CHAPTER TEN
Into the S’yrthghar
“But I can’t sing!” Hoole protested.
“Nor could your mother, my dear. Just hum along,” the Snow Rose said as she tucked a few random feathers and some twigs into the fan of Hoole’s tail. My goodness, she thought, I am actually tucking a feather into the back plumage of a king! Imagine a gadfeather dressing a king! A little tizzy in the old gizzy, she chuckled silently to herself.
The Snow Rose then turned to Phineas. “The same goes for you. I’ll do the melody. You do the harmony. Let’s hope no one asks us to sing. Remember, we’re going to plead sore throats—or at least the two of you are.”
It had been Grank’s idea that Hoole, like his mother, should go disguised as a gadfeather on this flight into the Southern Kingdoms. Although few had seen Hoole, there was always the chance that some owl might recognize him. When three gadfeathers set off from the great tree, no owl would suspect a king was among them.
Soon Cape Glaux loomed ahead of the trio on the far side of the sea, which the owls of the tree had taken to calling the Sea of Hoolemere.
Their mission was twofold: to get news of Emerilla and to recruit slipgizzles. They lighted down on the tip of Cape Glaux. “Where to go?” Phineas sighed. “Where to begin?”
“A grog tree,” the Snow Rose said quickly. “That’s where one gets all the news or gossip. There are bound to be some gadfeathers there and perhaps a few old perch warriors.”
“Perch warriors?” Hoole and Phineas asked together.
“Perch warriors. Never heard the expression?” The Snow Rose blinked. Phineas and Hoole both shook their heads. “Well, some are veterans, but many of them have never been to war. Of course, they won’t admit that. Mostly they perch in grog trees quaffing great quantities of bingle juice and clacking their beaks about war, old battles, and notions about how they should have been fought. Moments of great valor, usually their own. They are either too old or too lazy for war now, but they have very definite ideas about it. Glaux forbid they should actually ever have to get off their perches and fly into battle. But they are all for sending the young’uns off.”
“Hmmph!” Hoole gave a snort of disapproval.
“Yes, I know,” the Snow Rose said. “But they are a very good source of information. Some of it could be quite helpful. They’ll talk to anyone. If there has been word of a Spotted Owl from the N’yrthghar who is missing in action, they will know about her. And if there has been a Glauxian Brother around, they will know about him, too.” Here the Snow Rose gave Hoole a look, for he had spoken to her and Theo about his wish to enlist Brother Berwyck in their cause. “They have great contempt for the brothers.”
“Because they don’t fight?” Hoole affectionately thought of dear old Brother Berwyck, who had taught him how to fish when he was still quite young, Brother Berwyck who had come to the S’yrthghar some time ago on a pilgrimage.
“Exactly.”
“Well, where’s the nearest grog tree?” Phineas asked.
“I believe there is one on the border between Silverveil and the Shadow Forest. But it’s getting on toward morning. What with crows and all, I think we should wait until tween time.” Hoole and Phineas sighed impatiently. These young owls, the Snow Rose thought. “Now, don’t fret. The days are growing shorter. Evening will be here before you know it. We have just enough time before twixt time to get something to eat.”
It was good hunting on the cape. With few trees, prey was easy to spot, and the rocky outcroppings and scrubby land was scampering with voles, mice, and the occasional rock rat, which were particularly succulent.
Phineas caught one that they shared but gave Phineas first choice since he was the one who had pounced on it.
“I say, Phineas,” the Snow Rose nodded at the little Pygmy Owl. “You hunt right good for a little fella.”
“Size has nothing to do with it,” Hoole said. “It’s all about accuracy. See where he punctured it—right between the eyes? Phineas has always been a great hunter. No one does the kill spiral like him.”
A riffle of embarrassment stirred Phineas’s feathers. The little Pygmy was a very modest owl and did not relish being the center of attention. “It was nothing,” Phineas said as he tore off the head of the rock rat.
The spindly trees that grew on Cape Glaux offered no hollows, but beneath some of the large boulders that were scattered across the land, they found shelter from the wind and whatever random crows might be passing overhead.
So as night bleached into day, the three owls nestled beneath the overhang of a boulder and went to sleep. It was the first time that either Phineas or Hoole had ever slept on the ground. The Snow Rose, however, was used to such accommodations because Snowy Owls lived and nested in what they called ground scrapes. Just before falling asleep, the three owls were alone in their own thoughts.
The Snow Rose remembered a fox that she had once caught in Silverveil years before. It had been so long since she had tasted fox that her gizzard gave a little gurgle at the mere memory of it.
Phineas missed his own family’s hollow and his parents and younger sister, who had all perished in a forest fire in the region known as Ambala.
Hoole reflected on how curious life could be. He had thought he was an orphan and then discovered that he had a mother. Then she died before he could even get to know her. He had thought he was an ordinary owl and now he was a king. Why had he been able to fetch that coal from the fiery mouth of the volcano? It had all happened in the midst of battle, the battle in which his mother had been dealt her mortal wound. Something had beckoned him during the battle. He had actually flown through a curtain of flames, which had not even singed him. But he did remember something now: The sides of the volcano had begun to turn transparent and that was how he saw the ember. This ember—was it a blessing or a curse? He knew deep in his gizzard that it could be very dangerous. He had seen the subtle changes that occurred in some owls when they were in its presence. He remembered all too well how Grank had become oddly agitated, and how Theo, Joss, and Phineas had replied to him in that queerly mindless way before they had left on their missions. As long as the ember was in his possession, however, he felt he could master whatever peculiar emanations it had and, for the most part, protect those around the ember from its influence. But what would happen after he was gone? Death did not frighten him anymore. He knew that his mother, Siv, would be waiting for him in glaumora. Death did not frighten him, but leaving the ember behind did.
His eyes grew heavy now. He must stop thinking about such things. How wonderful it would be if he could meet once more with Berwyck; how lovely, those lazy evenings of fishing back in Bitter Sea on the island, the two of them perched on the limb of an alder that hung out over the pond. The moonlight scattered across the surface of the dark water, and the fish stirring beneath—just waiting to be caught. There was no ember then. He did not know even what a mother really was exactly, and he certainly had no notion of kingship. Life was very, very simple then. Hoole yawned and fell fast asleep as if into a dense fog.
The fog thinned to a mist, and from the mist flew a lovely Spotted Owl. Her spots seemed to shimmer. She looked battle weary but strong. Hoole’s gizzard sang. What a warrior! And she was flying straight into another skirmish. I must help her, he thought. He spread his wings and took off. It was hard to see her. Was the fog thickening now? Was it not fog but the Short Light? Was the Short Light here already? Impossible. Not yet. Hagsfiends? Were they doing this? Was their magic so powerful that they could change the moon cycles? Every time he sensed the Spotted Owl close by, the fog would thicken more. He lost sight of her. The spots of her plumage, which moments ago twinkled with the brightness of the stars, faded away. Now the fog turned dark. Not dark like the night, but a crowish darkness, and didn’t he smell a terrible stench? And almost as soon as he thought this, a dreadful yellow light seeped out of the dark. Great Glaux, it’s the fyngrot—I am going yeep!
Then the shadow of an ow
l with a misshapen wing blocked the awful yellow light. It was his mum!
“Mum, where are you?”
“Hold steady, my prince. Hold steady.”
“I can’t! I can’t!”
“Hoole, wake up! Wake up!” The Snow Rose was shaking him hard, so hard that a small storm of her feathers swirled across his blinking eyes. Just like the fog, he thought. Phineas was standing next to her, looking quite frightened. “You were having a bad dream, I think. Sorry about the feathers,” the Snow Rose apologized, “but I’m just getting ready for a mid-season molt.”
Phineas hopped over. “Are you all right? What was it?”
“A bad dream, I guess,” Hoole replied.
“What was it about?” Phineas pressed.
“I can’t really remember. Something about fog, I think, because when I saw Rose’s feathers, I thought I was still flying in the fog.” He paused and raised a talon to scratch his head, then gave himself a little poke in his belly feathers near his gizzard in an attempt to jolt his memory. “For the life of me, I can’t remember what the dream was about. But it wasn’t all bad,” he said. It was as though a wisp of something sweet and dear had blown through that dream. “Is it tween time yet?” he asked.
“Just,” the Snow Rose replied. The three owls peeked out from under the overhang. The sky to the west was purpling and streaked with clouds of burning orange. The moon was just rising behind the clouds, which cast an eerie yellow light on it. Hoole felt a twinge in his gizzard and a riffle passed through his feathers. Phineas looked up at his friend. “Scroom fly over your deathspot?”
“Huh?” asked Hoole.
“For Glaux’s sake, he’s spooked enough!” the Snow Rose scolded.
“It’s just an old saying from Ambala. It doesn’t mean anything,” Phineas said apologetically.
“I only wish it were a scroom,” Hoole replied cryptically.
“Now, what do you mean by that?” Phineas asked.
Hoole gave a soft churring sound. “You know, I’m not quite sure. But let’s get on with our business.”
So, as the orange clouds were engulfed in purple, and the purple darkened to black, the owls rose into the night along with the first stars.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Perch Warriors
“So, as I was saying, I had just confronted that young lieutenant who didn’t know his pin feathers from his flight feathers, ‘That ain’t the way you fight these creatures—begging your pardon, sir,’ I told him. ‘When you got them hagsfiends with their cursed fyngrots, you chase them toward open water.’ So that’s exactly what we did. I took charge of the operation and…”
Hoole, the Snow Rose, and Phineas had alighted in the grog tree, just as the Great Horned Owl had begun to hold forth. When he finished, he turned to the three new arrivals. “Bless my gizzard, what have we here? Three gadfeathers. Come from the north, did you?”
“Any good fighting up there?” a Great Gray asked. Hoole recognized him. He had come with the hireclaws Siv had gathered when she had flown to the Beyond for that last battle. He hoped that the Great Gray would not recognize him in his gadfeather disguise.
“Good fighting in the north,” a Barred Owl interrupted.
“I’ll say. Me cousin says that the Glacier Palace has been invaded by hagsfiends led by a young hothead. Some claim he’s mad.” Hoole felt his gizzard still.
The Great Gray turned to the Snow Rose and Phineas, ignoring Hoole, for which he was thankful. “Then you fellas missed the big battle down here. In the Beyond,” the Great Gray said. “Spectacular. I’ll never forget the sight of the young king coming through that wall of flames with the ember.” Hoole wilfed a bit and kept his head low between his shoulders. “Some bingle juice, will you? And some for my friends here.” The Great Gray summoned the grog tree keeper, a disreputable-looking Screech Owl, who arrived with nutshells that held the potent liquid. They would only pretend to drink the juice. Hoole, Phineas, and the Snow Rose had to keep their heads clear.
Just then, a completely Trufynkken Short-eared Owl staggered through the air. “Another one, please, Harry! Medicinal purposes, you know.”
“She was wounded up on the H’rathghar. Lost half of one foot,” a Barred Owl whispered to Hoole and Phineas. They looked at her port-side foot, which had only two talons left.
“Must make hunting hard,” Hoole said.
“We look after her. She should lay off the juice a bit, though,” the Barred Owl said.
“Whatcha be sayin’ about me, Alastair?” The Shorteared Owl suddenly spun her head around. Some bingle juice spat out with her words.
“Nothing, dear. Nothing.”
“It is for medicinal purposes—the brother who tended me when I got down here said…He said to me…‘Lolly, darlin’, nothing like a little touch of the old bingle to ease the pain, especially when winter comes on.’”
“Brother! A Glauxian Brother?” Hoole asked.
“Well, certainly not my own. Me own brother ain’t worth a seagull’s splat.” Hearty laughter roared through the tree and shook the branches. A couple of the smaller owls, who could not hold their bingle juice, fell from the tree and, though half Trufynkken, managed to recover flight before slamming into the ground.
“Do you recall his name?” Hoole asked.
“Uh…uh…” She shook her head in short little jogs as if trying to rearrange her brain. “Wyckber, I think. Either Wyckber or Berwyck.”
“Berwyck!” Hoole said. “A Boreal, right?”
“Yes, yes. That he be. A Boreal.”
“Where can we find him?”
“Oh, dear, now—that could be a problem.” Again she jogged her head around. “Let’s see. I was pretty tired when I finally made it out of the N’yrthghar, but luckily had tailwinds. But I imagine…oh, yes, I probably made it well into Silverveil. ’Cause I wouldn’t want to stop on the cape for long. No real trees, you know. Oh, it’s coming back to me!” Lolly’s amber eyes brightened, and she looked slightly less tipsy. “It was near that place where the Others done lived before they vanished. One of them whatchamacallits.”
“Church?” Alastair the Barred Owl prompted.
“Yes, that be it.”
“Lovely old place.”
“There be ruins from the Others all through Silverveil,” the Great Gray spoke up.
When Hoole had first come to the S’yrthghar, there had been no time to linger. They had had to fly straight to the Beyond, but he had always longed to see these strange hollows of the Others.
“Well, we’d best be on our way if we hope to find him,” the Snow Rose said.
“Not before a song you don’t.” The Great Horned, the perch warrior who had been expounding on his wartime experiences in the N’yrthghar, spoke up. “You know, before we went into battle, old King H’rath always had some gadfeathers in to give us a rousing tune.”
“What a bunch of rubbish,” the Snow Rose muttered.
“What are we going to do?” Phineas whispered desperately.
“Leave it to me.” The Snow Rose stepped out on the branch where she perched. “My two friends here are not in voice right now, having just come through their mid-season molt with slight sore throats.” There was a murmur of understanding that swirled through the tree. It was, of course, a bit of nonsense, but these tipsy owls were ready to believe almost anything. “And I myself know few battle tunes. But I might sing you a song of ice and sky.” This met with great approval, and the night swelled with hurrahs and cheers.
The Snow Rose began to sing. Her lovely voice flowed into the night of liquid moonlight and wove through the grog tree, making everything seem to shimmer.
Where the ice meets the sky,
where the trees never grow,
where the water is locked,
so still, forever slow.
Where the wind scours the land,
carving bridges, spires, and peaks,
listen closely, my friend,
and you’ll hear the ice speak.
<
br /> It speaks of times gone by,
creatures frozen in the deep.
Of a place where time grows still,
a place of long eternal sleep,
where the ice never melts
and the trees never grow.
That is where I long to fly—I have ice crystals in my soul.
The last notes had hardly floated into the air before the three owls had taken wing.
“Phew! That was a close one!” Phineas sighed as he felt the sweet billow of a warm thermal curl under his wings.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Theo Pushes On
The polar bear sat on her haunches and regarded the Great Horned Owl. He was an honest fellow if there ever was one and, though this spying business did not appeal to her, she knew it was for a good cause. Her loyalty to the memory of Siv required that she do everything in her power to support Siv’s son, the young king who seemed so good. “Theo,” she began, “I will keep an eye out for you here. But the bear you really need to meet is Svarr, the father of my cubs. He lives up near Lord Arrin’s stronghold in the eastern side of the Firth of Fangs. He knows a lot. He might know where to find this spotted owl, Emerilla, whom you seek.”
“Where is this stronghold of Lord Arrin?”
“When you leave this inlet, head north and continue flying up the Firth of Fangs. It will grow narrow, then widen again, and just before it reaches a large lagoon, it narrows a second time. At this second set of narrows, fly east, following a tickle.”
“A tickle?”
“Well, a firthkin is a small firth, and a tickle is even smaller than a firthkin. Polar bears call it that because when we swim such narrow passageways, it is barely wide enough for us to pass through and it tickles our sides sometimes.”