St. Aggie’s was the despicable group of owls who owl-napped hatchlings and eggs from their nests, who moon blinked them to make them docile and unquestioning, who made the owl families of Ambala live in a constant state of fear, season after season. Braithe grew up hearing stories of their villainy and was no stranger to the evil deeds of Skench and her cohorts. He also heard myriad stories of a Spotted Owl named Hortense, who bravely infiltrated St. Aggie’s to rescue countless eggs. Braithe had heard the saying all his life: “A hero is known by only one name, and that name is Hortense.” Ambala never took for granted the sacrifice made by Hortense, nor did it ever forgive the atrocities committed by the owls of St. Aggie’s.
How was it possible that Braithe’s own father was working for St. Aggie’s, as the fragments of parchment implied? Over and over Braithe reviewed the damning letter for clues: My work at St. Aggie’s is going well……That certainly sounded bad. The last egg I snatched……Was his da really an egg snatcher? Happy to raise it as my own……Could Braithe himself have hatched from a snatched egg? Was Bo not even his real da? And why had his mum never spoken of this? Did she know of her mate’s treachery all along? The letter must have meant a great deal to her if she kept its fragments. Now it was too late to ask either of them. Braithe feared that he would never find the answers.
He read the fragments again. Each time he looked at the words, he hoped he would discover something, a new tidbit of information, a revelation he had previously missed. But the words were the same, as were the pieces of soft, worn parchment. Same, too, was the potent mix of shame and doubt gnawing at his gizzard. My father, an egg snatcher working for St. Aggie’s! How can it be true?
Braithe carefully tucked the parchment back into the leather pouch. He took out one of the books of poetry he had brought back from the great tree and began to read. He knew sleep would elude him today.
A few nights later, Braithe found himself perched in a heartwood in front of three eager owlets. It was story time for the family of young Spotted Owls. Sasha, Patch, and Avi were very excited because they were about to hear one of their favorite tales from the Others: “The Ransom of Red Chief.” And Braithe was one of their favorite storytellers in all of the Brad.
“It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you…” Braithe began.
“The Ransom of Red Chief” was a simple tale written by O. Henry, one of the Others. In it, two criminals kidnap a little boy for ransom. But their young captive, a bratty and mischievous boy who calls himself Red Chief, actually enjoys staying with his kidnappers, thinking it a great adventure. Red Chief drives his captors yoicks with his game of pretend, tormenting them with pranks and making them play wearying games with him. In the end, instead of getting the ransom they demanded, the two criminals pay the boy’s father to take him back.
Sasha, Patch, and Avi had heard the story so many times that they nearly had it memorized themselves. Still, they listened with great anticipation.
Braithe got to the part where the two criminals first take the boy captive. He recited: “‘That boy put up a fight like a welterweight cinnamon bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away.’” His mind began to wander. The Others snatched young’uns, too, he thought. How terrible. He began to think about his da again, and all the owlets and eggs he might have snatched from families who did want them back. And if he was hatched from a snatched egg, who were his real parents, and did they want him back?
The three owlets listening to Braithe tilted their heads and then looked at one another quizzically. He wasn’t telling the story right. Not only that, Braithe’s voice had become monotonous to the point of being too boring to listen to. It was a far cry from the animated and exciting storytelling they were used to.
Braithe finished the story, all the while still thinking of his father, Bo, St. Aggie’s, and the snatched eggs. He looked up at the three owlets. They stared at him curiously.
“Um, I think you missed a part,” said Avi.
“You missed the best part!” complained Patch.
“Yeah, you got the ending all wrong! Without the part about the dad’s letter, it doesn’t even make sense!” added Sasha.
Braithe was confused. He thought he had told the whole story just as it was written.
The owlets were quick to point out his mistake.
“The dad sends a letter back to the bad guys, he says no, I won’t give you two thousand dollars and if you want me to take Red Chief back, you’re going to have to give me money!” Sasha exclaimed in a single breath.
“And when they bring Red Chief back the dad has to hold on to him because he doesn’t want to go home and keeps trying to run back to Bill and Sam…”
“And then the two criminals run away!” Avi finished for his brother.
“I missed all of that?” asked Braithe, embarrassed by his own blunder.
“YES!” the three owlets whined, looking disappointed.
Patch added, “It’s a good thing we already knew the story. If we had never heard it before, we might have thought it was a bad story. But it’s a good story, a really good one.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Braithe, and he was. He felt he had let the owlets down. He couldn’t believe that he would miss something so simple yet so vital to the story.
“It’s okay,” said Sasha, “just please remember the whole story next time.”
Braithe roosted in his nest, determined to sleep. He had not slept in days. His eyes were heavy and he felt groggy, but every time he began to doze, he started himself awake. It was a vicious cycle—the less he slept, the more he worried about not sleeping. It was beginning to make him forget things. Just the other night, Braithe had to stop midway through reciting the Fire Cycle of the legends to another group of hatchlings. He had forgotten the story! The Fire Cycle, of all things, for shame! Getting lost while reciting a story by one of the Others was one thing, but the Fire Cycle was different. It was one of the first tales he had ever memorized, one that parents have told to their owlets for generations, one that he thought was etched in the deepest part of his memory. The dreams of his father were tormenting him more than he had realized. They were beginning to cause him to lose that which was most precious to him—the books he kept in his mind. Even when he was awake, his thoughts kept returning to his da and the fragments of parchment hidden in the secret compartment in the knot. Braithe wondered if he could ever be free of his haunting dreams.
As he nestled deeper into the moss, he noticed that a stillness had fallen over the dell. It was as if a heavy cloud had enveloped him. The air thickened and blurred with mist. Braithe felt as if he were in a dream, but he knew he was still wide awake. From the corner of his eye, Braithe saw an owl. His head felt almost too heavy to move. He had to will himself to turn his head toward the direction of the owl. But when he did, he saw nothing but the forest around him.
Braithe stared into the mist. Then, slowly, the lingering mist began to gather itself into the shape of an owl. The image was shimmering and shifting in the dim light but it was now clearly an old Whiskered Screech. Braithe saw that the owl was not just old, he was decrepit and battered. He was missing a toe on his left foot, his left eye seemed to be stuck in a perpetual squint, and his beak had a deep notch in it. Braithe realized then that the owl was the reflection he had seen in his dream. He should have been scared, but he wasn’t. He looked at the old owl with searching eyes. Despite his ghastly appearance, there was something oddly comforting and familiar about him.
The old Whiskered Screech moved his beak as if to say something. The sound that Braithe heard reminded him of distant thunder. Braithe tried to lean toward the owl to hear better. Suddenly, he felt himself rising from his nest, yet he knew he was perfectly still. Braithe watched as a misty version of himself drifted toward the old owl.
The two mist owls hovered outside of Braithe’s hollow.
What is happening? Who are you? Braithe asked the apparition. He wasn’t using his voice,
he realized, and he wasn’t using his body, either. He had left his body behind on the nest, and a misty version of himself was speaking to the old Whiskered Screech—using only his mind—and the old owl heard him.
But instead of answering his questions, the old owl gazed at him wistfully and said again, Lil’s spots, just as Braithe had heard in his dream.
I don’t understand. Are you a scroom?
I’m Ezylryb. Or Lyze of Kiel, as I was once called.
The weather ryb from the great tree? I’ve heard of you, of course! But why are you here?
Your gizzard is troubled. You carry a great burden…a secret that fills you with shame. Your da…
What do you know about my da? Braithe thought desperately. This scroom was reading his gizzard as well as his mind!
Your da was a good owl.
These fragments of parchment…Braithe looked back at his nest. Thoughts rushed from him. In his mind he explained to Ezylryb about the fragments of the letter that he had found, and how he suspected that his da had been in league with the owls of St. Aggie’s, and was an egg snatcher. He also told him about his fears of having been snatched himself as an egg. When he was finished, the misty Ezylryb looked at him with a strange mix of doubt and tenderness.
Your da was a good owl, the scroom repeated.
Braithe wanted desperately to believe the old scroom.
Then what does this letter mean? Why does it say that my da was loyal to St. Aggie’s? Why does it say that he snatched eggs?
I don’t know, lad, I don’t know…Ezylryb’s misty image began to fade.
Wait! Then why are you here? Braithe asked. Isn’t it true that scrooms always have unfinished business? Do you think this is yours?
Ezylryb’s scroom said nothing for what seemed to Braithe like an eternity. Finally, he responded. Something drew me here. I had visited Ambala many times in my life, but never knew about this place. Then, after passing, I found myself here again and again, and I didn’t know why. That is, until I saw you. I think I needed to see you. And maybe you also needed to see me. To know where you came from and who you are.
Braithe was at a loss for words. He knew where he came from—Ambala—but that his da was a good owl he couldn’t quite believe, much as he wanted to. Sadness possessed him again.
I guess I thought you would know. I wish you could tell me more. I wish you had all the answers. And more than anything I wish I could believe that my da was a good owl. What he wrote on that parchment seems to prove otherwise, Braithe replied.
When I passed, I found I knew many things. But not everything. It’s like I know the story, but not all the words that make up the story. I know he was good, though not why, or how.
Braithe pondered this. If he was a good owl, then what was he doing at St…Braithe paused midthought. He was about to ask a rhetorical question when something that Ezylryb said hit him. The story! He was reminded of his telling of “The Ransom of Red Chief” to the three Spotted Owlets a few nights ago. He thought he was telling the story, but he’d left out some of the words. And a few missing words can change a story completely! Maybe he’d got his da’s story all wrong.
He was a good owl at St. Aggie’s, Braithe continued. Of course, there were good owls at St. Aggie’s! Hortense! All those stories I’ve heard about how Hortense saved hundreds of eggs and owlets while pretending to be moon blinked. And Grimble. Soren has told me about the noble Grimble, who helped him and Gylfie to escape. If only I could have spoken to one of them…
Hortense is Mist, said Ezylryb’s scroom.
I know, thought Braithe sadly. Hortense is gone, into the mists of time, long gone…
No. Hortense is Mist. Her name is Mist.
Braithe’s mind was racing, as was his gizzard. What?! he thought.
She is no longer known as Hortense, but she lives, here, in Ambala. You know her as Mist.
Mist’. Braithe repeated. He could hardly believe it. He knew Mist well. But he never knew that she was once the celebrated Hortense. The answers to his questions might have been a night’s flight away all along. He just didn’t know to ask. As he pondered this, the mist surrounding him began to dissolve and Ezylryb faded away.
When night fell, Braithe flew north to the place of eagles and flying snakes with the fragments of parchment clutched in his talons. There he found the scintillating and vaporous owl he had always known as Mist, and her two companions, the eagles Zan and Streak.
What Braithe learned was that, as Hortense, Mist hadn’t known Braithe’s father, Bo. After she was thrown off the highest cliff at St. Aggie’s and caught by Streak, her career as an infiltrator ended, and she returned to Ambala. As she recuperated, she had gotten word that a Whiskered Screech had taken her place as a slipgizzle at St. Aggie’s. The owl worked tirelessly and rescued scores of eggs and chicks with the help of the eagles Streak and Zan, just as Hortense had done. But they never knew his real name. He was known only by his code name: 16-7. “I’m not doing this to be a hero,” he had told them. “I’m doing this for the future of Ambala.”
When Zan saw the fragments of parchment that Braithe held, she immediately went to her nest and brought back a small botkin. She dug through the botkin and pulled out a few more fragments of parchment.
“We saved all the letters we ever received from 16-7—from Bo, I mean,” Streak explained. “These fragments were brought to us by his mate…your mother, I presume. She did not want to keep anything in her nest that implicated her mate as a slipgizzle in case the nest was ever raided by St. Aggie’s.”
“Why do you suppose she kept these fragments, then?” asked Braithe.
“I don’t know,” answered Streak.
Zan looked at Streak and opened her beak to signal something. Streak nodded, and said, “Zan thinks your mum must have wanted to hold on to something from your da, something to remember him by. But she couldn’t keep the whole letter because it implicated him. So, she tore away the parts that did and kept the rest.”
Braithe look the fragments of the parchment from Zan. He laid them on the wide branch on which he perched, and pieced them together with the fragments he brought. Finally, he had the whole letter before him, and it told the whole story:
My Dearest,
My work at St. Aggie’s is going well. However, I fear that some owls here are beginning to question my devotion to Skench and Sporn. I must redouble my efforts to convince them that I am most loyal to St. Aggie’s. I’m afraid that means I’ll have to be more aggressive on raids.
We are preparing to raid nests in the Forest Kingdom of Tyto again. I’ve already told Streak and Zan that I’ll be ready to deliver the next egg to them on the new moon. In my last conversation with the eagles, I was told that the last egg I snatched from the eggorium never hatched. That is sad news indeed, for I would have been happy to raise it as my own. I suspect our son would have loved a little brother or sister.
I know my work has been hard on our family, especially on young Braithe, but I feel that it is vital to Ambala and to owlkind that I continue. The tyrants of St. Aggie’s must be stopped at all costs. Ambala must resist. I hope to return to you soon.
Yours always,
16-7
Braithe sighed deeply. He needed no scroom to tell him now that his da was a good and noble owl. He had the proof before him. He felt his gizzard untwist and a weight lift from his broad breast. He packed all the fragments of the restored letter into a small botkin and thanked Zan and Streak for their revelations. He bid farewell to Mist. She seemed to shimmer with gladness as he took to the air. Banking, swooping, and playing on the thermals, he winged it home to the Brad. He felt his life was beginning anew and was full of wonderful possibilities. The wind was a caress, and the stars were not twinkling but smiling down on him.
Back at the Brad, Braithe settled into his nest and drifted off into a deep, restful, dreamless sleep. Near the end of the day, at first dark he awoke to the odd sensation that he was being watched. There, just a wingspan from his
nest, the scroom of Ezylryb coalesced out of the early evening fog that hung in the dell. The old owl seemed to stare at Braithe.
You! Back again? Braithe exclaimed. I thought your work was done. But I am glad, so glad! I wanted to thank you. The thoughts tumbled from Braithe’s mind toward the old Whiskered Screech. The scroom seemed to churr in answer.
Lil’s spots.
Lil’s spots? Braithe repeated.
Yes, Lil’s spots.
The voice Braithe heard in his head was soft and slightly melancholy, but in it Braithe also sensed contentment and relief. You have inherited her spots, Ezylryb went on. Those mahogany and white spots on your wings…Mahogany and white, your da had the same spots on his wings. They came from his mother—my mate. Lil.
Inherited? Braithe asked with his mind’s voice. I don’t understand.
Nor did I, until I passed. I thought I had lost the egg, my last connection to my Lil, during the battle of the Ice Claws. But that egg hatched. And that chick survived.
Braithe was puzzled. What had all of this to do with him? And why had Ezylryb spoken of inheritance? The scroom was beginning to fade before him.
Wait! he called to Ezylryb with his mind.
You say you know you come from Ambala, lad, but it’s a little more complicated than that. Our chick, mine and Lil’s, was not lost. Good-hearted owls found him, took him to Ambala, and raised him as their own. Ezylryb’s image seemed to solidify momentarily, and his chest to swell with pride. They named him Bo! He lived a good life as a good owl.
Braithe tried to make sense of what he just heard. He stared at the scroom of Ezylryb in disbelief.
How do you know all this?
When I passed from this world it came to me little by little until I just knew. Then it was as if I had always known.
Braithe understood, at last. But this means—
Bo was my son, Ezylryb intoned in Braithe’s mind. And he was your father, so—