“Sssh!” someone else hissed, ”It’s almost time for the Ultimate Elevation.”
Ultimate Elevation, my butt feathers! Otulissa thought, but she did not say a word this time. One could not be too careful these days.Something strange had befallen the tree. It had really begun before the Band left but she had not taken notice of it then. The tree seemed to have entered a phase of eternal golden glory. But no one at that time had likened it to the glow of the ember itself. If anything, they spoke of it as a lingering tinge of color from the summer. But now owls compared it to the glow of the ember. It was, they said, as if the radiance of the ember had infused the very fabric of the tree. New nest-maid guilds had been started. One was a choir, the Choir of the Ember, that sang only songs composed for praise of the ember. Another group of nest-maids combined with a smaller group of owls wrote these hymns of praise. Owls who had once spent their days practicing their fighting skills with battle claws and ice swords were now painting and composing poetry. And young’uns were learning at astonishingly accelerated rates. Hatchlings rescued from forest fires were learning bow to read almost before their flight feathers had fledged, Fritha, a Pygmy Owl, was well into a study of higher magnetics, reading texts that had stumped Otulissa when she was much older.
All this should have warmed Otulissa’s gizzard. But she had felt a creeping dread. Because along with all this knowledge too many of the owls of the tree seemed to be growing more and more obsessed with the ember. The knowledge was not illuminating but seemed shadowed in a strange way - shadowed by the glow of the ember, if such a thing could be. This in itself was somewhat of a puzzle, a conundrum for Otulissa. For like all owls she valued the dark, the shadows. Darkness, the night, shades, and shadows had always been illuminating for owls. They did not fear the times when the moon dwenked to nothingness. They reveled in the long winter nights when the days shortened to mere hours. But now she was begining to think of shadows as dangerous things. She herself had begun to read deeply into philosophical texts about the meaning of light and the absence of light, of darkness in the world of owls.From her perch in the hollow, she glanced about and caught sight of Eglantine peering with an intensely worried look at her best friend, Primrose, who had been asked for this ceremony to fly with a thimbleful of ashes shed by the ember. The little Pygmy Owl was doing a very good job of it as she turned and banked in a tight circle around the “en-hollowed” ember, casting its ashes in what Otulissa had heard was called the “flight path of Elevation.” She had no idea what that meant. Every day there seemed to be a new ritual to be named, to be enacted, to be followed in service to the Ember of Hoole. What does it all mean? Otulissa thought. Why have shadows become dangerous? Why is the world of owls being turned inside out? She remembered how Soren and Gylfie had told her about the horrors of St. Aggie’s, where owls were forced to sleep during the night and work during the day. St. Aggie’s had been an inside-out world. Was that what was happening here at the tree? Her gizzard lurched fiercely.
Otulissa suddenly decided that this kind of contemplation and theorizing was impractical. She needed to think back and try to pinpoint when the changes had started. Even before the Band left she realized now that many of the owls had become very concerned about the well-being of the ember. Then, within nights of their leaving, Gemma had introduced the idea of moving the ember to a “safer” place where the watch that Coryn had appointed could better guard it. This suggestion did not seem all that unreasonable at the time. Coryn’s hollow was small. Only so many owls could keep an eye on it. It was Elyan who had come up with the notion, despite
Coryn’s orders that any guard should be representative of all the creatures of the tree, that, within the watch, there must be an “inner guard,” an honor guard. Otulissa, Bubo, Eglantine, and Ruby had voted against this. Fleemus had abstained. But still the measure passed. Then all of a sudden they decided an honor guard wasn’t good enough. There had to be an even higher level that had certain military powers, but not an army exactly: a militia that they called the Guardians of the Guardians of the Ember, or the GGE. The creation of the GGE had not been voted upon by parliament. It had just happened. No one was sure how, and now there was this Elevation! Elyan, Gemma, and Yeena, members of the militia through some complicated procedure, had been “Elevated.” Otulissa, in reviewing the course of events, realized it had begun to accelerate with a visit from Trader Mags,
The magpie trader had discovered some new ruins of the Others and had arrived with, a load of her cheap and tawdry gewgaws, including funny-looking hats that no owl could actually wear. One of these had become the “sacred ash bin” for the cold ashes scraped from the ember’s container. Mags also had brought scraps of ermine that Madame Plonk immediately claimed. “Ceremonial, dear! Them’s the robes of state,” Mags kept, saying. “Yes, I really lucked out this time. One of them queens or kings of the
Others had kept a stash in this place.“Souvenirs from coronations, from rituals of the Others’ churches ,piles of cloth stitched with silver and gilt thread provided enough to start yet another guild among the nest-maid snakes, a fine embroidery and sewing guild. Mags had hired a dozen helpers to transport all the loot. She had helpfully brought along some pictures of a queen and her attendance as well as many of the Others church leaders all dressed up for celebrations of their own Glaux, so that the owl’s of the tree could see the costume and pomp of Others
Oh how Otulissa rued the day Mags had arrived with all this junk! What would that sweet-faced queen with her kind blue eyes have thought of a bunch of owls flapping through the air wearing all her royal crappings? We ‘re owls, for Glaux’s sake,not Others!Again Otulissa clamped her beak shut for fear the words might escape.
The Procession was quite a spectacle. She saw a small company of Nothern Saw -whets and Pygmy swopp down from above. On their heads the owls wore ivory thimbles,like the one that Primrose had flown with. They deposited the thimbles in a row near the ember. Some ashes were poured into the thimbles. Near them was a set of decorated teacups and some more ashes were placed in these. Analysis of the ember’s sparks and ashes had become a favorite field of study for many owls, especially among the
GGE. A ritual had even been invented that involved the dusting of ashes on the wing tips of those owls about to be Elevated to the position of High Owls of the Ember. It was all just too ridiculous to even imagine owls doing. But the problem was someone had imagined it. And not just one owl, but several. Were they so bored in these times of peace and prosperity that their minds had turned to this senseless veneration, this worship of a coal? Of course Otulissa knew that it was no mere coal. Indeed, it was an ember that possessed great powers that could be used for good or for evil. That was the lesson of the legends. And it was true that one must be vigilant not to let a graymalkin get close, an owl like Nyra, to be precise. But nowhere did legends suggest anything more than vigilance. How had all this veneration come about? And so quickly? The Band and Coryn had barely been gone a moon cycle. How she wished they would come back soon. Then perhaps all this would end. But would it? Otulissa felt her gizzard tremble.
CHAPTER NINECoryn Sneaks Out
Luckily for Coryn, the hollow where he artel the Band had settled was not. that far from the. Shadow Forest, And the winds had eased up. So he hoped he could make quick work of this. He would go back to the region near the pond where be had spent the better part of a winter after escaping from. Nyra and the Pure Ones. It was there that he had first encountered the rabbit. As he flew in the broad light, of clay, he kept a sharp lookout for crows but so tar had seen none. And as he approached the old fallen tree trunk where he had lived., he felt a flutter in his gizzard. Would the rabbit still, he there? It seemed almost, impossible that, a rabbit in these woods thick with owls could have survived so long -…..even a mystic one. The scene was still so vivid in Coryn s mind. He had seen the plump, succulent rabbit, sitting perfectly still, as if transfixed, in front of a beautiful spiderweb, The rabbit was studying the designs in th
e web, “reading” them, lie said. Their conversation came back to Coryn now.
“I’m a mystic of sorts,” the rabbit had begun to explain when Coryn asked him what he was doing. “I see certain things where others don’t.”
“In a spiderweb?”“Precisely. I’m a web reader.”
But right now as Coryn flew across the pond, the rabbit was nowhere in sight. Coryn spent several hours scouring the surrounding region. He knew time was running out. To fly back to the hollow in the fir tree in Silverveil he would now have to fly against the rising wind. The Band would be worried, possibly furious. The sun was sinking fast, tie knew he could not spend any more time. He made one more circle around the pond. Still no sign of the rabbit. So he climbed high above the forest, turned toward Silverveil, and flew on.
He had not been flying long when he picked up a raucous din on the edges of the wind. “By Glaux, that sounds like a grog tree. Soren had told him that grog trees had begun to reappear in the Southern Kingdoms shortly after the Battle of the Burning in. the canycnlands. He had never been, to one and he thought this might just be the time. What better place to pick up gossip? But would he be recognized? Most assuredly so. The scar that slashed across his face was a mirror image of Nyra’s. They knew that he was not Nyra, but. they also knew that he was a king and the inheritor of the ember. Gadfeathers! The word exploded in his brain and sent his gizzard into a tizzy. Hadn’t Soren also said that gad-feathers were returning? Maybe he could disguise himself!
Gadfeathers, known for their singing as well as their garish ways, festooned themselves with all manner of discarded feathers from other birds, twigs, strands of ivy - whatever was available. But what if they ask me to sing? Coryn blinked. He had no idea if he could sing. He wasn’t a Snowy or a Boreal Owl, who were known for their fine voices. He supposed he could try. The whole idea was a bit overwhelming. Then a strange quiver moved through his gizzard as he remembered that in the last of the legends, King Hoole had gone in gadfeather disguise.He alighted in an oak tree overgrown with lovely ever-ivy. a variety that stayed green year round. He could drape some over his head to disguise the scar. There were even some scarlet winter berries growing on a vine as well. But could he sing? He shut his eyes tight and tried to remember one of the old songs from the legends that the Snow Rose, a very famous gadfeather, had sung. It was about wandering and freedom and might appeal to the crowd at a grog tree. He tried a few lines of the song.
I’ll find a feather for your ruff fly away with me till dawn.
Fly away then we’ll be gone.
Hollows we shall leave behind,fly to places they’ I! never find.
For a Barn Owl he didn’t sound all that bad. Granted, he was no Madame Plonk-but he wasn;t a total disaster either. Well, here goes, he thought as he tore off length of ivy and draped it across his face and tucked bright red winter berry twiglets into his tail feathers. He launched himself off the oak branch feeling ridiculous but resolved, and headed towards the grog tree. The north side of the tree, a sycamore with dozens of low-spreading limbs, was vacant. All the owls had congregated in the lower branches on the south side of the tree. He soon saw why. Soarkling in the setting sun were the bright and gaudy wares of none other than Trader Mags. She had spread her goods on a deep purple velvet cloak. “Oh , yes , dearie ,“he heard her saying .“this here represents my new discovery. Bubbles, go fetch them ermine trimmings like I sold Madame Plonk.
“Oh, Madame Plonk bought some of these?“Coryn heard an owl ask. Madame Plonk was known throughout the owl kingdom not only for her magnificent voice but for her glamour.
“Yes, darlin’, and this purple cloth with the tufts of ermine would look fabulous on you.
“She’s getting on - ain’t she now? I’m surprised she can haul this stuff around on her back while she sings.”
“She ain’t as young as you, darlin’.” Trader Mags was loathe to bad-beak her most devoted client. “She mostly wears it in her apartment for high tea. Speaking of which, some time ago I sold her my last coronation teacup. But I might have a line on where I can get another.”Coryn hid in the shadows of the tree. He had a perfect view of the goods and it was not the “gewgaws,” as Otulissa called Trader Mags’s glittery wares, that, attracted him but a tattered old book off to one side. The cover was made from lemming skins. There was only one place where lemmings lived and that was in the Northern Kingdoms, or the N’yrthghar, as it had once been called. On the front of the book an odd design had been etched. Coryn’s gizzard grew still and then twisted violently. It was the image of a strange, bird - a cross between an owl and a puffin. A puffowl! The result of a monstrous experiment - the creation of that supreme hagsfiend — Kreeth, That was her book! The Book of Kreeth!
CHAPTER TENThe Nature of Hadsfiends Is discussed
Look, I know you are all angry with me for sneaking off,” Coryn turned his head and looked slyly at the Band, “but it isn’t as if I invented sneaking off. Didn’t I spend my first day of this expedition listening to stories about the four of you sneaking off from the great tree?” “Point well made,” Soren conceded. “But why? Why did you do this and leave us all worried to death?” Gylfie pressed. “You’re not just any owl, Coryn. You are the king.”
“Yes, exactly. I am not just any owl.” He hesitated. “But it had nothing to do with my being king.”
Soren suddenly wilfed and felt an alarming tremor in his gizzard. He’s not going to tell them … is he? At that moment Coryn seemed to almost read Soren’s mind and spun his head toward his uncle. “They have to know, Soren. It’s time.”
“Have to know what? Time for what?” Digger asked. Digger, Twilight, and Gylfie nervously exchanged glances.
Soren closed his eyes and tried to still his gizzard. Perhaps Coryn was right. Perhaps they did have to know, and maybe bringing it out in the open would lessen Coryn’s obsession with his mother.“I think my mother, Nyra, is a hagsfiend.”
Digger, Twilight, and Gylfie willed. Even burly Twilight was a mere misty shadow of his former self. “That can’t be true,” he whispered hoarsely.
Soren stepped forward. He had to say something.
“Don’t deny it, Soren!” Coryn said. There was a sharpness in his voice that the others had never heard before.
“It’s not a Question of denying. We have no proof- only suspicions. It is more complicated than Coryn suggests,” Soren spoke softly.
“I am sure it is,” Digger said. Digger was the most philosophical of the Band, fie did not accept the surface meaning of things but, as his name suggested, seemed compelled to dig deeper to find an unexpected truth.
“If Nyra’s a hagsfiend, then you ,., well, look, you either are or you aren’t!” snapped Twilight. Then suddenly the Great Gray was taken aback by his own words. “I mean, it’s not like we don’t like you.”
“Oh, shut up, Twilight!” Digger barked in a most unphilosophical tone of voice.
“I’m only saying it’s action not words that count. And Coryn doesn’t act haggish.”Digger blinked, “Why, Twilight. That’s an astounding insight. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Well, then quit telling me to shut up. I said it in half the words you would have used, Digger.”
“‘But is there more, Coryn?” Digger added.
“Tell them,” Soren said in a quiet voice that he hoped belied his desperation.
“The nature of hagsfiends as we know them has changed over hundreds and thousands of years. Most of us in this modern age have had an encounter with one, but they are powerless wisps that appear but rarely, usually when we are flying and are extremely tired. They are the crows of the night, which makes some kind of sense, since it was originally proposed that they were some sort of mistake of natural history appearing millions of years ago when birds first separated into different species - a mishmash of things that never quite sorted itself out. In the ancient times of nachtmagen, they were quite dangerous.”
Soren coughed. “If I might interrupt. That is precis
ely my point. This is a different era. There is no evidence that
Nyra is anything more than a bad, evil owl. My own brother, your lather, Kludd, was a bad, evil owl.”
“‘But my mothers face is monstrously large, unusually large for’ a Barn Owl, and so is mine.”“It is not faces, not color,, not appearances that matter. That was the essence of the Pure On-;’ stupidity. They believed that Barn Owls were a superior species of owls. Such reasoning discounted everything” else,” Soren said fiercely.
Coryn now blinked his eyes tightly shut for several seconds. “All rip-fit. I will agree with you that there is no evidence. And until now. or at least very recently, I was wrongly obsessed with my identity. Had I inherited this terrible legacy? It haunted me constantly. I realize now that was wrong of me It was self-indulgent and inappropriate for a leader, let alone a king. But there is something else that I discovered when I sneaked, off.”
Soren s gizzard had just started to settle down, but a new turmoil now roiled within in it. “What is it?” he said. Dread seemed to tremble on the edge of those three simple words.
“There is a book, It is in the possession of Trader Mags.”
“Yes, and what is the book?” Gylfie said slowly.
“On its cover is a design.”
‘“A design of what, for Glaux’s sake?” Twilight fumed.
“A puffowl.”The four members of the Band were suddenly struck dumb.
“Listen to me carefully, now, coryn said.
Soren blinked and looked at his nephew. This is a king speaking. Not a self-absorbed young owl having an identity crisis.
“We know from reading the legends that Kreeth died in that last battle, in the battle for the Ice Palace. Duncan MacDuncan, the wolf, killed, her. We know that she never mated. Never had offspring. Therefore her line of hags-fiends died out. But we all know that ideas, good or evil, have longer lives than we mere mortals. It is proven by our libraries, and the libraries at the. Palace of Mists. And so this book in which Kreeth wrote her formulas and her fiendish thoughts exists and has existed throughout the centuries.” Coryn paused. He saw a mixture of fear and confusion in the four owls’ eyes. “I would have tried to bargain for it. But it’s a big book. And I didn’t have, my botkin. There was no way I could have carried it by myself.”