“Different spiders weave different kinds of webs. You got your dome web, your orb, your tube web, your tent, your basic radial.” The rabbit listed several more and then concluded, “But orb weavers are particularly rich in revealing things past. And the webs are gorgeous! Oh, my Lapin, you’ve never seen anything like it. But knowledge of the past or the future does not cause things to happen.”
“But you said to me, ‘Remember the vole,’ and that made me drop you from my talons almost immediately. So it did cause something to happen.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.” The rabbit paused and reflected a moment. “However, I did feel that you must be a very compassionate owl. For it was a very kind act when you released the vole.”
“But it wasn’t kind at all! I dropped the vole because the posse was coming, and Phillip told me to drop it.”
“Aha! My point exactly,” the rabbit said. “I told you that I only see pieces of the past or the present or the future. Apparently, the logic behind my plea for you to drop me was erroneous.”
“What does that mean—erroneous?”
“Full of mistakes. Yes, the outcome was what I had hoped for, I have to admit. Sometimes it works out that way. Just pure dumb luck.”
Nyroc was confused. The rabbit was answering his questions, but he felt there was much more to what he was saying. Why, for example, would he have risked standing so close to an owl’s hollow, an owl who was not a dweller of this forest? And why should he have looked in that orb weaver’s web and found information about Nyroc and not the many other creatures of the world? Why me? Nyroc wondered. What is so special about me? So he asked.
“Why me?”
“Why me what?” replied the rabbit.
“Why are there things about me in the webs and not other animals?”
The rabbit blinked and his pink-rimmed eyes grew sad. Nyroc saw his nose tremble a bit. He felt a tremor pass through his own gizzard. “Because your story is very important. And your story is unfinished.”
“But how am I to finish it?”
“I don’t know. I wish I could tell you more. But it wouldn’t really make a difference.”
“It might.”
“No, I told you I only see pieces, and sometimes I even see those wrongly, as with the vole. I had no idea that when you released the vole, it was an act of desperation and not mercy. So I could tell you something wrong. And besides…” The rabbit stopped midsentence.
“Besides what?”
“You have free will. And it is only by making your own choices that the story can be finished. You already know what you must do, Nyroc. You have known since the last snows of winter melted.”
Nyroc looked at him intently. “I should leave, shouldn’t I.” It was not really a question but a statement. The rabbit nodded silently. Several moments passed before either of them spoke. “I was thinking of going to Silverveil. It is supposed to be one of the loveliest places in the owl universe.”
“Perhaps,” replied the rabbit.
Nyroc had the feeling that the rabbit did not quite approve of his choice. The two animals were silent for a long time. Then Nyroc broke the silence. “How do you know my name?”
The rabbit gave a small shrug. “Oh, names are the easiest part of web reading. I get names all the time. Sometimes, however, it’s hard to match up the name with the creature.”
“Have you ever read the name Soren in your web?”
“Nope.”
Nyroc sighed. He was disappointed. “Maybe Uncle Soren?” he asked.
“No again. But a name did show up this morning in this web here.” The rabbit cocked his head toward the glistening strands that the spider had woven.
“What was it?” Nyroc asked excitedly.
“Fengo,” he replied.
“‘Fengo’? Is it an owl?”
The rabbit shrugged again, but this time it was an I-don’t-know kind of shrug. “Could be. Could be something else, something completely different. Could be something that you once saw.”
“Me?” Nyroc wasn’t quite sure what the rabbit was talking about.
“You see things in the fire, don’t you, Nyroc.” This also was a statement and not a question.
“You know that? No one else does.”
“Oh, I think there might be someone else who knows. But it’s sort of the same with you as it is with me. You see things in the fire and often they are not complete. Just like my pieces from the webs, eh?”
“Yes,” Nyroc replied in a barely audible whisper. Yes, he had seen things. He remembered his first vision in the flames of the fire at his father’s Marking ceremony. Beneath the hisses and snapping noises of the fire, he had heard low growling sounds and he had seen strange shapes rising in an unknown landscape with weird creatures loping across it. And then there was the odd flame with the lick of deep blue at its center and tinted at the edges with a color that he knew now was truly green. Just as he was thinking about the flame’s color, the rabbit said, “Did you see Silverveil in your fire?”
“I—I’m not sure,” Nyroc stammered. “Did you see it in your web?”
“Definitely not. Not even a leaf,” the rabbit replied emphatically. Nyroc dared not ask him if he had seen the same strange place with the odd shapes and creatures that he had seen in the flames of Gwyndor’s fires. He didn’t want to hear about it if he had. “You know, Nyroc, I did not learn how to read webs instantly. I had to practice—all those different webs after all.” The rabbit rattled off the names of a half dozen more kinds of webs. “As I said, it takes practice. I bet there are as many kinds of flames and coals as there are webs. You should find some fires to sharpen up your flame-reading skills. Might learn something of this future that so concerns you.”
“But how would I do that? I don’t know any Rogue smiths around here.”
“You don’t need a Rogue smith. Keep an eye out for the occasional forest fire. And, of course, there are always fires burning in Beyond the Beyond.”
Nyroc started. His eyes flew open at the mention of this place. “You’ve heard of it?” the rabbit asked.
“Yes. I heard some of the owls telling bedtime stories about it.”
“Ah, yes. From the Fire Cycle of the Ga’Hoolian legends.”
“But it’s just a legend, isn’t it?” Nyroc said. “Just a made-up place?”
“Hardly! No, it’s very real.”
“You think I should go there?”
“I can’t do your thinking for you, Nyroc. It’s your decision. But there are lots of fires there. Extraordinary fires. It’s where the first colliers came from. You want to learn about flame reading, that’s the place.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose so. But not quite yet. Maybe someday,” Nyroc said softly.
The rabbit looked at him quizzically. “Yes, someday,” he repeated, but the words sounded hollow to Nyroc, as if the rabbit did not really believe he would ever go there.
“Well, in any case, I think I should be getting along now,” Nyroc said.
“Yes, it will soon be evening.”
Nyroc was shocked. He had not realized that they had been talking for hours and hours and that the sun had swung low in the sky. Its long shafts of light were now piercing the branches of the trees near the ground. The pond was blazing with the violent oranges and deep pinks of a setting sun. Yes, Nyroc thought, it is time for me to leave.
The rabbit waited with him in the gathering lavender shadows of the twilight. When those shadows deepened to purple, Nyroc hopped onto the trunk of the fallen tree that had been his home for so long. He was about to say good-bye and to spread his wings but stopped.
“Rabbit, I don’t even know your name. What is your name?”
“Oh, just call me Rabbit, that’s good enough.”
“But you must have a name,” Nyroc protested.
“I do. But I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“If I tell you, I lose my powers.”
“But you said names were so easy.”
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“Yes. The names of others. But not one’s own. Maybe you’ll find my name in your fires.”
Nyroc blinked.
“Good-bye, Nyroc.”
“Good-bye, Rabbit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A New World
Nyroc’s tree stump was in the most southern portion of the Shadow Forest. He bid it good-bye with one glance over his starboard wing. In order to reach Silverveil, he flew a northeasterly course, cutting across the very top of The Barrens, which, true to its name, had scarcely a tree to perch in. He was getting awfully tired because he had been battling headwinds for hours. It was still a long time until dawn, and he thought he might set down for a rest and get a bite to eat before going on, even if that rest had to be on a boulder. Still high above the ground, he heard the skitterings of small animals, most likely rodents scampering across that hard ground. He did think that it would be a long time before he could consider rabbit as proper prey again. No. Right now he would settle for a mouse, a scrawny chipmunk, whatever.
He began carving a turn. It felt great to have his tail feathers working so well again. He alighted gracefully on a boulder and waited patiently, thinking something was bound to pass his way.
Something was. But it was not his next meal. A young Burrowing Owl emerged from a hole Nyroc had not noticed. It had been so long since Nyroc had spoken to an owl, he actually went into the frozen defense posture hoping that he would blend in with the boulder on which he perched. But such was not the case. The young Burrowing Owl saw him and froze herself, dropping the small bundle she was carrying in her beak. It was young Kalo, daughter of Harry and Myrtle. They were just preparing for the family’s move to Silverveil. Harry had finally talked Myrtle into trying tree living just for the summer.
Kalo opened her eyes wide at the sight of Nyroc. Could this really be her? she thought, staring hard at him.
There was not a corner of the owl kingdom that had not welcomed with joy the news of the Pure Ones’ defeat by the Guardians of Ga’Hoole. But it had been rumored that although the one called Metal Beak, the leader, had been killed, his mate, Nyra, was still alive. There had been sightings of her all over. Kalo looked at this owl in front of her and, though she had never seen Nyra, everything seemed to fit what she had heard of her: the face, unusually large and white for a Barn Owl, shaped more like a moon than a heart. And yes, she blinked, the scar was there, too, slashing diagonally across the face—just like the scar Nyra was supposed to have. Kalo was so frightened that she did not notice that this owl was male, not female. As far as Kalo was concerned, this was Nyra.
Finally, the Burrowing Owl gathered up her courage and spoke. “W-w-what are you doing here?”
“Just resting. I’m on my way to Silverveil,” Nyroc replied.
“Silverveil,” a voice from the burrow pealed out. Myrtle waddled from the opening, stopped dead in her talon tracks, and wilfed at the sight of Nyroc.
Nyroc, trying to be sociable, took a step forward. “My name is Ny—”
He never got to finish. Both owls screeched and dove back into their burrow. “She’s here, Harry. Nyra is here. And she’s going to Silverveil. We’re not going to Silverveil. Enough of your yoickish ideas.”
Nyroc listened in a dazed state to the squabbling from the burrow. His gizzard seemed numb but his mind slowly began to process what he was hearing. They think I am my mother. They think I am a Pure One come to capture or kill them.
Without another thought, he spread his wings and lifted off. He was half mumbling, half crying all the things he had meant to say to the Burrowing Owls, but never had the chance. “I only came for rest. I wasn’t going to stay. My name is Nyroc, not Nyra. I am nothing like my mother or my father…”
But you are, Nyroc! You are! a chorus of voices swirled in his head. You will never escape. And no matter where you go, you shall be hated and feared. Go back to the Pure Ones. Go back. You shall be revered. You are their leader, their king.
It was a night in which the black was thick and neither moon nor stars shone above. A glaring gray light slowly whirled around Nyroc, first on one side of him, then the other. It was not his father’s scroom. It was three others—made of shreds of gray mist that appeared like tattered owls with fierce yet colorless eyes. They flew with him, one at the tip of each wing, another at his tail feathers.
They looked as if they had come from hagsmire—hagsfiends caught up in a frenzy of hag winds. These singing gray shadows whirled about him and sang out in screechy voices:
We are the voices of the dead.
We’ve come to tell you what to dread.
A feeble prince, you’ve taken flight.
You shall be ours before the night.
But if your gizzard gallgrot gets
A king of kings it shall beget.
The words of their gruesome song made Nyroc shiver. Were they threatening him with death—“You shall be ours before the night”? Nyroc realized that despite the violent circling of these scrooms about him, they caused no wind. Indeed, the headwind he had been battling before he had landed in The Barrens had all but vanished.
Nyroc flicked his port wing first, then his starboard one, ruddered his tail, lowered his head, and said in a very quiet voice, “You are nothing. Not even wind.” And he thrust forward through the misty figures that seemed to dissolve into the night.
Yet still his gizzard quivered. Why had they followed him? Why had their voices seeped into his head?
He was more determined than ever to get to Silverveil.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A Terrible Beauty
In the distance, Nyroc saw a low range of hills. His gizzard fluttered. This must be the northern border of The Barrens. Phillip had told him about these hills. Just beyond them, not far was the most beautiful part of Silverveil, a region called Blythewold. There were all sorts of owls in Blythewold, including Barn Owls of all breeds. Surely he would be welcome here. He flew faster.
Soon the hills were beneath him, and the moon had finally risen in the sky. Everything was awash in its silvery light. Oh, he knew what green was now. Never had he seen such greenness. He could hear the rippling silver sound of what seemed like a hundred brooks. A light wind stirred the sedges that grew along their banks. There were trees of all sorts. Trees with broad leaves that whispered in the breeze, some whose leaves were not green but red, and some even yellow. And trees that had no leaves at all, but long, thin, drooping branches like golden strands. These trees grew by the lakes, of which there were many, and these strands of gold swept over the surface of the water, making beautiful sighing sounds. Oh, this was where he would live forever and ever. This would be his home. He would explain who he was. That he was nothing like his mum or da, that he had left them and the Pure Ones.
Nyroc felt he was on the brink of a whole new world, a whole new life. No more day-for-night living. He would join the wonderful nighttime of owls—fly with them, hunt with them, live with them. But night was now thinning into the dawn. He would have to wait through a long day for First Black. Oh, he was so impatient!
Nyroc had decided it might be a bit forward to try for a hollow in one of these lovely trees. He didn’t want to have to go poking his beak into places that might be occupied just when mums and das were trying to get their young’uns to sleep with lullabies and stories. He would be patient. He’d settle for something on the ground. And he should find it quickly. It had been exceedingly hot, and now in the dwindling night, the sky pulsed with silent flashes of light—heat lightning. The air was heavy with the smell of a summer storm about to break. He should find shelter. There were several old rotted-out stumps that would do for a day. Just one day.
He soon tucked himself into a lovely old stump, overgrown with mosses and lichen. In a tree not too far away, he had heard a mother Barn Owl begin to tell a story from the Fire Cycle. He had been sleepy, but he was suddenly alert. “You see,” the mother was saying, “it was Grank, the first collier, who became the ryb for
King Hoole.” Hoole! He knew there was a connection. “Now, dears, you know, of course, how the legend of the coming of Hoole begins.” And for once Nyroc knew what the storyteller would say next. The words were among the most beautiful of any of the legends. Once upon a time, before there were kingdoms of owls, in a time of ever-raging wars, there was an owl born in the country of the North Waters and his name was Hoole…
But now the mum was telling something he had never heard before. Was it part of the Fire Cycle or the Hatching Cycle stories? Her voice was lovely on this summer night. “But, young’uns, even before the great Hoole had been hatched, there were others who feared his coming. It was rumored that a hagsfiend from hagsmire had been sent to destroy the egg. The father of the hatchling Hoole had been murdered several days before the egg had hatched out. And with his dying breath, he said to his mate, ‘Seek out my old ryb, Grank, and he shall know what to do. There is no choice, my dear. You must give the egg to Grank. He shall care for it and raise the chick as if it were his own. These are dangerous times.’ And the mother knew that the father was right. It must be the hardest thing in the world for a mother to part with her young’un before it even hatched.”
“Oh, Mum,” one of the little chicks interrupted, “you wouldn’t do that to us, would you?”
“If it meant you would die if I did not give you up, I would certainly do it.”
Nyroc could hardly believe what he was hearing. This was a part of the cycle he knew nothing of. That Hoole was taken from his mother and raised by Grank.
“So, what happened?” said another voice. “Did the hatchling learn how to be a collier like Grank?”
“Soren’s a collier, isn’t he?” said another.
Now Nyroc stood straight up, as straight as he could in the cramped hollow of the old stump. Soren…a collier! They’re talking about Soren? My uncle.
“Yes, so they say.”
“Quit interrupting,” said one of the chicks. “Tell the part about the Ember of Hoole and how Hoole found it.”
“That’s a story for another day, young’uns.”