CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Imperiled Ember
Punkie Night had arrived. Everyone was overjoyed that this night that had been celebrated for countless years had not been cancelled as the Harvest Festival had been. The mood of the tree had lightened considerably. Many concessions had been made for the evening’s entertainment. Madame Plonk had been permitted to sing as she always had on Punkie Night in her fabulous gadfeather costume. Pelli was watching from the gallery in the Great Hollow as Madame Plonk began yet another wonderful ballad. Doc Finebeak was looking upon his mate rapturously. Despite his misgivings and his decision to leave, he felt it would be unfair to deny Plonkie this chance to sing. He had not told her yet that he thought they should leave immediately after Punkie Night. Pelli herself was relieved. She sensed that Finebeak was so distressed over his mate’s silencing by Coryn that he had been considering leaving the great tree. He had said to Pelli that he had something he must speak to her about, but after Punkie Night.
Madame Plonk was singing a very old ballad from the Northern Kingdoms. Doc Finebeak’s gizzard trembled, for the song his mate sang was portentous to say the least.
Fly away with me,
Give my loneliness a break.
Fly away with me,
So my heart will never ache.
Fly away with me this night.
Fly away with me.
Would she have really left? Pelli wondered. What a loss! Then, suddenly, something caught her eye. She wasn’t sure what. A gesture of some sort from the blue owl? How he had bent his head toward Coryn as he whispered to him? Her hearing was as fine as any Barn Owl’s. What was it? She began to observe more closely the Striga and Coryn as Madame Plonk’s magnificent voice swelled into the Great Hollow with the accompaniment of the newly repaired grass harp plucked by the nest-maid snakes of the harp guild. There was no doubt about it, the Striga was uncomfortable with this extravagant display of what he must have felt were dangerous vanities. She also watched Coryn, who seemed to be furtively glancing at the Striga as if taking his measure. Coryn, she could tell, was extremely worried. Not worried about the tree, nor about the owls who seemed finally to be lifting out of the depressed mood that had enveloped the tree since the Harvest Festival. No, Pelli thought with sharp alarm. He’s worried about the Striga! Then it came to her with great clarity. He’s made a deal with the Striga. Let us have Punkie Night and then…and then what? What did the Striga demand in return? The very question sent a chill through her gizzard. The ember! She was certain: The ember was in danger. She had to find Bubo immediately. But how? Everyone was wearing masks. Owls were so starved for celebrations that even the older ones who never dressed up were all wearing masks. How would she ever figure out which one was Bubo?
Frantically, she spun her head around, scanning the gallery for Bubo. There was a Great Horned nearby in the mask of a Spotted Owl with a cloak of spotted feathers, but his own shown through. Pelli flew up to him and peered directly in his face.
“I beg your pardon, madam!” the owl replied coolly at her sudden intrusion. He was speaking with a Burrowing Owl.
“Oh, sorry,” Pelli apologized. “I thought you were someone else.” She had never seen either one of these owls at the tree before. But it was not unheard of for strangers to come from the mainland for the various celebrations. Although there did seem to be an awful lot of them tonight. But where was Bubo? The harp guild snakes had started to pluck a jig, and there were owls fly-dancing outside the tree. She would have a look.
A quarter of an hour later, she had still not found him. Back inside she went. A flash of ruddy feathers peeking out from under a cape of snowy-white ones caught her eye, and then there were his horns barely concealed under the white mask. It was Bubo, she was sure, and he was weaving about in slow glaucana, a kind of waltz, with Otulissa. Great! Pelli thought. They both needed to know about her terrible gizzard-wrenching feelings. Otulissa was wearing the mask of a Great Gray but she was unmistakable. She was a lovely fly-dancer, much better really than Bubo. She danced with great style, a crisp yet fluid motion.
“I need to see both of you right now!” Pelli hissed. Mrs. Plithiver, who was just wending her way as a sliptween through an octave, swung her head in the direction of Pelli. She sensed a thin filament of tension in the air. It was pronounced, because all of the other owls for the first time in a long while seemed to be relaxed and enjoying the celebration.
Bubo and Otulissa immediately sensed the rising panic in Pelli’s voice. “Where should we meet?”
“The forge,” Pelli replied. “But leave separately and by different ports. I’ll take an interior corridor. They will just think I’m tired and going to my hollow.”
They. The word sounded ominous to Otulissa. She glanced over at the Striga and Coryn.
Pelli actually got to Bubo’s forge first. When the two other owls entered, they saw her peering into the coal pits where he kept his bonk embers. Immediately, they knew what she wanted. “The ember is in danger, isn’t it?” Otulissa blurted out.
“I knew this celebration stuff was too good to last.” Bubo sighed, pulling off his Snowy Owl mask and cloak.
“It just came to me. I don’t know how. I was looking at Coryn and the Striga when I had a feeling deep in my gizzard and suddenly realized that Coryn has weakened in some terrible way, that he’s going to come for the ember. I know it.”
“So, what do we do?” Bubo asked.
Pelli’s dark eyes shone with such a luster that had she been outside and not in the cave, they would have reflected the moon and the stars. “We get it out of here. We substitute another.”
“A substitute?” Bubo said with a note of incredulity in his voice. “Won’t he know?”
Otulissa swiveled her head and peered with her amber eyes into Pelli’s dark ones. “You think Coryn has been weakened to the point where he won’t notice the difference, right?”
“Possibly.” Pelli nodded.
“You think or you hope?” Otulissa asked pointedly.
Pelli sighed. “A little bit of both, I suppose. But what do we have to lose?”
Otulissa knew that Pelli was right. What did they have to lose? At the very least, the ember would be safely tucked away someplace. Otulissa now turned to Bubo. “Do you have a bonk coal that is a reasonable facsimile?”
“Reasonable facsimile of the Ember of Hoole?” Bubo raised a talon to his head and scratched between his horn tufts. “Not likely, but I suppose I could try to fire-juice one.” Fire-juicing was a way of heating coals so that their interior structure changed slightly to radiate a more intense heat for a short period of time.
Bubo was now poking around in one of the coal pits. With his tongs, he plucked out an ember. “Here she be.” The tongs pinched a glowing coal. Deep in the ember’s gizzard, there was a lick of blue and around it a pulsating ring of green. The air seemed to tingle as Bubo held it up. Each one of them could feel it. Dislodged from the other embers in the pit, its power was more direct. It was amazing that Bubo himself had been able to live with it and suffer no ill effects. But he was a blacksmith. He had built up his resistance to it, and it had been buried with other coals, which had acted as a shield. “You see, it’s that green that is hard to reproduce. It truly is the color of the wolves’ eyes.” Bubo was talking about the great dire wolves of the Beyond, who for centuries had guarded the ember as it nestled in its lava cocoon in the volcano called Hrath’ghar. “But you never can tell, Coryn might not notice.”
“Right now we have to get the real ember out of here,” Otulissa said. “Where do you think you should take it?”
“The Palace of Mists,” Pelli answered.
Otulissa closed her eyes. She had suspected that Pelli might say this. Pelli had never been there. Bess would not like it. Otulissa could go, but she had made so many trips already with Fritha transporting books that she was worried about arousing the Striga’s suspicions. Pelli was a strong flier and very fast and if she left immediately, she might not
be missed.
“All right, I’ll give you the navigational coordinates. You’re going to have to leave immediately. In the meantime, Bubo, start juicing another coal to substitute for the Ember of Hoole.”
“I already got me eye on one down there. But understand that when Pelli flies with this ember, we have to put it in a good strong botkin with some other bonk ones to insulate her from its power.”
“And do you have the case, the original one that we always kept it in?”
“Yeah, it’s around here someplace.”
“Well, you better be prepared. Coryn might come asking for it anytime.” Otulissa felt her gizzard twitch. How had it come to this? She had had so much faith in Coryn. She had been his first teacher in the Beyond. She had taught him how to dive for coals. Of course, he was such a natural that it only took him two blinks to learn. She had been there in the Beyond when he had taken that spectacular dive into Hrath’ghar and came back with the ember. Not even singed. But now he was being singed, so to speak, being weakened, damaged perhaps irreparably, by this strange blue owl.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Stink of a Hag
Bubo had stayed up the rest of the night working in his forge, juicing a coal. He peered out into the breaking dawn. He always thought that first light of twixt time was like a cold ember creeping over the horizon. Then the sun would heat up to a real sizzle, until it was full morning light. Bubo thought of everything in terms of coals and embers and flames. It was his measure, his tool, but when Otulissa had told him about the scraps of burnt paper and the book lift that she and Fritha had been flying, he was shocked. He had never thought of fire consuming parchment or paper before. Iron, metals—those were what one used fire for: to shape it, to make something new, to create something that didn’t exist before. But burning paper? This made no sense whatsoever. It only destroyed. Metals—silver, iron, gold, these noble materials—were equal to the strikes of the hammer, perched on the throne of an anvil, ready to receive blows. But paper and parchment were noble in a different way. Blank, clean, ready to receive the strokes of a quill dipped in ink or a brush tipped with paint. This burning of books was wrong. He had been so absorbed with these thoughts that he had not heard the approaching scratch of talons outside his cave.
“Bubo!”
The blacksmith wheeled around. Coryn, already! “Coryn, what brings you here?” Pelli had been right. He had not juiced that coal a moment too soon!
“Bubo, the time has come for me to have the ember again. I am the king. It belongs with me.” He was speaking rapidly, giving too many reasons. Bubo knew that it would not be wise to give in too easily. It would only arouse suspicion. He must show some resistance.
“Have you discussed this with the Band?”
“The Band isn’t here. You know that,” Coryn said somewhat tersely.
“Well…er…yes…but don’t you think maybe you should wait until they return and discuss it with them then?”
“No, I don’t see any advantage in waiting.” He shook his head and his eyes seemed a dull, lusterless black. If Bubo hadn’t known better, he’d think this owl was moon blinked.
“Well, I don’t know, Coryn.”
“I am your king. It is not for you to know.”
These words, spoken in a dull, cold voice, stunned Bubo more than anything. Bubo sighed. “All right. Whatever you say.” There was no response from Coryn. Bubo fetched the teardrop-shaped case and then his tongs. He poked down into the coal pit and pretended to search for several seconds and then plucked up the juiced ember. He dared not look at Coryn, but he sent a little prayer up to Glaux. Bubo was not really a praying kind of owl. So it was difficult for him to shape a prayer without some of his usual rough language. His prayers were more like strikes at the anvil then words of great reverence. Racdrops! Let me pull this off, Glaux, he thought. Be a frinkin’ shame were he to see this sprink ember for what it really is. He slipped it into the teardrop-shaped case before Coryn could get a close look at it. It was just the green rim that worried him.
“There you be!” he said, handing the case to Coryn.
Coryn reached for it but did not meet Bubo’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Bubo. I’m different now.” It was all Bubo could do not to say “Don’t I know it.” But he held his beak. Coryn was almost out of the cave when Bubo said, “Coryn.” His voice was sharper. Coryn finally looked at him. Bubo skewered him with the intense gold of his eyes. “You do right by that ember, Coryn. You do right by her.” Coryn suddenly looked stricken. He stumbled a bit. “Don’t worry.” His voice quaked. Then he repeated the words but this time there was a testy edge to his voice. “Don’t worry.”
“I am sorry, so sorry that these troubles have to be the reason for our first meeting. I have heard so much about you, Bess.” Pelli was perched on the edge of a dictionary stand in the Palace of Mists. “And this place,” she added, swiveling her head around. The stand held the largest dictionary she had ever seen. There were at least a thousand pages, with what must have been millions of words.
“Don’t apologize, please. This situation sounds dire. And you were right to bring the ember here. Don’t worry, I know a good place to hide it. But forgive me if I don’t tell you where. It would only make it more dangerous for you.”
“Yes, of course. The fewer who know about it the better.” Pelli nodded in agreement. “But you have heard nothing of this blue owl’s activities here on the mainland?”
“No, only at the great tree when Otulissa came with that young Pygmy…”
“Fritha?”
“Yes, Fritha, when they brought the books. I suppose.” Bess nervously tapped the cabinet on which she perched with her foot. She began again. “I suppose I should have gone out and explored a bit. But I have a hard time leaving this place. It’s…my…my weakness.”
“Yes,” Pelli replied softly. Soren had told her about this fear Bess had of leaving the Palace of Mists. “I don’t think it’s weakness, Bess. It’s loyalty and love that keeps you here.”
Bess just shook her head slowly. “I am not sure myself anymore. But whatever I can do here to help you, the Band, and the Guardians, I will. Rest assured.”
“The Band did not stop here, did they?”
“No, I haven’t seen a feather of them since they began the weather experiments Otulissa wrote me about.”
“I wish I could find them. They sent a letter back to Coryn saying that they needed to extend their stay indefinitely.”
“To Coryn? Didn’t Soren write you a note?” Bess asked. Pelli shook her head. “How odd.”
“Yes, I thought so, too.” Pelli sighed. “Well, I must go straight back, before I am missed. I left the B’s in Mrs. Plithiver’s charge.”
“Ah, Mrs. Plithiver. What an extraordinary creature.”
“Indeed!”
Pelli had planned to go straight back. She would have had she not caught a glimpse of something flapping against the broad and mottled trunk of a sycamore tree. Going into a steep dive, she pulled out of it mid-trunk-level and hovered so she could read the piece of paper. It was a notice, written by a scribe undoubtedly, and tied to the tree with vines. She read it aloud to herself.
“‘The four members of the Guardians of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, known collectively throughout the owl kingdoms as the Band, were seen consorting with scrooms and dabbling in faithless acts of hagscraft. They were doing this under the cover of a so-called scientific expedition. Further information suggests that they have renounced their Guardian oath and switched their allegiance to the Northern Kingdoms. For this reason, the parliament of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree forbids anyone to welcome them into their hollows, speak to them, or transact any manner of business with them. Warning: These owls are considered dangerous.’“
“I can’t believe it!” Pelli said. A terrible bilious feeling rose in her gizzard. She thought she might be sick. She settled on a branch just below the notices, then flipped her head almost upside down and read it again. It was as if her enti
re world fell apart in that minute. Of course, not for one second did she believe it. “Get a grip!” she muttered and, in fact, tightened her grip on the slender branch where she perched. Think, think, Pelli! she counseled herself. She took several deep breaths. Her mind began to organize itself. Quietly, the thoughts came to her in a more orderly fashion. If the Band had seen this notice, their first instincts, she realized, would be to fly back to the great tree and say this was nothing but a pack of lies. “But that would be the last thing they should do,” she whispered to herself. Because, she finished the thought in her head, it must be some sort of trap! And this is what she must tell them. But how to find them? How? Mist! Her gizzard and her brain suddenly twinkled with the thought. A light seemed to flood through her. They often visited Mist, or Hortense, as Soren and Gylfie called her. Hortense was the Glauxparent to the three B’s. It was a long trip to Ambala but she would spend an even longer time searching for the Band. Mist and her two eagles and the snakes always seemed to know almost everything that was transpiring on the mainland. In the end, it would save her time if she went directly there. She would make up some excuse if she was really late coming back.
But a dread began to rise within her. Although the Striga didn’t know she had left, if she were gone long enough to be missed, he would know that she might have seen the notices and then what? Well, she could not worry about that now. The most important thing was to alert the Band. Thank Glaux, she had gotten the Ember of Hoole out of there. “Thank Glaux,” she murmured to herself. She only hoped that Bubo’s ruse with the counterfeit ember had worked. It then dawned on her that the ember was not the only thing that was counterfeit. That letter Coryn had read! The one extending the Band’s “experiments.” Of course it was a fake! Hadn’t she really known it all along? And besides that, there was nothing wrong with consorting with scrooms. Many owls had at one time or another in their lives encountered the scroom of a relative or dear friend. It was consorting with hagsfiends that was bad. And, in that moment, Pelli reached the same conclusion that her mate had: This is hagscraft.