“I can’t wait to go back,” Martin shouted.
“Hold on there,” Elvan said. “First, your report.”
“Embers about the size of pellets uphill from where I landed.”
“Excellent,” Elvan said. Elvan then flew off to confer with Bubo and Ezylryb.
“Soren, there is nothing like it. I can’t tell you. As soon as I got there I just wasn’t frightened at all. And I can’t describe what it’s like to grab the cinders in your beak. It’s…”
“Intoxicating,” Otulissa broke in. “Yes, I read about it. You must be careful, though. Strix Emerilla wrote that some colliers get so drunk on the cinders that they do not heed weather warnings.”
“Well, it’s very strange the feeling you get when you grab them and then fly with them. It’s something,” he paused. “Something very powerful.”
“Now’s the time, Soren. You’re going in!” Elvan ordered.
“What about me?” Otulissa wailed.
“Shut your beak, your turn will come,” Bubo yelled.
Soren pitched into a spiraling downward twist. He felt himself buffeted by a sudden fierce updraft, but he had gathered enough speed to bore through it. Then he was on the ground. It was a strange landscape. Charred skeletons of trees clawed the night, and then scattered about were the coals like hot glowing rocks. They were told to work quickly but at the same time not to rush. A steady pace is the best pace, Bubo had told them. How had Martin, so little, done it and found cinders perfectly sized for his beak? Great Glaux, how embarrassing it would be, Soren thought, if he could not find embers, if he came back empty-beaked. Bubo and Elvan had tried to emphasize that no one should be embarrassed. Oftentimes in the beginning a young collier did not find a suitable coal. There was no shame in returning empty-beaked. But Soren knew there was.
Suddenly, Soren heard a terrible cracking sound. The flames turned a stand of trees just in front of him into one immense torch. He looked up and saw the crowns of other trees igniting. Crown fire! Ruby’s worse fear. But Ruby had been worried about the air above and now here he was below. He began to feel a mighty pull on him. Was he going to be sucked up? The last thing Soren remembered thinking about clearly was himself turning into a feathery ball of embers. A thought raced through his head: With my luck, I’ll be caught by Otulissa. What will it matter? I’ll be dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“A Coal in My Beak!”
I have a coal in my beak! I have a coal in my beak! The words kept running through Soren’s head. He was flying in ascending circles, effortlessly. He was not singed. He was not burning, and there was this wonderful glowing thing in his beak that, indeed, seemed to flood his entire being with an extraordinary feeling. It was as if every single one of his hollow bones, every feather shaft brimmed with this feeling of transcendent power. Joy filled him, a joy such as he had never felt since perhaps the first time he had ever flown. But how he got this coal was still a mystery to him. He flew back to the ridge where the buckets were. Martin was beside him.
“You were spectacular, Soren. I was so nervous when I saw that crown fire break and then when we saw you getting sucked up, I nearly went yeep.”
“But what happened?” Soren asked. They were to stay on the ridge until the rest of the chaw returned.
“You mean to tell me you don’t know?”
“Not exactly.”
“You did a reverse loop to escape the pull and as you were coming out of it this coal flew by. Bubo said he never saw a coal of that size go up so high, but you caught it! Caught it on the loop, Soren. I mean it was better flying than anything Ruby has ever done. It was absolutely spectacular.”
“Great Glaux, I wish I’d seen it,” Soren said.
Martin hooted loudly. “You did it, Soren! You did it!”
Otulissa flew in next with Ruby and Poot. She had a full beak and dumped the coals into the bucket. “I got one! I got one!” And then she stopped and looked up, genuinely modest now. “But, Soren, it is nothing compared to what you did.”
“Well, thank you, Otulissa…er…uh…That is very kind of you.”
Otulissa bobbed her head and actually said nothing for once. Martin blinked at Soren as if to say, “I wonder how long that will last?”
Soren looked about for Ezylryb. He wondered if Ezyl-ryb had seen him. Just then, the Whiskered Screech alighted with a bucket. He barely looked at Soren but busied himself shifting some of the coals into the new bucket.
Oh, no, Soren thought. Will I ever understand this owl?
Ezylryb was making his way down the line of buckets now. As he came next to the bucket where Soren had dropped his coal, he turned to look at him. The coal he held in his beak cast an eerie glow on his whiskered face. His amber eyes appeared red. “I hear you did a fair night’s work,” he mumbled through the coal. Then added, “Magnificent, perhaps.” He dropped the coal in the bucket and flew off to confer with Poot.
They began their homeward journey with just an hour to spare before First Light. “Don’t worry about crows and mobbing,” Elvan said. “They never come near when we’re carrying live coals.”
It was a beautiful time to fly. The air grew fresher and a light wind now ruffled the water into lacy crests. Even now, with the coals and cinders tame in the buckets, their power seemed to touch them. Fire, of course, was perhaps the most important element that made the Great Ga’Hoole Tree different from any other kingdom of owls. It made them more than a community or a gathering of owls. It made them a fellowship. And if they were to rise each night into the blackness and perform noble deeds, it was perhaps the fire that helped them do this: fire punched up to fierce heats with Bubo’s bellows for forging metals into battle claws; fire tamed into candle flames for reading and learning. And here these young owls of the chaw, just barely finished with being owlets themselves, were flying back across the Sea of Hoolemere with this precious element. No wonder they felt powerful. And now, as the sun rose bloodred in the east, Bubo’s deep rumble began to ring out across the water. It was the song of the colliers.
Give me a hot coal glowing bright red,
Give me an ember sizzling with heat,
These are the jewels made for my beak.
We fly between flames and never get singed
We plunge through the smoke and never cringe.
The secrets of fire, its strange winds, its rages,
We know it all as it rampages
Through forests, through canyons,
Up hillsides and down.
We’ll track it.
We’l l find it.
Take coals by the pound.
We’ll yarp in the heart of the hottest flame
Then bring back its coals and make them tame.
For we are the colliers brave beyond all
We are the owls of the colliering chaw!
They arrived shortly after daybreak at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, their faces smudged, their beaks sooty black. But they were welcomed as heroes. The coals were delivered to Bubo’s forge and then there was a great banquet.
“Where’s Twilight?” Soren said as he sat down with Gylfie at Mrs. Plithiver’s table. “And Primrose?” Soren wanted to tell Twilight about the forest fire. Few things impressed Twilight but this might.
“They’re both out on a mission and so is Digger. They needed the tracking and search-and-rescue chaws. Something big’s going on,” Gylfie said.
“What?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Boron is being very quiet about it. But suddenly a lot of owlets need rescuing fast.” Just then, he saw Ezylryb huddled with Boron and Strix Struma in a corner of the dining hollow. They looked terribly serious, and he saw Ezylryb nodding quickly every now and then. Poot started to approach the three owls, and he was immediately shooed away.
Because Ezylryb had not taken up his usual position with Elvan at the head of Octavia, the weather and colliering table was empty. Martin and Ruby had joined Soren and Gylfie at Mrs. P.’s, along with Otulissa. “Thank goodn
ess we can now have our vole roasted,” Otulissa said. “It seems like forever since we’ve had anything cooked.”
“I would have thought you would have had your fill of things roasting after flying into that fire,” Mrs. P. said, and they all laughed. “Now I do have a little announcement to make.” The old nest-maid snake spoke softly.
“What is it, Mrs. P.?” Soren asked.
“Well, I have been asked to join the Harp Guild.”
“Oh, Mrs. P.!” they all cried.
Perhaps Soren’s visit to Madame Plonk had counted for something. He had dared not even hope ever since he had visited her extraordinary apartments that day. Soren couldn’t have been happier. Everything, he thought, was really perfect. But as soon as he thought of the word “perfect,” he realized no, not quite. And once more that strange melancholy feeling began to creep like a mist over him. He knew what it was immediately this time. Eglantine. What had happened to his dear baby sister? He supposed that if she were alive, and if she had not been captured by St. Aggie’s or something worse, she would be flying by now. But who would ever see her? Not his parents. Who knew if they were still alive? Soren grew very quiet. Mrs. P. sensed his sadness.
“Come up later, Soren dear, and sit with me a spell and tell me all about your adventures in the burning forest.”
“Sure, Mrs. P.,” he said distractedly.
But he didn’t. He was simply too tired from the flight, the work at the fire, to do anything but go right to sleep. He was so tired he did not even hear the beautiful voice of Madame Plonk. And underneath the voice that morning there was an especially lovely rippling sound, almost liquid, as Mrs. Plithiver slid with a steady pressure very quickly from the midpoint on a string and stretched for the next octave, all the way to G-flat. It was a virtuoso move and Madame Plonk knew that she had made the right decision. This Mrs. P. had a maestro’s touch to match her own magnificent voice.
But, of course, Soren slept through it all, dreaming perhaps of his little sister, but perhaps he was even too tired for dreams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Owlets Down!
While Soren slept, in a distant woods across the Sea of Hoolemere, Twilight swooped through the gathering gloom at the end of the day. He and Primrose and Digger worked together. Digger, of course, as part of the tracking chaw, did the groundwork, looking for telltale pellets, a fluff of down, or, sometimes, a wounded or dead owlet. Primrose, who was in the search-and-rescue chaw along with Twilight, flew all levels as an outrider and kept a sharp lookout for enemies. Twilight did most of the heavy work of lifting the owlets and when possible restoring them to their nests.
This particular mission had started as what Barran described as routine. But it quickly became something much more complicated. In the first reconnaissance wave, a number of owlets had been reported on the ground, but they did not seem to be near their nests. At first the rescuers thought these owls, stunned and cold, simply had forgotten where their nests were, which trees they had fallen from. But then it became apparent that in the nearby trees there were no hollows, no possible nests for these young owls. So where had they come from? Had they been snatched by St. Aggie’s patrols and then, in flight, somehow mutinied and escaped the talons of their captors, falling to the ground? But why would St. Aggie’s patrols not retrieve them? It was all quite mystifying. The other thing that was peculiar was that they were all Barn Owls, not just Tyto alba like Soren, but Masked Owls and Grass Owls and Sooty Owls, all belonging to the Barn Owl family.
Twilight divided his attention between Digger below and Primrose, who was flying over him. He had retracted his battle claws, because there did not seem to be any St. Aggie’s agents around and it was necessary to pull them in when picking up a fallen owlet, so as not to hurt it. Another Great Gray was wearing his battle claws fully extended and circling in case of ambush. They traded off. This was how the search-and-rescue chaw operated—in pairs, with one owl flying in full battle suit while the other was prepared to pick up an owlet in distress. When one was found, it was taken to a gathering spot in a large hollow presided over by one of Barran’s assistants, who could administer medical attention before flying the owls back to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. When there were enough owlets gathered, they set off. But now there were more than enough. That is why backup had been requested. More of everything was needed. More search-and-rescue workers, more assistants at the gathering spots, more trackers. It was an almost overwhelming situation. Never had they dealt with so many nestless owlets. Where were their parents? Where were their hollows? They seemed to have dropped out of nowhere.
Twilight spotted a Sooty Owl on the ground. This was the most difficult time of the day for owls to spot downed owlets. And Sooties were the most difficult of all owls to spot. Neither black nor white but indeed a smudgy ash color, they seemed to blend in with the twilight. But Twilight himself, with his peculiar gift for seeing at this time, was well suited for the task. Making sure his battle claws were locked back, he began a quick plunge. He hoped the little fellow wasn’t dead.
Cautiously he poked it with his beak. He detected a heartbeat. Then gently he scooped it up in his talons. It stirred a bit and tried to lift its head. He thanked Glaux, there was life in this one. There was nothing worse than picking up a dead owlet. Despite their small size, they seemed to be especially heavy, and if their eyes weren’t closed and they were dead, it was awful! Barran had not expected that they would encounter any dead owlets on their first mission. She was very upset for the new members of the chaw. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she kept saying.
“Now you take it easy, little Sooty,” Twilight spoke gently to the owlet. “We’re going to get you nice and fixed up. Don’t you worry. You’re in the talons of a champ here!” Twilight couldn’t resist a little exhibition of his finer flight maneuvers. Besides, an owlet might find them comforting.
Hush little owl,
You’re with Twi.
I got the moves to get you by.
Big bad crows.
St. Aggie’s scamps
Ain’t got nothin to show this champ.
I’ll pop a spiral
With a twist,
Do a three-sixty
And scatter mist—
In the middle of what Twilight considered one of his finest poetry compositions that he had ever made up midair, the little Sooty began to make a sound like a weak whistle.
“My Tyto, my Tyto, why hast thou forsaken us in our purity?”
Twilight looked down at the limp little Sooty in his talons. “What are you talking about? Forsaken? You call this forsaken? Look, I’m not Glaux but you’re safe right here in my talons. Safer than you were down on the ground.” But the little Sooty just stared at him with vacant dark eyes.
Strix Struma was suddenly on his upwind side. “Don’t be upset, Twilight. All these owlets are babbling some kind of nonsense. It’s all very weird. This is not like what they did at St. Aggie’s with the moon-blinking business, but it’s strange. Very strange talk all the time about Tyto. Bubo and Boron are on their way and Ezylryb is coming as well.”
“Ezylryb?” Twilight was surprised. Ezylryb never left the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, except for forest fires and weather interpretation. A lot of owlets falling out of nowhere didn’t seem to be a weather situation or a forest fire.
“We need all the help we can get and not just for the rescue. Something’s going on out here and we must get to the bottom of it.” What Strix Struma did not add was that it was for precisely that reason why they needed Ezylryb. Only Ezylryb, with his immense knowledge gleaned from years of reading and his long life of experiences throughout every owl kingdom, might be able to begin to understand what was going on here. Strix Struma was as worried as she had ever been. Was it a plague of some sort? A spell? A bewitchment? She didn’t believe in such nonsense. She broke off these thoughts. “Get that Sooty back to the gathering spot and then if you have it in you and feel you could fly one more mission, do so.” She sh
eered off downwind.
“All this talk about purity and Tytos. Never heard such a bunch of babble in my life.” It was Elsie, a rather bunchy-looking Barred Owl, who seemed to have more feathers than her small body could manage. The bar designs on her wings had almost faded into a blur. But she was a kindly old bird, who, along with Matron, was in charge of the care and feeding of all the newly arrived young owlets at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. Never before had the two owls been actually brought out to a gathering station on a search-and-rescue mission, however.
“Over here, Twilight,” Matron called. “I have just fluffed up a place. That Sooty will fit in nicely. Elsie dear, spare me a bit more down for this Sooty.”
Elsie obliged by plucking out some downy fluff from beneath her primaries. Twilight blinked. It was just as Elsie said. A low babble came in a steady stream from the little owlets, and they were all reciting some kind of poetry, and it made absolutely no sense to Twilight.
One little Grass Owl was now chanting in a thin little voice, “Tytos now forever, so pure, so rare! Yet supreme!” A Masked Owl spoke of a Tyto to whom righteousness belonged and still another was crying out, “Oh, Tyto, who is pureness beyond compare, show thyself…Tyto, how long shall the impure triumph?”
“Depressing little ditties, aren’t they?” Bubo said as he lighted down next to Twilight.
“What are they talking about?” Twilight said.
“I don’t know, but I’ve heard more cheerful tunes in my day than all this whining about Tytos.”
As Twilight and Primrose and Digger took off for their last mission, the ragtag ends of mournful songs seemed to trail out behind them. “My goodness,” sighed Primrose. “It’s enough to make you long for a nice little wet poop joke.” She dropped down to her mid-level surveillance position, and then Digger flew under her. It was well beyond the last of the daylight. It was night. No longer flying on that silver border, Twilight would wait for signals from Primrose or Digger if they found any owlets down. Digger now swooped in close to the ground. In the muddy runoff from a creek, he saw the distinctive markings of a Barn Owl’s front talons, the toes exactly equal lengths. He followed the talon marks down the muddy path. Perhaps this one was not injured so badly if it could walk, Digger thought. But where could it have walked? And why? He saw a buff-colored feather in the path ahead. A feather of an almost fully fledged owl, it would seem. So why not fly? And just within that moment, under the low branches of a juniper, he saw a tawny glow in the night and he heard the long, drawn-out hiss, the begging call of a Tyto alba. “Coo coo ROOOO! Coo coo ROOOO!”