What in the world were these qui contrivances for? Why was Tengshu blue? And how had he known they were coming? Questions swirled in the minds of the owls like the flurries of snow that had begun to blow.
“Come…come to my hollow.” Tengshu motioned to them and took the qui of the dancing frog in his talon with its string and tail neatly bound up. They followed him, flying through a narrow fissure between two sheer cliffs of stone. Beneath them as they flew, a valley opened out and the floor of this valley rose as they flew on, until it ended just beneath a series of ledges on which a small grove of trees grew.
“Trees growing out of rock,” Soren said. “I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“Oh, our trees are tough here. They can grow from anything,” Tengshu said.
It was in one of these tall, twisted, old trees that Tengshu the knower, the sage, lived. The owls of Ga’Hoole, however, were in for yet another surprise. They could clearly see that the tree had hollows, but from its branches several platforms were suspended with vines.
Tengshu alighted on one of the platforms. The eight owls followed, stepping tentatively toward a small table already set with cups made from an odd material that they did not recognize. Mrs. Plithiver slithered off Soren’s back. She began to coil herself up and then slipped a bit awkwardly to one side. She was not accustomed to dealing with the shortened length of her body.
“Oh, pardon me,” she said softly. “Lost a bit of my tail. You know. Rough flight.”
Tengshu cocked his head. “I am sorry, but perhaps I can help you with that. I have some herbs that are quite good for healing breaks and ruptures of all sorts. The windkins can be hard, I know.”
“You can say that again,” Martin muttered under his breath.
“But the ones at this end of the stream are not so bad, are they?”
“Not bad at all,” Otulissa replied.
“You see, when you fly out of the main current, the Zong Phong, as we call it, it’s just an easy descent at this end. And my qui strings make for a good path. Now, excuse me for one moment, please.”
A few minutes later, Tengshu returned with a steaming bowl. “Mountain tea. And I beg your indulgence for just one more moment,” he said, setting down the bowl. He then returned with a second bowl and placed it next to Mrs. Plithiver. “Just put the end of your tail in that, madam, and I think you will find it quite soothing.” He then turned and said, “Welcome to my hollow.”
The owls nodded politely, but this wasn’t exactly a hollow.
Coryn stepped forward. He blinked. “First, we would like to present you with a gift from our side of the world, that of the Five Kingdoms. In one region, a special kind of moss is plentiful and is highly valued. We call it rabbit’s ear moss because it is as soft as the fur that grows inside the ears of rabbits. We hope you will enjoy it.” Coryn placed a botkin of the moss on the table.
“That is most kind of you, honorable owl of the Five Kingdoms.” The sage bowed deeply. “A bit of softness is always a welcome thing.”
Coryn continued, “We have seen many new things in the short time we have been here. Everything seems so new and different to us, and we have many questions. Can you tell us why you call this your hollow? We are not inside a tree but…but…” Coryn looked around. “This, I believe, is another object for which we might not have the correct name. We would call this a platform. We have one for taking tea in the branches of the great tree.”
“It is a platform, you are right, and as you see, we are taking tea. But it is really my moon-viewing platform, and on the other side of the tree, from which I can see the Guanjho-Noh, is my wave-viewing platform.”
“Guanjho-Noh?” Otulissa asked. “‘Noh’ means ‘sea,’ doesn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed it does. It is the sea that lies between the Middle Kingdom and where you come from—the Fifth World of owls. ‘Guanjho’ means ‘vastness.’ We call it the Sea of Vastness. You are good with languages, I see,” he said, nodding at Otulissa.
“Yes. I am considered somewhat of a linguist.”
The seven other owls exchanged surreptitious glances. Don’t get her going, Soren thought.
“Now perch and have some tea.”
“If a simple nest-maid snake might ask a question, sir.” Mrs. Plithiver had suspended herself from one of the platform’s vines.
“Of course.”
“Well, being in the domestic arts, I notice that you serve your own tea. It’s really quite a nice spread you’ve laid out for us.” Indeed, there were tiny savory buns, and frogs that appeared to have been wrapped in little nets of woven pine needles and then smoked. “I say, you do this all by yourself? No nest-maids?”
“I am self-sufficient, madam. I choose not to have any servants. I am what you might call, in your language, a hermit.” This term the owls did know. “I find that I can think better if I live a solitary life and one of simplicity.”
Gylfie looked down at the tightly bound smoked frogs in their beautifully woven pine-needle jackets. You call this simple? she thought.
“And you are,” Digger continued, “a knower of these qui contraptions?”
“Yes, and you must wonder what they are used for.” Once again the owls nodded. “They have a purpose and they have not,” Tengshu said cryptically. “You see, it is often for sheer joy that one flies a qui, and joy is not considered a practical thing in most societies—although I disagree. However, when I fly my qui I am most often seeking information.”
“Information?” Soren asked. “What kind of information?”
“Oh, there is so much to be learned from flying qui. After all, I cannot be everywhere at once. With the qui I can detect all manner of wind currents, speed, moisture in clouds”—he hesitated as if searching for the right word—“and jing jangs—I think you might call them hail cusps.”
“Hail cusps!” Otulissa and Soren both burst out at once. These were furrows in the air where hailstones formed. “You mean,” Soren said excitedly, “you get weather information from these qui?”
“Yes, and more.”
“More?” Gylfie said.
“Of course. For what we take, we must give back.”
The eight owls blinked.
“What do you give back?” Coryn asked.
“Our thanks to Glaux. We send our prayers up. I write a poem or send one of my paintings.”
“You paint?”
“Oh, yes. Come inside now and I shall show you some of my paintings.”
The owls followed Tengshu.
“What is this?” Gylfie gasped as she flipped her head so she was looking straight up. From the ceiling of the hollow hung scrolls painted with beautiful scenes of mountains and waterfalls, birds and flowers. There was one of crashing waves and another of a still pond with a heron standing at its edge.
“Is this parchment paper?” Soren asked.
“No. I paint on silk. There is a mulberry tree with a silk league not far from here.”
“A silk league?” Mrs. Plithiver asked, suddenly alert. There was, of course, no way she could see the pictures, but the notion of using silk was very interesting to her.
“Yes, indeed. Blind snakes, like yourself, collect the cocoons made by the silkworms of the tree. They then unravel them into long threads and weave them together. Of course, before the cloth is ready to be painted they must beat it until its finish is smooth. It is a long and complicated process. But the silk league from whom I get my pieces is one of the finest.”
“Rather like the weavers guild back at our tree,” Mrs. Plithiver offered.
“Yes, I have heard of that guild,” Tengshu replied.
The owls were stunned. This was yet another indication that Tengshu knew more about them than they knew about him.
“How do you know all this?” Otulissa blurted out. “You knew we were coming. You know far more of our Hoolian language than any of us knows of yours, and now you tell us that you know about the weavers guild.”
The sage blinked calmly. In
the dim light of the hollow, his plumage did not seem quite so blue. He took a few short hops to a bowl made from the same material as the cups from which they had just drunk. A wick floated in the bowl, and from a small flask he drew out a piece of raw ore and struck it against a flintstone. A small flame started in a pile of kindling. He then took a burning twig and lit the wick. A slightly acrid smell began to suffuse the air. “Yak butter—I don’t think you are familiar with that animal—but it is of vital importance to the owls of the Middle Kingdom.” He paused. “Now, I know you are brimming with questions. So find yourselves a perch and I will try to explain as much as I can.”
The eight birds set down on various perches. Mrs. Plithiver settled herself into a relaxed coil near the yak-butter lamp, which cast a soft glow.
“I shall address your last two points first. How do we know about the great tree’s weavers guild, and how do I know Hoolian? It was all written in the Theo Papers.”
“Theo!” Otulissa exclaimed, and lofted slightly into the air. It was as if a bolt of lightning had shot through her.
“Theo, the first blacksmith?” Coryn gasped.
“Theo, the inventor of battle claws?” Twilight said excitedly.
“Theo, the gizzard-resister?” Digger asked.
The sage nodded.
Otulissa could hardly recover her wits to sort out all of her questions. But of course, she thought. It’s beginning to make perfect sense that Theo came here! Otulissa had done further research inspired by reading the legends. It had seemed to her with a little reading between the lines that Theo had flown far away to some unknown place, but she had discounted this as idle speculation. Nonetheless, he seemed to have vanished. Now, however, there was much evidence pointing to where he might have gone. They had quickly recognized the weather symbols of the key to be a more ancient form of their own weather symbols. And who had been the first real weather interpreter? None other than Joss, a contemporary of Theo’s and renowned scout and messenger for the H’rathian Kingdom in the time of the legends. There were other similarities as well. Certain Jouzhen words seemed to come from Krakish root words, but with a slight twist. The word “strezhing,” which she had used in her introductory greeting, meant “originating from or hailing from.” In Krakish, one said “Stresschen,” which basically meant the same thing. “So did Theo really come here?” Otulissa said with awe.
“Oh, yes.” The sage nodded. “And he wrote a very long document that we call the Theo Papers. It was from reading the papers that I first learned of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree and the brilliant King Hoole.”
Otulissa and Soren exchanged quick glances. “Did you read the legends?” Soren asked.
“Legends?” Tengshu seemed slightly confused. “Oh, no. These were real stories.”
“Legends can be real,” Coryn added in a low voice. “Did he write of the ember?”
“Oh, perhaps a bit,” the sage said almost dismissively. “He mostly wrote of the ways of war and his determination never to make another weapon. He sought another way. He called it ‘the way without claws.’ It has come to be known as ‘the way of noble gentleness’ or ‘Danyar.’ By and large, the Theo Papers are really philosophical documents.”
“Did he ever return to the Five Kingdoms?” Digger asked.
“Not that anyone knew of,” Tengshu replied. “He remained at the owlery. There was much to do there.”
“The owlery?”
“It is a place high, high up in the tallest mountains of Jouzhenkyn where owls who desire a simpler way of living and deep contemplation retreat. Unlike myself, they do not enjoy pursuing this life in solitude. But before Theo came, it was a place of no real discipline, and one of shallow thought at best. But at least it was different from court life. When Theo came he changed this. He began to teach the way of noble gentleness.”
“But how did you know we were coming here?” Coryn asked.
“It was predicted by the eighth astrologer, the astrologer of the old court.”
“The old court? Astrology?” Otulissa was perplexed. She considered astrology to be a slightly yoicks discipline that should not even be considered a science. It was seldom practiced in the Hoolian world. “What is this court? Do you have a king, a royal family?”
“Not really. Or, I should say, not real ones, not any longer.”
The owls looked confused.
Tengshu continued. “Once we did have a court but it became useless and, in its uselessness, even dangerous. The owls who started the owlery did so to escape the court. So now we have a mock court. Well, it is a bit more than that.”
“A mock court? What are you talking about?” Gylfie asked. This new world, this Middle Kingdom, was proving more bewildering than any of them could have ever imagined.
“You’ll see…you’ll see,” Tengshu churred softly. “I know it is all very confusing. But you have entered a new world. It is very different from yours, so I am told.”
Told. The word rang in Mrs. Plithiver’s head. She had begun experiencing odd sensations about this owl as soon as they had entered the hollow. She sensed that there was a kind of sad mist hovering in this owl’s gizzard, a sense of loss, perhaps of grief.
“Tell me, sir…,” Mrs. Plithiver asked, “and I hope it is not too intrusive of me to ask such a question…”
“If it is, I shall not answer,” the sage replied simply.
“Does all of your knowledge of our world come from your study of the Theo Papers, or did you ever visit it?”
“Oh, no. I never visited it.” His voice began to quake a bit. He paused. “But someone very close to me did—my mother.”
“Your mother?” Coryn asked.
“Yes, but that was long, long ago. Let’s see, I think it was not that long after the time of King Hoole.”
“King Hoole!” they all exclaimed.
“B-b-b-but…sir,” Gylfie stammered, “that is impossible. That would have been hundreds of years ago. Surely your mother was not alive back then?”
“Oh, but you don’t understand. We live a very long time here. I am—let’s see—about three hundred and twenty-five years old. At the owlery, they live close to four hundred years. I believe there is a pikyu who is four hundred and twenty. The dragon owls of the mock court in the Panqua Palace don’t usually live as long. It depends.”
“Dragon owls?” They gasped.
“Pikyu?” Coryn asked.
“Yes, pikyu is what we call our spiritual teachers. It really means ‘guide.’ Pikyus have, through long study and meditation, achieved deep wisdom. The word means just that—deep wisdom. You will see that within the pale yellow light of the pikyus’ eyes, there are glints of green. Such is the sign of deep wisdom.”
Four-hundred-year-old owls…? Panqua Palace…dragon owls…? Soren wondered. Where in the world are we?
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Hagbogey
Now, there you go, dear! Back with Mum and Da!” Eglantine said as she dropped the little Barn Owl into her family’s hollow in the spruce tree in the forest of Ambala. The owlet shreed with delight. The mother was hysterical, and the father gruff but obviously relieved. For several nights, Eglantine and Primrose had scoured every wind track left by the westers that had marched across a great swath of the kingdoms. The main track appeared to run straight out of Silverveil, sweeping through The Barrens and into Ambala. But so far they had found not a trace of Bell. Nothing really, except this little Barn Owl who had fallen to the ground because she had tried to fly too soon, before even a single one of her flight feathers had budged.
“Now, you ain’t going to try that again are you, Eva? No more flying until you’re ready. You’re a Barn Owl. Not an Elf Owl, after all. Takes us sixty-six nights to fledge our flight feathers,” the father stated a bit sternly.
“Oh, we were so worried.” The mother was still sobbing. She lowered her voice and blinked. “What with the rumors and all.”
“Rumors? What kind of rumors?” Primrose asked.
“
Nyra is back,” she whispered, “and several snatchings and even egg-nappings have been reported.”
Primrose and Eglantine exchanged nervous glances. No, it simply could not be true. There had been no sign of the Pure Ones in a long while. But this news made finding Bell even more urgent than before.
Eglantine and Primrose had been so excited when they had first spotted the distinctive yarped pellet of a young Barn Owl. They were sure it was Bell, and although they were happy to rescue this little owlet, Eva, they had to admit their disappointment that she was not Bell. Just another owl chick who had disobeyed the single most important rule for nestlings: Never fly before you are ready and never fly when your parents are out hunting. They bid the parents and the little chick good-bye.
“And where will you go from here?” the father asked.
“Well,” Primrose said, “we’re looking for a little owl who could fly, but perhaps not strongly enough. She got lost or blown down when those westers came through.”
“Oh, those westers came through Ambala, all right. Although they weakened some, I’m sure, as they approached the Desert of Kuneer.”
“Yes, well,” Eglantine said, “I think we have to go at least that far.”
“Good luck to you both and thanks ever so much,” the father said. Then the mother added, “Ever so much.”
“Thank you,” Eva said in a tiny voice. “I’m…I’m very sorry.”
As Eglantine and Primrose flew on, their search became increasingly frustrating. Most of the fresh wind tracks had vanished by now. But they kept at it. While Eglantine flew the upper levels, Primrose flew quite low, perhaps only two feet above the ground, to look for talon prints or the telltale tufts of down that might have fetched up in low-growing scrub plants. Primrose was flying even closer when she caught sight of something odd in the bushes. A feather? No, she thought. Couldn’t be. Well, maybe a jay feather…but…
“Eglantine!” She flipped her head straight up. “Come down here this instant! Wait’ll you see this!”
Eglantine alighted near the bush where a blue feather was impaled on a thorny branch quivering in the ground breeze.