But the wolves were anything but crazy. They were among the most organized and methodical of animals in everything they did, from how they hunted to their strategies for traveling to the rearing of their young. Their howling was as systematic as any language, and through it they could convey an enormous range of information. Now on this night hundreds of wolves began to leave their dens and form byrrgises. So the call had gone out to break summer camp and meet in the Gadderheal of the Sacred Ring of volcanoes. The owl kingdoms were imperiled and so was the world of every living creature.
In a rocky redoubt near the volcanoes of the Sacred Ring there was a masked owl, a Rogue smith by the name of Gwyndor. He looked up from his forge, where he had just put to use the excellent bonk coals he had acquired from one of the colliers. Namara’s first howls were too far from the volcanoes for any creature near them to hear at first but as the byrrgises made their way toward the Sacred Ring, the howling continued and the approach of the wolves was known.
Gwyndor had spent more years than any other owl in the Beyond. And he had become a student of wolves. Although he did not know even the very general meaning of the howls, he could recognize the voices of many of the clan chiefs. The wolf who led the howling varied, depending on the situation, and that wolf was called the skreeleen. This time the skreeleen was Namara. He was sure of it. And if it was Namara, Gwyndor knew it was not an ordinary situation. Not a herd of caribou migrating through the MacNamara territory, or a wolf sick with the foaming-mouth disease, or a grizzly fishing in the river. She would let another high-ranking wolf of her clan convey that type of information. But when Namara howled, which was rare, it was about owls. And although Gwyndor did not know the meaning, he detected a vibration in the timbre of her cries that hearkened back to that dreadful night when owl and wolf fought flank to wing and her only pup had been killed. He felt a dread build in his gizzard. The byrrgises of the clans that were converging on the Sacred Ring were still several hours away. It would be daybreak when they arrived. Should he wait or fly out to meet Namara, get her awful news, and then fly on to the great tree to deliver it? He had been a slipgizzle for the great tree for some time now. The Sacred Ring was a good place to pick up information, because so many Rogue colliers came to dive the coal beds from all parts of the Southern Kingdoms. But if he waited, he would be forced to fly in daylight, and crow mobbings had been on the rise lately. And how much would he learn if he waited? One really couldn’t interrupt a byrrgis, nor would he be permitted into a Gadderheal. But Coryn would. Coryn had a special relationship with the wolves. With Namara in particular.
He decided that he must leave immediately for the great tree. The wind had shifted. He should be able to make it at least as far as the border between the Shadow Forest and Silverveil. Of course, if he flew over the spirit woods it would be even shorter and safer. Crows never entered the spirit woods, but he felt himself wilf at the thought. Gwyndor had never encountered a scroom and although it was said they were perfectly harmless he was not anxious to meet up with any, either.
Another owl far from the Beyond was perched on the very top of the bell tower trying to decide not when she should leave for the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, but if she could leave. Bess had not left the Palace of Mists since she had first arrived years before. The farthest she had ever flown since that time was to the base of the waterfalls to hunt. The mist-shrouded cleft in the Shadow Forest provided everything she needed. And the Boreal Owl, as she had grown older, hoarded her solitude like a miser hoarding gold. It was priceless. She had sworn years before after the arduous journey in which she had transported her father’s bones that she would never leave this palace. It was her paradise, her own glaumora on earth. She found all the company she required in books and ideas. Over the years, her long-distance flight skills had become as rusty as the hinges on the palace doors. She knew all one could about navigation, for she had read all the books of the old explorers, but could she do it on the wing? Now, as she perched on the edge of the bell tower, she wondered if she had the courage to leave this place. Her gizzard rebelled at the very thought. Who would toll for her father?
She was happy that her father had not come to her as a scroom, for that would mean he had unfinished business on earth. Instead her father had appeared in a dream and said, “Wake!” Maybe that meant she should leave her concerns of scholarship and theory and go out into the world. The facts were pretty straightforward. An owl lay dead in the palace. She had killed that owl. He lay in a pool of blood, an arrowhead buried in his breast. And now she must go out into the world. She must fly to the great tree and tell the shocking news of the intruder who spoke of hags and hagsmire and demanded the ember. And if one owl knew the ember was at the Palace of Mists, did others?
Bess shut her eyes. I can’t go! I can’t! I am so scared. She felt her gizzard clench. A warm draft of air rose up from below. Such warm drafts or thermals were rare. Was it a sign? These thermals were the easiest to fly, giving owls a sturdy boost, allowing them to soar with hardly a wing waggle for propulsion. It seemed as if the very elements were conspiring against her fear. Or are they conspiring for me? Trying to entice me into the sky?
She felt pressed now between this rising thermal and that pool of blood in the crypt. She closed her eyes, gave a sudden small yelp, and flung herself onto the warm breast of the updraft. Here goes nothing! she thought. And felt the warm air fold around her like the wings of her da.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’m Here!
The days had shortened and the nights had grown longer. In the few daylight hours left, the owls slept deeply, recovering from all the work and play of the season of long nights. Since her injury of the previous year, Otulissa found that she had to rebuild her strength gradually and often retired earlier than the other owls, taking a few hours of quiet reflection before sleep. There had been a string of sparkling days in the season of the Copper-Rose Rain, and since she had not exhausted herself flying all night long she often retreated to her favorite spot in the Great Ga’Hoole Tree—the hanging garden. It was her chosen place for reflection. The pockets of the tree, where the major limbs joined the trunk, had always collected a variety of organic matter. It had been customary to clear this out several times a year as it was thought to be better for the health of the tree. Otulissa had supervised this chore. But in Otulissa’s capacity of Ga’Hoolology ryb, she had begun a series of experiments in which she let the organic matter accumulate. She discovered that with careful management of the small shrubs, lichens, and plants that took root in the pockets, the overall health of the tree was enhanced. Indeed, many of the plants in the hanging gardens offered additional crops that could be gathered for food. A new variety of nooties, similar to the ones that could be harvested during the time of the Copper-Rose Rain, now grew during other seasons. Aside from the nutritional benefits of the cultivated pockets, there was the sheer beauty of their hanging gardens; the mosses, lichens, and many flowering plants—including orchids—were suspended like colorful constellations from the canopy of the tree.
On this morning, with the sun bouncing off the rosy golden milkberries, the tree seemed spangled with light. Cleve joined her, as did Tengshu, her old friend from the sixth kingdom, who was staying for a spell in the tree. So successful had the Greenowls—trained by Tengshu—been in routing the Striga and his troops from the great tree, that Coryn had decided upon the formation of a new chaw so that Guardians could learn Danyar, the fighting discipline practiced by the blue owls of the Middle Kingdom. Tengshu was here to teach to them.
“I do feel, Cleve dear, that perhaps we owls, being night creatures, have underrated the splendor of the day.”
“Perhaps. But it is hard to imagine flying about in the daylight with a scalding sun blasting your wings. Daylight has no texture. It’s not like the night. There are no stars, none of the black feathery softness of the evening.”
“Oh, Cleve, just listen to your prejudice. You define everything in owl terms—saying the black is feat
hery.”
“I agree,” Tengshu said. “You know, in the Middle Kingdom, we do quite a bit of day flying, since we have no crows, and need not fear mobbing. I was flying about just now. There is a new freshness in the air.” He hesitated. “I don’t know how to describe it. Should I say ‘thump of wind’ coming in from the north?”
“Ah, the katabats!” Cleve said.
“The katabats?” Tengshu asked.
“Yes, that’s what we call them in the Northern Kingdoms where they originate. You’re just feeling the very outermost fringes of them,” Otulissa said, then continued. “They are actually caused by a reverse cyclonic inversion…”
“Your knowledge, madam, astounds me,” Tengshu exclaimed quickly. Then he paused a moment. “I think I’ve seen that Short-eared Owl with the russet feathers, sensational flier, taking a daytime flight.”
“Ruby, of course,” Otulissa and Cleve both said at once.
“Yes, Ruby.”
“Ruby flies night or day.” Otulissa laughed. “If there’s a good wind to be caught she is out there.” And then rather slyly, Otulissa swiveled her head in Cleve’s direction. “Do ask Ruby, my dear, about the texture of the day as compared to the night.”
“Ha!” Cleve churred heartily.
Just at that moment they heard something flapping loudly above them. They all flipped their heads straight up to see what it was.
“Great Glaux, what is that thing?” Tengshu exclaimed.
“I’m coming in! I’m coming in! Mind your heads,” the thing called out. “I’m not so good at this!”
A flash of orange sliced through a cascade of orchids that swung from the upper level of the hanging garden. “Oh, Great Glaux! There goes my Cymbidium strumella!” Otulissa shrieked as the lovely yellow-speckled blossoms of the orchid swirled around them.
There was a soft plop as Dumpy belly flopped on a hummock of moss. “Am I here? Am I actually here?” he gasped, looking up into the faces peering down at him.
“That depends. What was your intended destination?” Otulissa asked.
“Destination?” Dumpy repeated.
“Oh, Glaux,” Otulissa murmured. She’d forgotten how dumb puffins were. Why was this one here? They rarely left the Ice Narrows. “Where did you want to go?” She spoke slowly and distinctly as one might to a very young child.
“Uh…the great tree. The great tree. Big news. Big, big news!”
“Well, then you have arrived at your destination,” Cleve said.
“And what is the big news?” Otulissa asked.
Dumpy staggered to his feet. “Uh…I was afraid you were going to ask me that.”
“Why were you afraid?” Tengshu tipped his head forward.
Dumpy stared so hard at Tengshu his eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Oh, Great Ice! Another one!”
“Another what?” the three owls asked at once.
“He looks just like the other blue owl I saw.” Dumpy nodded at Tengshu. “Except this one’s prettier. More feathers.”
Otulissa gasped. “It can’t be!” she whispered.
Cleve took a step forward and put a protective wing around Dumpy’s plump shoulders. “Now, son.”
“I’m not your son,” Dumpy said with sudden alarm. “I’m not nearly smart enough to be an owl. And I can tell you that if I were your son, I’d be a great disappointment to you.”
“It’s just an expression,” Otulissa interjected.
Dumpy suddenly looked up at Cleve. “Oh, Good Ice, I know…who you are.” Dumpy began to sputter. “You’re the owl who took the sea tick from my foot.” He lifted up one of his webbed feet and began waving it about until he fell over. “Good as new!” he said as he picked himself up and flopped against Cleve’s chest, embracing him.
“Let’s get to the bottom of this,” Otulissa continued.
“Oh, yes, I have a bottom!” Dumpy said, and immediately turned around and tipped his butt into the air.
Otulissa leaned toward Tengshu and whispered, “You must understand that puffins can be very literal. So we must just stick to the basics. Now, Dumpy, you did say your name was Dumpy, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Dumpy said with some uncertainty.
“Concentrate, dear,” Otulissa went on. “You say you saw a blue owl.”
Dumpy shut his eyes very tightly and appeared to be concentrating with every bit of brain he possessed. He began to speak very slowly.
“You see, there is this ice cave and I know a back way in, and I saw these two owls go in there, so I sneaked in the back way and listened…”
“Two owls, not just one?”
“Yes, two. But only one was blue. Blue? I just learned the name for that color. I used to call it ‘sky,’ but from the polar bear I learned it’s blue.”
“Polar bear—how does a polar bear fit into this?” Cleve asked.
“Oh, the polar bear didn’t fit into the ice cave. No, I had to fly to the polar bear and tell her about what they said because I didn’t know half their words, words like ‘hagsfiend.’”
“HAGSFIEND!” the three owls gasped.
Meanwhile, on the far side of the great tree, unbeknownst to Otulissa, Cleve, and Tengshu, another unlikely visitor had arrived and gone directly to Soren.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Astonishing Visitors
Yoicks!” blurted Twilight. “It’s absolutely yoicks.” The Great Gray had taken the words out of all their beaks. Soren swiveled his head, first one way and then the other. He blinked at this motley crew: Dumpy the puffin, Gwyndor, and the most astonishing visitor of all—Bess—Bess who had never in their experience dared leave the Palace of Mists.
Yoicks, indeed, thought Soren. Bess had arrived on the branch outside his hollow as he and Pelli and their children were about to take tea. Completely exhausted, feathers askew from the tumultuous flight, she was an alarming sight. The three B’s stared at her wide-eyed. Pelli was speechless. Gulping to catch her breath, Bess said, “I came right here. Soren, I must see the king and the rest of the Band.” He had tried to get her to rest, take a spot of milkberry tea. But she had shouted, which in itself was shocking, for Bess always spoke in a low melodious voice, “There is no time for tea!”
So they had gone to Coryn’s hollow, only to find the puffin, Dumpy, already there with Otulissa, Tengshu, and Cleve.
“All right,” said Coryn, “let’s start again at the beginning so Soren and the Band can hear. Take this from the top, as the expression goes.”
Dumpy immediately tried to stand on his head.
“That won’t be necessary, dear,” Gylfie said, and flashed a look at Otulissa as if to say, How will we ever get through this?
Little by little the story came out. A fragment here, a sliver there. Threads, snippets. No one individual had the whole piece but when these shreds were pieced together there emerged a grim design indeed—on a diabolical cloth.
“Now, let’s review what we know,” Coryn said. “The ember. You are sure, Bess, that is what the Boreal Owl was after? He actually said the word?”
“He said ‘Where is it?’ and I said, ‘Where is what?’ And he said. ‘The Ember of Hoole.’ And I said. ‘I know nothing of any ember.’”
“And then you killed him.”
“Well, it wasn’t quite that quick. We fought. But, yes. I killed him. He’s dead.” All the owls looked at one another and shook their heads in wonder. Bess, the timid scholar, had killed an owl!
“So we must assume that this Boreal Owl is not the only one who knows about the ember,” Soren spoke softly.
“I didn’t know what to think,” Bess replied. “I was torn about what to do. Whether to fly here with the ember. But if there were other owls who knew I might be carrying it, I could be ambushed. It seemed best to leave it hidden where it is.”
“I think that was the best decision,” Coryn said. “But now, turning toward this other matter.” There was a sharp, quick stab like a pinprick in all of their gizzards. By “other matter” they knew C
oryn meant hagsfiends.
“Kreeth’s book is still here,” Otulissa said. “It was the first thing I checked on after we ousted the Striga, or rather the first thing Fritha checked, since I was so badly wounded. There is no way he could have studied that book. It’s been under lock and key since the time we took it…” She hesitated, for the searing image was still sharp in her mind, as it was in the minds of the other owls who had been there: Cody’s bloodied and broken body crumpled atop the book. Indeed, the book still bore stains of the young wolf’s blood. She turned toward Dumpy.
“Dumpy, now concentrate,” Otulissa said. This was about the fifth time the owls had asked him to concentrate and he was beginning to find it easier. “Can your recall exactly what you heard about hagsfiends?”
Dumpy closed his eyes again and clamped his beak shut for a moment, then spoke. “I think I can. The blue owl said hagsfiends vanished nearly one thousand years ago. Then the dark owl said, ‘So you think they are gone forever?’ The blue owl said, ‘Madame General, what are you suggesting?’ and the dark owl said, ‘I am suggesting nothing is forever.’ And the blue owl said he wasn’t good at riddles. And then the dark owl said something about the Long Night. ‘A marvelous hatching will occur.’ The blue owl asked, ‘There is an egg?’ And the dark owl said, ‘Soon.’”