There was no sense in trying to sleep for the rest of the day. She would have to get up in a few hours, anyway. Besides, Otulissa wasn’t worried about being tired. It was hard to be tired when one was so scared. Her gizzard was twitching as if it were having its own private electrical storm. Her first stomach was tight as a drum—she couldn’t imagine eating anything. Her brain was buzzing with all those equations they had learned about wind drift, flying with claws, and how to calculate drag and lift. Glaux, she was scared. Her eyes filled with tears as she thought of never seeing her friends again.
Soon another Spotted Owl stuck his head into Otulissa’s hollow and nodded to her. Well, this is it, she thought. This is war.
The island had been divided into quadrants. And each of the four quadrants had then been divided into four other sections. The heaviest defenses were in the southwestern quadrant, as this was the most sensible angle of attack for an enemy—especially an enemy that did not like flying in adverse weather conditions. The prevailing north to northwest wind would give them an advantage, allowing them to fly in on a quartering tailwind as opposed to flying directly against a headwind. This would give them a bit of a boost. The Strix Struma Strikers would not have this advantage, for they would have to fly against this wind, not head-on but enough to slow their flight. This did not disturb Strix Struma. The Guardians, particularly the Strike force, were masters of slow flight. In the turbulent air over the Sea of Hoolemere, this was important.
Soren, Gylfie, and Twilight took up their positions on top of two snares in a section of the southwestern quadrant. It was a perfect vantage point. They watched in stunned amazement as the Striker force flew out into the spume-laced air with Otulissa flying in a flanking position and Ruby ahead of her. Ruby, they understood. Ruby was one of the most superb fliers of the tree, but Otulissa?
“It must have killed her to keep quiet about this,” Gylfie offered as they watched the Striker force dissolve into a fog bank.
“Let’s just hope she doesn’t get killed,” Soren said.
“She won’t. She’ll do fine.” Soren and Gylfie swung their heads toward Twilight, and blinked in surprise. This was not the reaction they had expected. They had thought that Twilight, of all owls, would be insanely jealous of Otulissa’s being chosen for this mission. “She’s smart, and you know how sensitive all Spotted Owls are to pressure changes—almost as good as nest-maid snakes. And she’ll be brave—if only for Strix Struma, she’ll show courage. If she can just stop yakking and keep her beak shut, she’ll do fine.”
At that moment, Huckmore came up to them. “Now you understand what to do when the enemy is driven into the snares by the Striker force. You are to pull the slipknot lines, which will immediately immobilize the enemy. Many will die instantly. If they are caught around the neck, this can result in strangulation. If their wings are ensnared, they are usually broken. Any questions?”
Soren, Gylfie, Twilight, and three other owls working this snare all shook their heads.
“Good luck, Guardians!” Soren felt a little thrill course through his gizzard. This was the first time any of them had ever been addressed by an elder member of the tree as Guardians. None of them had had their Guardian ceremony yet, but this old Great Gray who had seen many battles himself had called them Guardians!
There was no need to tell them to keep a sharp eye out for incoming owls. They could hardly take their eyes off the action that was just commencing off the shores of the island. A flying wedge of Sooty Owls was approaching fast. Behind them were at least forty owls—some Sooty, a few Grass Owls, and many Barn Owls, their faces fading into the tossed-up spray of the breaking waves. Just as they passed over the beach, they unlocked their claws. The Strikers materialized, seemingly coming out of nowhere. They had split their force into two divisions. At twenty owls they were half the number of the enemy, but they struck the center of the wedge from two sides, thus shattering the formations. The point of the wedge remained intact but with only ten determined owls to stay their course toward the island’s center and the tree. Still, it was a brilliant maneuver. Now ten enemy owls advanced. They were maddened that their force had been shattered, but were more resolute than ever in their quest. Yet through their rage, they were not quite so alert. In the foggy night of the snow-laden forest, they were not able to distinguish the white vines from the trees.
“Voles dance at dawn!” Huckmore’s lieutenant called out the code to prepare to tighten the slipknots. Soren and Gylfie were at their stations. They wore no battle claws because it was too hard to work the vines with claws on.
“Steady. Steady. Steady,” Gylfie whispered. It was important that they didn’t panic, that they pull the slipknots at precisely the right moment—not too soon, not too late.
Soren could feel the wind generated by the flapping owls. “LOVELY.” The word sailed out into the night, a strange word in battle, but the essence of code was to deceive the enemy and communicate with the allies. So instead of “Now!” or “Strike!” the gentle, two-syllable word had been chosen as the call to action for the snare rippers, as Soren, Gylfie, and the others who minded the vines were called.
The impact of the in-flying owls sent tremors through the web. Soren saw tiny Gylfie yanked up and down, but she held tight to the vine. Horrible screeches raked the air as the enemy owls, in a panic, tried to extricate themselves. Ten owls hung, some already lifeless, others broken and dying in the snare.
The first battle had been won. Scattered enemy owls had been snagged in the deadly snares.
But on the far side of Hoolemere, where the wind swept down like sharp blades from the Ice Narrows, a small division of owls led by Nyra and Kludd pressed against the fierce headwinds. Kludd looked at his mate with admiration. As a native of the Northern Kingdoms, she knew these winds. She knew the vagaries of their sudden switches that created stormy eddies and whirlpools of air. And she knew, as she had told Kludd, that this side of Hoolemere would be lightly defended and easily penetrated.
Just wait until the hireclaws arrive. Her gizzard stirred with excitement at the thought, and she turned to Kludd. “We may have lost the first battle, my dear. But we shall win the war!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The News Is Not Good
The wind had died and the snare waved languidly in the occasional remnant gusts. Soren scanned the vines. One severely wounded owl had been extricated and flown off in an airborne hammock between two Boreal Owls who worked as matrons in the infirmary. It was odd. Soren thought that the very vines that had caused injury and death could also be woven to make rescue transports. Nine owls hung in macabre configurations of death with their wings twisted and their heads askew. There was nothing particularly glorious or heroic about war, Soren realized. It was really nothing more than a grubby, vile task to vanquish a foul tyranny led by his own brother. Even Twilight seemed subdued in the face of the sheer ugliness that had now been woven into the snare. It seemed so strange to Soren that the same motions that wove beautiful music from the harp of Madame Plonk or the beautiful tapestries and laces that hung in the Great Ga’Hoole Tree had now been used to weave this cloth of death. He could not wait to leave the snare. The relief snare rippers were expected soon. Soren was completely exhausted.
Back in the tree there were no victory speeches or celebrations over the repulsion of this first attack. Instead there was an uneasy quiet that seemed to flow through the tangle of corridors in the tree. The enemy’s forces had been decimated, but they were said to have thousands, and there were rumors of hireclaws, rogue owls belonging to no kingdom, who could be hired to go into battle for the price of a good set of battle claws.
“Where’s Otulissa?” Gylfie said. “She must be back.”
“Up in the infirmary,” Digger said as he dropped onto a pile of down and stuck his legs straight out in the peculiar posture that he used for sleeping.
“The infirmary!” they all exclaimed.
“Don’t worry. It’s just a scratch. She didn’t even
want to go, but they made her,” he said.
“We should go visit her,” Soren said. “But I’m just too tired.”
“We can all go later,” Digger replied.
They were all so exhausted that they thought they would fall asleep immediately. But they didn’t. Perhaps it was the unease that seemed to pervade the great tree.
“They must know about the snares now,” Twilight mused out loud.
“They’ll be more careful next time, won’t they?” Soren said.
“You can’t keep something like that a secret forever,” Gylfie said.
“I heard that the secret was already out in some parts of the western quadrant,” Digger said.
“What?” Gylfie asked.
“Yes, and Sylvana is worried that some of those caches we’ve buried have already been disturbed.”
“Which ones?” Twilight asked.
“The ones with the coals,” he replied.
“Our firepower?” Twilight had lofted to his perch in great alarm. “That’s us!” Twilight meant the Chaw of Chaws. They had been recruited for the Flame Squadron, or as they were sometimes called, the Bonk Brigade. Bonk flames were blue with a flicker of yellow in the center and a tinge of green at the edges. They were intensely hot. These were the same flames that made the fires in Bubo’s forge full of bonk, the best fires for forging metals.
All this news was very disturbing. But finally the owls fell asleep.
“You can go in only if you promise to be very quiet,” the burly Short-eared matron said as she led Soren, Gylfie, Twilight, and Digger into the infirmary which she supervised. “And no talking to that Barn Owl, she’s an official prisoner of war.”
Soren, Digger, Gylfie, and Twilight exchanged glances.
That must be the one who got caught in our snare, Soren thought.
Otulissa was tucked into a downy croft, as they called the beds of the infirmary. She looked perfectly fine to Soren.
“You don’t look hurt at all,” Gylfie said.
“I’m not!” Otulissa snapped. “It’s simply ridiculous that I’m being kept in here.”
“What happened?” Soren asked.
“I took a very light hit on my port side. They insisted I come here for observation because Strix Struma thought I was flying funny.”
“Funny?” Gylfie asked.
“Out of balance, that’s all. I’m flying fine now. I straightened out on the way back. I think they are being awfully cautious.”
“What was it like?” Twilight said. “Out there you flew straight into the first wedge of the enemy. How did you do it?”
Otulissa twisted her head almost entirely around to indicate the Barn Owl in the other croft. “Supposedly she’s unconscious, but you never can tell. So I can’t talk about anything having to do with the war. Nor should you.”
“Oh,” Twilight said.
“What else is there to talk about?” Digger offered.
It was true, of course. Soren was observing Otulissa. She seemed different somehow. Maybe this was what flying straight against the enemy did to an owl.
At just that moment, Dewlap stuck her head into the infirmary hollow. “Oh, great Glaux, Otulissa, what are you doing here?” She seemed stunned to find the Spotted Owl in the infirmary.
“She’s been hurt,” Gylfie said. “That’s why she’s here.”
Stupid old owl! Soren thought. Why else would she be here?
“Why are you here, Dewlap?” Digger asked.
“Well, I’m…I’m…” she began to stammer, then snapped, “I am here visiting the wounded.”
Otulissa swung her head directly at the Ga’Hoolology ryb. Her amber gaze bore into Dewlap. “That’s so kind of you to come, even if you didn’t know I was here. Thank you very much. I’m sure the others wounded will be touched by your gesture.”
Dewlap seemed to have recovered her poise. “Yes. I, of course, wasn’t sure who would be here, but I felt a visit was one very small kindness I could bestow in these troubled times.” And then she seemed distracted and her eyes grew misty and seemed to focus on something very far away. “Who would have ever thought it would all come to this?” she said softly, more to herself than anyone else. “To war,” she said in a low whisper.
Soren, Twilight, and Gylfie spent two more nights on the snares but they caught very few owls. There was, in fact, very little action. Again, there was a disturbing silence. The winterlies had abated, although the temperatures had dropped dramatically. Ice floes were beginning to form in the Sea of Hoolemere. Rations were running short, for food had to be conserved. And although hunting units went out, it was so cold it seemed as if all the prey had taken to their burrows and were locked beneath the frozen earth. The nights were long and black, as the moon had dwenked and would not be back for several days.
One night just before dawn as Soren, Gylfie, and Twilight finished snare detail, they sensed that something had changed within the tree. There was an anxious buzz but they could catch only fragments of hasty exchanges. Every time they passed one of the older owls, beaks seemed to clamp shut.
“I heard something about a skirmish on the far side of the island,” Digger said, slipping into his place at Mrs.
Plithiver’s table. She had stretched her body to its maximum length so more of the owls could be accommodated. Primrose, Eglantine, and Martin crowded around the rosy-scaled table that Mrs. P. provided with her wonderfully pliant body. Ga’Hoole nut cups filled with watered-down milkberry tea were placed next to minced mouse. It was not the fare they were accustomed to, but no one dared complain. A month from now they might be looking back on this as a magnificent repast. The winters on the Island of Hoole were normally long and harsh, and now with war, even harsher.
“Attention!” It was the booming voice of Boron. “Ezylryb, our minister of war, has requested to address us at this breaklight meal.”
Ezylryb, looking quite haggard, flew to the top perch in the dining hall. “I shall be direct and concise. I am afraid the news is not good. Many days have passed since this war began. We have met with great successes on the western front. But on the northeastern shores, in a quadrant where we thought ourselves invulnerable because of the fierceness of the winter seas combined with the wrathful winds out of the Ice Narrows, we have sustained harsh losses in an unexpected enemy attack. You have heard rumors of a skirmish. I fear it was more than that. A substantial number of enemy troops have broken through our defenses.
While our own troops were diverted by this action in the northeastern quadrant, other forces attacked in the southwest. An invading force has landed and more may come. What we have thus far called the Battle of the Coasts is over, and I expect that the Battle of Hoole is about to begin. Our civilization of owlkind depends upon this battle, as the whole fury of these base and most ignoble owls who call themselves the Pure Ones is turned upon us.
“But we must not fear. We have on this island today some of the finest fighters in owlkind. We have our Strix Struma Strikers, our Flame Squadron, our squadrons of Burrowing Owls who, with their long legs and talons sublime, can dig like the best of any burrowing animal on earth. And they can fight, too, I might add! With these fine owls, we shall defend our island. You shall not, however, be called upon immediately for offensive action. First, we shall try a defensive strategy. We shall not be very mobile, but we will be strong. We shall fortify ourselves within the massive trunk of this, our great tree, so lovingly cared for through the centuries. It continues to be cared for under the guidance of our invaluable ryb of Ga’Hoolology, Dewlap.”
Ezylryb nodded to the Burrowing Owl, and she lowered her head shyly. Soren felt Otulissa, who had been released from the infirmary, grow smaller. In truth, she had not diminished, but her fear had grown huge. It rattled through her hollow bones.
What is going on here? Soren wondered. He listened as Ezylryb continued to explain the defensive strategy. “We have enough food to hold out, more than they will have in these coming months. Yes, there will be roug
h times ahead, but we can bear the discomfort with patience and with fortitude. We shall never surrender to these false ideals, to these twisted notions of superiority, to this tyranny of purity.”
Otulissa looked at Soren. “I can’t stand it!” she whispered.
“Can’t stand what?” Soren asked.
“How Ezylryb was going on about Dewlap. Look at her gloating up there.”
“Let her gloat, Otulissa,” Digger said.
“What do you mean?” Soren asked. Otulissa looked equally surprised by Digger’s remark.
“Think about this: Dewlap is the only Burrowing Owl who has not been put on a digging unit. We are all burrowing something. I’m doing cache holes for embers. Hubert over there is caching food supplies. Muriel and three others are excavating the existing storage areas under the tree to make them larger. If Ezylryb thinks Dewlap is so great, why isn’t she working in a unit?” Digger asked.
“Isn’t she supervising?” Soren asked.
“Not really,” Digger says. “Supposedly she is overseeing the storage area excavations under the tree, but it’s sort of a fake job. We all know how to do it. She just arranges the shifts we dig in and keeps the inventory lists. So don’t get that upset, Otulissa. I don’t think Ezylryb is sincerely ‘going on about Dewlap.’”
“Then what’s he doing?” Soren asked.
“Now that’s the real question,” Digger said. “And I can’t answer it.” He paused. “Yet.”
There was no doubt in Soren’s mind that, of himself, Digger, Twilight, and Gylfie, Digger was the deepest thinker and the most reflective. Gylfie might be considered the smartest because she was a quick learner, and she knew a lot. Twilight was too impulsive to be considered a deep thinker, although he was brilliant at perceiving small gradations of light as night shifted to day and day to night. And Soren himself—well, Soren wasn’t really sure how he would describe his own mental activities. But Digger made connections that others might not ever think about. And the connections he was making now both fascinated and alarmed Soren.