It was a wonderful time now in the N’yrthghar, particularly in the region of the Bitter Sea. Grank often said it should be called the Sweet Sea at this time of year, for the earth unlocked, much of the snow melted, and even where it did not, wildflowers sprang up at the edge of drifts. There were bright little yellow stars called avalanche lilies and tiny pink blossoms named teardrops of Glaux. Fragrant herbs and wonderfully soft mosses grew everywhere. Game was plentiful, though a bit scrawny after moon cycle upon moon cycle of deep winter.
One lovely spring evening at the cove, Hoole was having his first fishing lesson as Berwyck coached him from an overhanging limb of an alder. “That’s it, Hoole. You know when you do that downward spiral to break through the water, really lay those wings back close to your body. You want to be as a sleek and narrow as possible, like an ice blade slicing through the water.”
Hoole felt the water divide as he hit it. Silvery bubbles streamed back from his head. It was as if he were racing through a starry liquid night. His third eyelids slipped into place to protect his eyes from the water and any debris, just as they did in foul-weather flying. A grummy swam by. It was strange but he knew exactly what that fish would do. Indeed, he almost felt like a fish himself. Observing how the creature swam, he realized that in many ways swimming was like flying, and water was like air. There were waves of water just as there were drafts of air one could ride. To turn, the fish had to rudder its tail just as Hoole had to do when flying, and was doing right now underwater while tracking the fish. Then he started backstroking with his wings, which were almost like the grummy’s fins. At this particular moment, he felt himself become more fish than owl. Yet he still had his feathers, his talons. Suddenly, he knew this was the moment to snatch out with both talons. The fish was his! He burst through the surface of the water, the silver-blue grummy flopping about but firmly gripped in his talons. He deposited it at Berwyck’s feet and looked up.
“Good job. You’re a natural!”
Hoole hesitated.
“You know the rule, lad,” Berwyck said. “You catch it, you eat it! We don’t hunt for amusement!”
“Yes, Brother Berwyck.”
“Give it a good thwack and put it out of its misery, or its misery will shortly become your misery. You don’t want that critter flopping around inside you. They’re scratchy, especially the tail when you swallow them alive.”
Hoole gave it a good thwack, and the fish was instantly dead. He looked at it for a few seconds.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Berwyck said.
It was. In death, grummies turned all the colors of the rainbow. The silver and blue flushed into tints of rose and gold and purple and green. It was odd to think that death could have such beauty. Hoole blinked and gulped down the fish.
Somehow thinking about that question of death unleashed within him the other questions he had been wondering about for so long: questions not about death but about life.
“Berwyck,” Hoole began slowly.
Berwyck looked at him intently. He sensed that something of great import was about to happen, that this incredibly bright young owl wanted to know something vital.
“Berwyck,” Hoole began again. “How did I come to be?”
“To be?” Berwyck replied in a stunned voice. Although he had expected to be asked something important, he was astonished by the way Hoole put it.
“You were hatched, Hoole. You hatched out of the egg.”
“But what was there before the egg? Who made the egg? Uncle Grank?”
“No, no. It’s…er…well…it takes two owls to make an egg.”
“Two. Well, who were the two?”
“Well, a male and a female.”
“Male? Female?” Hoole had never heard these words.
“Yes, you’re a male,” Berwyck said.
“Are you?”
“Yes, and so is your uncle Grank and so is Theo.”
“Have I ever met a female?” Hoole asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“No,” Hoole said firmly. “I do think so.”
“You have? Where? When?”
“I can’t explain it. But I have.” Hoole thought of the image in the flames. “I have met her, and I think she might be near.”
She, her? How did he even know these terms? Berwyck wondered. And then it just slipped out of Berwyck’s beak. He had not meant to say it at all. “I think maybe your mum is dead and you’re an orphan.”
Hoole’s eyes blazed. “Dead like that fish! No, NEVER! She is not dead. I have a mum. Somewhere, someplace. I HAVE A MUM!”
Oh, Great Glaux, what have I started? thought Berwyck. Hoole was almost reeling. He staggered a bit and began to tip over, then pulled himself up tall and straight and, in a quavering voice, now said, “I have a mum and I love her, Berwyck.” He blinked. “I mean, I love Uncle Grank. And I love Theo. But I really love my mum. Don’t tell them. Please, please, don’t tell them that I might love her more.”
“Of course, lad, of course. And, Hoole…” He paused and fixed him in his amber gaze before continuing. “The world is big enough for all of your love, Hoole. All your love.”
Hoole would say nothing of any of this to Grank or Theo. And Berwyck said nothing, either. He had often wondered about Hoole’s origins but had never dared to ask. He had, however, assumed that Hoole was of very high birth; one could tell that by his bearing, the way he flew, something in his eyes. But Hoole was profoundly changed from that day on. He became quieter, reflective but not morose. Grank and Theo noticed this but they did not pry. Grank had planned to leave before the end of summer for the Beyond. It would be an ideal time to fly—between the time the katabats finished blowing and before the N’yrthnookah would begin. And Hoole would then be strong enough.
Hoole continued his fishing lessons with Berwyck and even started to acquire a taste for fish. Anchovies were his favorite. But they were very easy to catch as they swam close to the surface and hardly presented a sporting challenge.
One day as they were fishing, Berwyck seemed unusually quiet.
“Anything wrong, Berwyck?”
“No, not really. But I do need to tell you something. Something that might be a little difficult for you to understand.”
“Like the male-female thing?”
Berwyck churred. “No, and I think you understood that pretty quickly, lad.”
“Sort of,” Hoole said. He still had a lot of questions.
“Hoole, I have to go away for a while.”
“Where to? Why?”
“It is part of my duty as a Glauxian Brother. We all do this at some time and often more than once. We make what is called a ‘pilgrimage.’ We become pilgrims.”
“Is that like being male or female?”
“Oh, great Glaux in glaumora, no. It is one who takes a journey. When Glauxian Brothers go on a pilgrimage it is to help others.”
“Who needs help?”
“I’m not sure right now. But I am certain I shall find someone, some creature.”
“Oh.” Hoole was confused. “But will you come back? Will I ever see you again?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll come back. And yes, if you’re still here, I shall see you again.”
“I shall miss you terribly, Brother Berwyck. Whom will I fish with?”
“You could teach Theo.”
“Yes, but it won’t be the same.”
“Nothing is ever the same, Hoole. That’s what makes life life.”
CHAPTER TEN
A Distressed Pygmy
Theo took a pointy stick in his talon and scratched a somewhat lopsided circle in the dirt near his forge. “This is where we are,” he said to Hoole. “An island in the middle of this small sea called the Bitter Sea.”
“Doesn’t the island have a name? If the sea has one, why doesn’t the island?”
“I don’t know. Interesting question. Would you like to name it?”
“Me?”
Theo wanted to answer: because you are a prince and w
ill be a king and kings of the N’yrthghar have that privilege. But he didn’t.
“Yes, you.”
“I’ll try and think of something.” Hoole bent closer to the ground. “So what does this sea flow into?”
“The Everwinter Sea,” Theo replied.
The lad was naturally curious. An apt pupil, he learned quickly the lessons of geography and of N’yrthghar history. He knew of the great exploits and triumphs of King H’rath, who was killed by Lord Arrin; of H’rath’s father, King H’rathmore; of how his forebears had learned to make from ice things that no one had ever dreamed; of how they had not only made weapons for war but things for peace—the ice harps, the first books, called bhags. He knew all about the illustrious line of H’rathian monarchs and yet he had no idea that he was now the last of this line, a prince being made ready to become a king.
For the most part, Theo gave the lessons in geography and the sciences—geology, the art of forging metals, and some celestial navigation. Hoole had by this time learned all the constellations. It was Grank who gave the history lessons and the lessons of government, carefully explaining the knightly codes of honor and service.
“How old do you have to be before you can get to be a knight?” Hoole asked Grank one day.
“Well, it’s not simply a question of age. One has to prove oneself. Do something quite extraordinary.”
“I am guessing,” Hoole said with a small glint in his amber eyes, “that fishing doesn’t count. Brother Berwyck said I am an extraordinary fisher owl.”
Grank laughed. “No, fishing doesn’t count, young’un. But enough lessons for today. Why don’t you take yourself off to that cove you so love now that the weather has finally cleared?”
“Phineas? Your name is Phineas?” Hoole asked.
The tiny Pygmy Owl who barely stood as high as Hoole’s chest shook his head as if to clear it. This was the first time Hoole had returned to the cove to fish since Berwyck had left. For three days spring storms and tornadoes had raged in the region of the Bitter Sea. When he did come back and perched in an aspen tree—his favorite place for spotting fish—he found it quite incredible that although the ground was littered with the debris of broken branches, the wildflowers still trembled on the forest floor and banks of the cove. Hoole had been contemplating how these tiny fragile things had hung on while entire trees had been stripped of limbs, leaves, and even uprooted when he spotted a tiny dazed owl huddled close to the trunk of the tree on the same branch that he himself was perched.
“Yes, Phineas is my name,” the little owl said.
He appeared disheveled and disinclined to talk. Hoole scrutinized him. He had seen so few owls in his short life. Three to be exact. Uncle Grank, a Spotted Owl like himself; Theo, a Great Horned Owl; and Berwyck, a Boreal. Never had he seen an owl this tiny. Above each eye was a curve of short white feathers that reminded Hoole of minnows. And were those spots of lighter-colored feathers or bars or just smudges?
“What do you call those…those things?” Hoole blinked and nodded with his head as if to indicate what he was referring to.
“What things? My wings?”
“I mean those patches of white. Are they spots or bars or what?”
“Or what.”
“What?”
“Or what,” replied the owl.
Now it was Hoole who was shaking his head in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“You asked me if my white feathers were spots, bars, or what. They are or whats.”
“You mean they are not spots or bars.”
“Yes,” the owl sighed wearily, “that is what I mean.”
Hoole blinked again as if contemplating the “or whats.” “They look kind…kind of…”
“Kind of what?” Phineas asked testily.
“Kind of disorganized.”
“You’d be disorganized, too, if you had been tossed about on the edges of tornadoes for three days, sucked up through the Ice Narrows, nearly smacked into a hagsfiend, and then blown here.”
“What’s a hagsfiend?”
The tiny owl blinked in dismay. “Where have you been all your life?” he asked.
“Here,” Hoole replied.
“Look, I’m really tired. I just have to sleep awhile.” Phineas closed his eyes tightly, stood rigid, and began to sleep in the classic sleep perch posture of owls outside of hollows.
“Wait—just a couple more questions.”
“Oh, Glaux have mercy!” Phineas sighed.
“Are you grown up or what? I mean, you’re so weensy.”
“Weensy? What a disgusting word.” The two little curves of white feathers above Phineas’s eyes collided with one another in a frown.
“Small?”
“Slightly better. Yes, I am grown up.”
“How up?”
Great Glaux in glaumora, this is the weirdest owl I have ever met. “I hatched a year ago.”
“How come you’re so small?”
“Because I am a frinkin’ Pygmy Owl, and this is how big we grow. What you see is what you get! I mean really!”
“All right…all right. Calm down,” Hoole said.
“Calm down! You calm down! Enough with the questions.”
Hoole, of course, ignored that. “Are you male or female?”
Now the Pygmy’s beak dropped open. “I am utterly flabbergasted.”
“Flabbergasted.” Hoole hopped up and down on the branch in delight. “I love that word! I just love that word. Say it again. Please, again.”
“FLABBERGASTED! It means shocked beyond…beyond…”
At this, Hoole flew straight up in to the air and turned a neat little somersault and landed again.
“Are you from Beyond the Beyond? My uncle Grank talks about Beyond the Beyond all the time.”
“Beyond belief!”
“Oh, so that’s where you’re from—Beyond Belief. I’ve never heard of that place.”
“It’s not a place. It is a state of mind! I am a male.”
“Me, too! I haven’t met a female yet. I was sort of hoping you’d be one. You know, just because I have never met one, but don’t worry, you’re fine.”
“Oh, I am soo relieved, because frankly there is very little I can do about it.”
“Yeah, I know, I know.” Hoole nodded his head quickly and with what he considered great authority. “I know all about that male-female thing. Uncle Grank told me and so did Brother Berwyck.” He paused. “Uncle Grank is…uh…raising me, ‘cause I might be an orphan or something but I don’t believe it. Anyhow, Brother Berwyck is my friend, a Boreal Owl, but he left a few days ago.”
“I think I might have passed him blowing out while I was blowing in.”
“Oh, I hope he’s all right.”
“He looked fine to me. Very strong flier.”
“You want to come back to my hollow and meet Uncle Grank and Theo?”
Phineas looked at the young Spotted Owl. It was certainly no use trying to rest here. What did he have to lose? He might get some food and he was too tired to hunt right now himself. “Sure.”
“Oh, great!” And Hoole jumped up into the air again and did a somersault finishing with a half twist just before he landed. When he did land, he winked at Phineas. “I’m working on that one. I am aiming for a double twist.”
Phineas made a sound, something between a sigh and a groan.
“Uncle Grank, Uncle Grank, Theo! Come out. Come out!” Hoole and Phineas alighted on the branch just outside the hollow. Grank stepped out from the hollow, and Theo flew up from the forge. “This is Phineas. He’s a disorganized male Pygmy Owl from Beyond Belief and he’s full-grown. And don’t call him weensy. But small is all right to say…and…and oh, I nearly forgot—he said this wonderful new word. He taught it to me: flabbergasted. I just love that word. Say it, Uncle Grank…flabber…just say it. I know it sounds long—flabber…”
“Flabbergasted!” roared Grank. “For Glaux’s sake, slow down, Hoole.” Grank blinked and shook his
head. In so many ways, this little prince was so much like his father, King H’rath. The unbound enthusiasms, the pure joy and delight in owlkind, in life!
“Well, can we keep him?”
“Keep him!” Grank, Theo, and Phineas all hooted in unison.
“Hoole,” Grank said sharply. “He is a living thing, an owl. We do not keep living things. We welcome him. Welcome, young Phineas.”
“Thank you, sir,” Phineas said solemnly, and spun his head toward Hoole. “I am not an object for your passing fancies, I am not an amusement.” Hoole wilfed a bit as owls do when they are suddenly intimidated. There was certainly nothing amusing about the little owl right now.
“Yes, yes. Sorry. I understand,” Hoole said. “But will you stay for a while? I’ll share my vole with you. It was too big to eat all at once. So I just tore off the head for a snack.” Hoole hopped up to a notch hole where they stored food and dragged out the headless vole. “It’s all yours!”
My Glaux, thought Grank. If the kingdom is restored and there is ever a court again in the N’yrthghar, how shall I ever prepare this lad for courtly behavior?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Snow Rose Meets Elka
Ygryk and Pleek had landed on the smallest of a cluster of three islands called the Tridents. It was here that Ygryk would perform an ancient charm that would temporarily disguise her for one night and one day as an owl—a Great Horned, the same species as her mate. The run from the Tridents to the Bitter Sea was short, especially with this sudden change of wind, which now came from the south, boosting their speed considerably. Pleek had seen his mate do this transformation just twice before and it always amazed him. The gleaming black feathers grew dull and gradually specks of white began to appear. The dense ruff feathers that grew just under the beak turned white and those on her chest turned gray and became mottled with white patches in a ripplelike pattern. Lastly, the two huge tufts that swept out from every hagsfiend’s brow began to shrink and poke up in the manner of a Great Horned’s tufts, directly above the eyes, which now had semicircles of white feathers.