Madame Plonk flew by on an unsteady course. She had obviously had too much of the milkberry brew that the adults often drank at celebrations.
“Am I the only one with an ounce of sense around here?” Otulissa said out loud to no one in particular.
“Hardly!”
Otulissa’s head spun around. She gasped as she saw Ezylryb poking his beak into her hollow. “I want you, Eglantine, and the band—no one else—down in the parliament chamber in a quarter of an hour.”
Otulissa blinked in utter bewilderment. What in the world?
“And, Otulissa, try to be discreet when you fetch them. Don’t go beaking off in your usual voluble style!”
“Well…well…no, of course not, sir.” But she could have sworn she saw his squinted eye wink.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Living Dead
The Boreal Owl who stood guard at the entrance to the parliamentary chambers nodded for them to go in. The young owls had been here only twice before, and each and every one of them now felt a tad shameful about all the times they had eavesdropped on the parliament. The members of parliament were arranged in their usual positions on a slender white birch tree branch that had been bent into a semicircle. There was, of course, one vacant spot on this perch: the space that Dewlap had once occupied. But then all the young owls gasped as they simultaneously realized that the pile of dirty gray feathers in the corner of the chamber was attached to a bird, and that bird was the owl Dewlap. What in Glaux’s name had happened to her? She had once been a rich, lustrous brown color, shot through with steaks of white. But all of her brown feathers had turned gray and her amber eyes had turned the color of mud. Her head jerked in palsied movements, and she seemed to be muttering something unintelligible.
Boron spoke first. His voice was gentle. He realized what a shock this was for the young owls, and he fervently hoped that this notion of the old Whiskered Screech’s was right. The band and Otulissa and Eglantine were bold. There was no doubt about that. But were they really mature enough for this? “Young’uns, she is not shattered. This has nothing to do with flecks,” the Snowy monarch said softly.
“What, then?” Twilight asked in a barely audible voice.
“Her gizzard has grown still,” Boron continued. “And her heart is broken.”
“Broken?” asked Gylfie. The young owls had never heard of such a thing as a broken heart.
“This is difficult to explain,” Boron said, looking at each of them and at the same time wondering how he would do it. “We owls experience most of our strongest emotions, as you all know, in our gizzards, but there are a few reserved for the heart. When an owl has been unfaithful, has betrayed a cause or a friend or, like Dewlap, the entire tree as she did by leaking information to the enemy during the siege, it has also betrayed its own heart. When such an owl realizes what it has done, its gizzard often becomes still and its heart tries to work harder to make up for the difference. But an owl’s heart cannot do what an owl’s gizzard is supposed to do, and it breaks. Not literally, but it breaks in a way that even though it still pumps blood, its spirit is broken.”
“What happens to such an owl?” Soren asked in a scared voice.
“Well, it becomes rather like its heart and gizzard. It grows still. It continues to eat and breathe, but it is helpless. It is as if the owl’s soul, its scroomsaw, has left its body, yet it is not dead. The owl is not a scroom. It is what we call the living dead.” The young owls were very quiet. They could not even imagine such a thing, but when they looked at Dewlap, they could believe it.
“So what do you do?” Otulissa asked in a quiet voice.
“Well, my dear, that is where you come in.” And the way Boron said “you,” it seemed that he meant Otulissa in particular. “We have a mission for you.”
“Me?” Otulissa asked.
“You, Otulissa, with the help of your friends here.”
“What is it?” she asked. Soren could see that Otulissa was trembling.
“Be gentle,” Boron replied. Now all of the young owls blinked in confusion. Perhaps the most confused was Twilight. Be gentle? That’s a mission? You gotta be kidding!
“We, the parliament of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, are charging you six owls”—and this time Boron was sure to also look at Eglantine—“with the mission of delivering Dewlap to the Retreat of the Glauxian Sisters, in the Northern Kingdoms, on the Island of Elsemere, in the Everwinter Sea.”
Otulissa was stunned beyond belief. How could this be? She had dreamed forever of going to the Northern Kingdoms to find fighting owls, to see the magnificent snowy landscapes and cliffs of ice. But to be sent there as an attendant to a feeble old owl, whom she hated and blamed for the death of her beloved Strix Struma—it was too much! Simply too much. She staggered slightly on the perch, but Twilight extended a steadying wing. For the first time in her life, Otulissa was speechless. Indeed, this was a situation beyond words.
Just then, there was a rap on the parliament door. The Boreal Owl stuck his head in. “Permission to enter, your honors? The new slipgizzle from the eastern Barrens has arrived with an urgent message.”
“Permission granted.”
A rather disreputable-looking Great Horned, missing one ear tuft, flew into the chamber.
“Your honors, I bring you ill tidings.”
“Go on.” Boron nodded.
“The Pure Ones took the canyons last eve. St. Aggie’s has fallen.”
It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the chamber. The words blurred in Soren’s ears. There was something said about Kludd and the 32nd regiment. Skench was wounded or killed? It was a hodgepodge of disjointed noises.
The young owls had been quickly dismissed. They thought they had been dismissed for good in view of the crisis, but just as they were filing out of the chamber, Ezylryb had called out to the Boreal Owl to have the young ones wait in the antechamber.
So they waited, but few words were exchanged for the first several minutes.
“St. Aggie’s fallen? What does it mean?” Soren spoke in almost a daze. In fact, they all seemed dazed, except for Digger.
“It means,” the Burrowing Owl said in a hushed voice tight with fear, “the Pure Ones have control of the largest supply of flecks on earth.”
“I still don’t understand why I have to fly escort to that pathetic old owl,” Otulissa whimpered.
Digger whirled around. “Get a grip, Otulissa! You’re worrying about flying Dewlap to the Northern Kingdoms.Meanwhile, the Pure Ones have control of all the flecks, and we now know what flecks can do! What does it mean, Soren asked. I’ll tell you what it means. It means more shatterings. It means that the Pure Ones can gain control of our brains, our minds. It means we might never be able to think again. It means it would be better to die than become a mindless tool for the most destructive owls on earth. That’s what it means, Otulissa.”
The other four owls were astounded. Digger, usually subdued, philosophical, and armed with endless patience, had suddenly become enraged. While the other owls had wilfed at the news that the Pure Ones had triumphed over St. Aggie’s, and appeared exceedingly slender with their feathers lying close to their bodies, Digger had puffed up and seemed almost twice his normal size as he spat out his rage at Otulissa.
The Boreal Owl now came into the antechamber. “Young’uns, the parliament would like to see you again. Follow me, please.”
Once more, the six owls filed into the parliament chamber and took their places facing the curved birch branch where the members perched. They all noticed that Dewlap had been removed from the chamber. This time Barran began to speak.
“As you know, young’uns, our situation is grave. We have won two battles, one last winter during the siege and now in the rescue of Eglantine and Primrose. But we have not won the war, which has turned more deadly than ever. We do not know how many of the St. Aggie’s troops have been conscripted into Kludd’s army of the Pure Ones. But we must assume the worst; that the Pure Ones’ ra
nks have grown. Therefore, Ezylryb would now like to talk to you about a second mission.”
Ezylryb flew to the center of the birch branch. “You are young, bold owls. You shall be journeying to the land of my hatching in the Northern Kingdoms. The land of the Great North Waters. Your journey was only to be one of mercy, of caring, as you gently escort this sick and broken Burrowing Owl to the Glauxian Sisters on the Isle of Elsemere.”
Soren felt Otulissa stir beside him. She’s hoping to get out of this, but it’s not going to happen. Soren could tell something else was coming.
“That is still your mission,” Ezylryb continued.
Soren stole a look at Otulissa. Her beak was set in a most unbecoming fashion. He wasn’t sure if it was anger or disappointment.
“But after you have completed the safe delivery of Dewlap, there is more we would like you to do…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Passing of the Claws
There was more. A lot more! Soren remained awake long after the other members of the band fell asleep. His mind kept running over the tasks they had been given. The enormity of the undertaking was mind-boggling. Otulissa and Gylfie were to go to the Glauxian Brothers Retreat to find another copy of the fleckasia book in their library. Soren, Twilight, and Digger were to proceed to the Firth of Fangs in the most northwestern region of the Everwinter Sea and seek out an old warrior named Moss and then continue on to Stormfast Island, in the Bay of Kiel, to talk to a relative of Octavia’s, a Kielian snake called Hoke of Hock. And finally, they were to go to Dark Fowl Island, where the legendary blacksmith Orf crafted the finest battle claws ever known in the owl world.
It was the chance of a lifetime, a trip to the Northern Kingdoms to recruit owls and arms to battle the Pure Ones who now held St. Aggie’s. But then again how long might their lives last in this new and dangerous world?Otulissa, of course, was almost triumphant. Finally, the elders had listened to her. This would be the first step in the invasion plan she had thought about for months, ever since the death of Strix Struma. Gylfie, although miffed at being sent to do research, was also excited. Eglantine was thrilled at being included at last. As Boron told her in a graceful and eloquent speech, she had more than proven herself. In an act of unsurpassable bravery she had collected and reassembled the fragments of her nearly shattered mind. Although she had failed to keep Nyra and Kludd’s egg as hostage, her courage had never wavered. It was only at the last minute when the crown fire threatened to engulf her that she had let the egg fall and flown from the tree. When Soren thought of the look in Eglantine’s eyes as Boron had described how courageous she’d been, well, he had never in his life been so proud.
But something is wrong with me, Soren thought. Why am I not excited? He looked over at Digger and Gylfie and Twilight sleeping, each with their own wonderful dreams of the great adventures ahead in the Northern Kingdoms. And yet I am the one with starsight, the one who dreams about things that sometimes happen, but I cannot sleep and cannot dream.
Finally, Soren gave up trying to sleep. He lofted up to the edge of the sky port of the hollow and perched for a few minutes. The sun rode high in the sky on this late summer day. Why not go to the library, he thought. He spread his wings and lifted off toward the higher branches of the great tree to where the library hollow was. The world seemed too bright at this hour of the day, especially as he rose higher to where the branches of the great tree were sparser. The dimness of the library was welcoming, and the change from the brightness to the shadows made him blink as his eyes adjusted. So it was several seconds before he realized that within the shadows there was a denser darkness in the corner, at the desk reserved for Ezylryb. This was so unexpected that Soren blurted out, “What are you doing here?”
Ezylryb churred softly, “I might ask the same of you, young’un.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Come to my hollow, Soren. I have something for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
The two owls left the library and flew to a sky port on the northwest side of the tree. Octavia was draped over a nearby branch. She swung her head toward Ezylryb. “Be wanting your tea now, sir?”
“That would be lovely, Octavia. Yes, thank you.”
As they entered the hollow, Soren blinked again rapidly to adjust his vision. This time it was not a shadow within the dimness that caught his eye but something gleaming with a bright intensity. His gizzard gave a quiver of excitement. In the middle of Ezylryb’s tea table were the battle claws made on Dark Fowl Island—the very same battle claws that Gylfie and Soren had first seen the previous autumn when Ezylryb had disappeared, and they had gone into his hollow to snoop for possible clues. Except at that time the claws had been rusty with age and were hung in a secret compartment of the hollow. Now they had been polished to a shimmering radiance. They absolutely glowed on the table. It was almost as if they were a living, breathing thing and not just finely tempered metal.
Soren was dumbfounded. He had thought no one was to know about these battle claws. He cautiously moved around the table, almost mesmerized by the gleaming claws. “What is this all about?”
“It is about you, lad.”
“Me?” Now he was genuinely bewildered.
“They are for you, Soren. Call it, if you will, a passing of the claws.”
“But why me, Ezylryb?”
“For many reasons really, but first and foremost, you are the leader of the band.”
“But when we go to the Northern Kingdoms, it’s really Otulissa’s mission. She is the one who knows the most. She even speaks their language.”
“There are many kinds of knowing, Soren. Otulissa has one kind and you have another. With these claws, Moss, Hoke of Hock, and the smith on Dark Fowl will all know that you are truly an emissary from Ezylryb, once known as Lyze of Kiel. They are your passport, your safe-conduct permit. The claws are, if you will, the keys to the Northern Kingdoms.”
“The keys to the Northern Kingdoms,” Soren spoke in a whispery voice.
“Every owl will know that you are my ward.”
“Ward?” Soren tore his eyes from the radiance of the claws and looked up at Ezylryb. “Your ward?” Soren wasn’t even sure if he knew what the word meant.
“You are under my protection as a son would be.”
“As your son?”
“It is not that complicated, Soren. You have no parents. I have no children. You are my ward now, but with that comes certain responsibilities, one of them being to not only represent me but also the other owls of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.”
“Ready for tea, sir? And I managed to snitch some milkberry buns from Cook.” Octavia slithered into the hollow with the tea things on her back.
“Yes, do come in. I think our Soren here is a bit overcome.”
“Oh, my, my.” Octavia flicked her tongue. “Oh, dear lad, how hard I worked polishing those claws for you. They were a bit rusty, as you might recall.” She slid her head sideways toward Soren, and Soren gasped. Had she told Ezylryb how he and Gylfie had snooped around last autumn? The old snake laughed, and Ezylryb joined her.
Soren blinked. Well, if she has, I guess no one thinks it’s that awful.
Soren ate his tart and sipped his tea in a bewildered state, unable to take his eyes off the battle claws. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no place to keep them.
“Sir, we don’t leave until the eve after this one. Where shall I keep them?”
“I shall keep them for you until then. Don’t worry.”
But he was worried. How would he explain all this to the rest of the band, and Otulissa and Eglantine? Suddenly, however, he was quite sleepy. Too sleepy to worry. He tried to stifle a yawn.
“Getting sleepy, dear?” Octavia said.
“Yes, a bit I guess.”
“Well…”—Ezylryb peered out the sky port—“the sun is still pretty high. I would say that you have a good several hours until dusk and tween time. Why don’t you fly along and get some rest?”
/>
“Yes, I think I will, sir.” Soren flapped up to the sky port and just before taking off, he turned and said, “Thank you, Octavia, for the tea and tart. And thank you, Ezylryb.” He paused. “For everything.”
Octavia had cleared up the tea things and slithered out of the hollow. She knew when her master wanted to be alone. It was not the gollymopes this time, however, at least not exactly. The old Whiskered Screech just needed to be alone. That was all.
The arthritis in his starboard wing was kicking up again. Always did this time of year. He’d pluck himself a quill from his port wing although the starboard one always offered the best. He winced as he pulled a new pinfeather. He sat down at his desk and took out a piece of his finest parchment, dipped the quill in an inkwell and began to write.
The time has come,
The claws are passed.
An old owl rests,
A die’s been cast.
It is a war for heart, gizzard, and mind.
The weapons they wield, more deadly than mine.
A blade draws blood,
A fire burns.
But with the flecks,
A mind unlearns,
A soul unhinges,
And then a gizzard quakes and cringes.
Senses dull,
Reason scatters.
The heart grows numb,
An owl shatters.
But these six owls are strong and bold,
And their story has not yet been told.
Ezylryb put down his quill. He turned his head. The red tinge of the setting sun cast an eerie light on the battle claws that now seemed to glow with the heat of a blacksmith’s fire. He reached out with his mangled talon and touched the claws. It was almost as if he could still feel the scorching heat of the fire in which they had been wrought. My Glaux, he thought, what am I sending these owls into? What hagsmire awaits them?