs. As Hortense grew older, however, she seemed to grow dimmer, almost fading away. She attributed this to the large deposits of flecks in the streams and soil of Ambala, which she said could change the nature of an owl born there, proving to be either a blessing or a curse. But the Band had never seen another owl in Ambala that resembled this mysterious owl. She was a legend, but for the Band, in particular Soren and Gylfie, she was very real. Her presence was as compelling as it ever was.
“So you knew we were coming, Hortense?” Gylfie asked.
Always one to cut to the chase, Hortense replied, “It’s about the book burnings, isn’t it, and these Blue Brigades?” In that moment, two massive eagles plummeted out of the sky and landed on the opposite side of the immense nest. They were accompanied by two flying snakes.
“You said they’d come.” Streak, the smaller of the two eagles, spoke. His mate, Zan, was mute and merely nodded. Her tongue had been ripped out some years before in a brutal battle with the St. Aggie’s forces. “The book burnings, eh?”
Soren just shook his head. “We had no idea it was
this widespread. We saw one, but that was way up in Silverveil, near the notch.”
“That’s where most of them have been,” Streak said. “But just now we saw a huge fire over in The Barrens.”
Then the two luminous bright green snakes hissed. Even after having met them on many occasions each one of the Band wilfed slightly upon seeing these two snakes. There was nothing quite like the flying snakes of Ambala. They possessed one of the deadliest venoms on Earth which, when used correctly, could cure instead of kill. Twilight’s life had been saved by these snakes when he had sustained what everyone thought was a mortal wound in battle. Now both Slynella and her mate, Stingyll, were hissing in an absolute fury. “And to think,” the words always seemed to slither off their tongue, “we were the ones to teach him how to read,” Stingyll said.
“Yesssss,” agreed Slynella. “It sssseemss ssso long ago. What happened?”
“What are you talking about?” Digger asked.
“The book burningsss,” Stingyll said.
“You taught the blue owl how to read?” Soren asked.
“No, no, never!” Slynella gave a scorching hiss. “Coryn…Coryn, when he was ssstill called Nyroc. We ssspelled out his name for him, like thisss, through our sssky writing.” Slynella immediately flew off the edge of the nest into the air, and Stingyll followed. They began scrolling themselves into myriad shapes and gradually letters began to form. “You sssee, it wasss all his idea. To reverse the ssspelling of his original name from Nyroc to Coryn!” Slynella paused. “That owl’sss a geniussss!”
“Yesss. Ssso why isss he ssso dumb now?” Stingyll asked.
The Band was bewildered. Soren flew straight up to them as they continued to slither out in midair. “It’s the Striga that is burning books. What does any of this book burning have to do with Coryn?”
“Why, he ordered it,” Slynella said. “The Ssstriga is acting on Coryn’s command.”
Soren felt himself wilf. Zan, the larger of the eagles, flew to him instantly.
“She’s got you, Soren. She’s got you,” Hortense called out.
“I’m fine, don’t worry.” But, indeed, Soren had started to go yeep.
The entire Band was stunned by this news. “I just simply can’t believe it.” Gylfie shook her head. “We all know that Coryn has been growing very close to the Striga, but I never thought he’d have that much influence.”
“Well, we came here for information and we got it,” Twilight said, looking across the eagle’s nest at Hortense, who was hovering near Streak.
“But what are we to do?” Soren asked. “This is not exactly war.”
“It could be,” Twilight said.
“But right now, it’s about books,” Soren said.
“Books and owls,” Hortense said. “This Striga and his Blue Brigade have been raiding nests, hollows, burrows, looking for books and the things they call vanities— – ripping apart owl homes.” The mist around Hortense seemed to quiver almost sadly. She continued, “There are rumors that a few from the great tree’s library were stolen right from under the librarian’s nose and brought to the mainland and burned.”
“No!” The four owls of the Band all wilfed.
“That sounds like war to me,” Twilight said.
“But the question, Twilight,” the vapors shimmered a bit as Hortense turned toward the Great Gray, “the question is, how do you proceed if it is war?” Twilight started to answer, but Soren put out his wing and touched him lightly, a silent signal to wait, to listen, which was not first nature to Twilight. But Soren knew that Hortense was a subtle thinker. He wanted to hear her thoughts on this. “I don’t think it has come to war yet. The blue owl lives at the great tree, and is a close advisor to your king. Do you attack the tree? I think not. First, you must save the books before it is too late, and then stop this terrible destruction of art, the fripperies, as he calls anything pretty.” She looked at the Great Gray. “You see, Twilight, knowledge is more than equivalent to force.” Hortense paused. “I read that in a scrap from the Fragmentum, a part of a book by an Other named Doctor Sam. I began thinking about knowledge as force, and books as important as battle claws.”
“She’s got to be kidding!” Twilight muttered.
Soren gave him a swift kick. “Go on,” Soren urged.
“I have started a program here in Ambala.”
“A program,” Twilight said with more than a tinge of despair in his voice.
“Yes. You see we have been fearful of this for some time now and have established a place in Ambala that we call the Place of Living Books.”
“Tell us about it,” Digger said.
Hortense shimmered a bit as the beads of mist seemed to thicken, then re-sort themselves. “Since the printing press was built and began working the owls of Ambala have become passionate readers and book lovers. But not many books come our way. I think it is the lingering suspicions many owls still have of the flecks in our streams. Let’s just say we are sort of ‘back woods,’ not along the usual well-worn flight paths. Even Mags doesn’t venture here often. But the few books that come our way, we treasure. So when we began to hear about the book burnings, we wanted to do whatever we could to protect our books.”
“So what did you do?” Twilight asked. “What is this Place of Living Books?”
“Well, I cannot take all the credit, really. A young Whiskered Screech named Braithe thought up the idea. We could go there tonight, if you like, but there is not much left of this night and the distance is far. And you know I am a weak flier,” Hortense added.
Thus, the owls settled down into the immense aerie on the highest peak in Ambala. Silvery clouds scraped across the last remnants of the night. The snakes twined themselves through the branches of the aerie and glimmered in the rising sun like bright ribbons. They would keep the day watch, for their sleeping habits were very different from those of owls.
Had they, however, kept a night watch and not frolicked so heartily performing their skywriting, they might have caught sight of a Burrowing Owl hiding in one of the thick cumulus clouds. Concealed under his coverts was a small blue feather. He was a spy and what he had seen was strange, very strange. But he knew it was good information, valuable information. He did not particularly like wearing the stupid blue feather, but compromises had to be made. He would be handsomely rewarded. One had to look out for one’s own self-interests, after all, and his future was uncertain since that last battle in the Middle Kingdom.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Word by Word
This can’t be so, can it, Mrs. Plithiver?” “I’m afraid it is.” Soren peeked into his hollow. Pelli was sobbing.
“Why? Why would he abandon us like this?” she was saying. “Why have they all left?”
“But I haven’t!” Soren exclaimed. “I am right here. Right here! Can’t you see me?” He flew into the hollow and alighted on his old perch, the one from which he often read to the three B’s. But Pelli and the three B’s stared right through him. Was it possible? Had he become like mist, some vaporous collection of insignificant water droplets in the air? His gizzard froze. “It’s me!” he cried out to them. “Me!”
“Wake up, Soren, You’re dreaming. Just dreaming,” Gylfie said, fluttering above her best friend. Her tiny wings beat madly in an attempt to fan him and bring Soren out of whatever terrible dream he was lost in.
“But it was so real!” Soren gasped.
“It was just a dream,” Gylfie said again. Digger and Twilight exchanged nervous glances. They all knew that for Soren there was no such thing as just a dream. Soren possessed a rare ability: starsight, which was a kind of dream vision in which he could see the future, or things that were happening in some distant place. The other members of the Band never asked him for the details of these visions. There was a silent understanding that it was best not to make such inquiries.
“Look,” said Digger, trying to quell any telltale quaver in his voice. “It’s almost tween time.” The sky was streaked with the de
ep purples of twilight. In another few minutes it would be completely black. “What do you say we get going to this book place?”
“What, no tweener? I’m starved,” Twilight said.
“I prefer to fly light,” Hortense said. It was all the Band could do to keep from bursting out in churrs of laughter. Light? What could be lighter than Hortense, who was not much more than a collection of dewdrops? “Don’t worry, Twilight,” Hortense added. “We’ll pass over a meadow that is crawling with voles. You can eat on the fly.” Eating on the fly was a skill that all Guardians had developed to a high degree, especially in time of war. It involved seizing the prey, then immediately taking off again and dismembering it to be shared as they flew.
They found a plump summer vole almost immediately. “Can’t believe how much fat this fellow still has on him,” Twilight said. “And here we are well into autumn.”
“He must have been lounging around in his hole,” Gylfie said.
“Must have been a tight fit for a chubby rodent like this,” Digger commented.
They all churred. Digger, being a Burrowing Owl and superb excavator for the construction of nesting burrows, was an expert in such matters.
“I’ll just take the tongue,” Hortense said.
“You sure?” Soren asked.
“Oh, yes. Fatty foods, yechhh! Just can’t eat them anymore.” Once again the Band was struck by the oddity of Hortense’s remarks on eating.
With his superb hearing, Soren could pick up all of the squeaks and grunts and grinds of their gizzards as they digested the bones and hair of the vole, organizing it into the tight packets that would soon be pellets. It seemed deafening to him. He flew off from the others for he wanted to be able to hear the first sounds of this Place of Living Books.
Hortense was soon beside him. Her own gizzard was almost perfectly silent. Whatever mechanisms turned there were closer to the sounds of the fluttering wings of a moth than a gizzard packing pellets.