A Guide Book to the Great Tree (8 page)

But, at the great tree, we are free to live as we wish. And it's her choices that make her the owl she is. I appreciate our differences almost as much as I appreciate her songs. Her voice and her harp have gently lulled me to sleep on many mornings ever since I was a mere owlet. I am glad to have her at the tree, despite her flaws.

Before Madame Brunwella Plonk, scores of Plonk Snowies have graced the tree. And each has enriched the tree in his or her own way.

It was Madame Cornelia Plonk who first brought the great grass harp to the tree. No one is quite sure who built it or where it came from (I plan to make this the topic of one of my research projects in the future), but it was instantly loved by every owl who heard it. The sound it makes is sweet, yet haunting; soft, yet resounding. The instrument is strung with different lengths of various types of grasses. Long, wide blades can be found in the lower octaves, while only the thinnest reeds are used in the highest octave. Today, the harp can be found in the gallery of the Great Hollow, where it can be heard from anywhere in and around the tree.

Marthe, Madame Cornelia's nest-maid snake, quickly became a harp virtuoso. She would weave through the
strings so effortlessly that it seemed as if she and the harp shared a soul. She and Madame Cornelia complemented each other perfectly—the sound of the Snowy's voice and the music of the harp melded together to create something much greater than the sum of its parts. Marthe was also the celebrated founder of the harp guild. Not only did she teach other nest-maid snakes to play the harp, she invented a way for multiple snakes to weave through the harp's strings at once so that a beautiful harmony emanated from the instrument, stirring listeners' deepest feelings. Since Marthe's time, hundreds of nest-maid snakes have been a part of the illustrious harp guild, the most artistic and prestigious of the snake guilds. Our own Mrs. Plithiver, Soren's family's nest-maid snake, has continued the tradition. She has been an indispensable member of the guild for many seasons as the G-flat, and has attained the rarefied position of sliptween.

Since the time of Hoole, no owl has challenged the supremacy of the Plonk singers of the great tree—except one.

During an especially cruel winter, a Tropical Screech Owl, a stranger to the Guardians, came to the Great Ga'Hoole Tree to seek shelter from the harsh winds and relentless snow that had battered the land for weeks. The governing owls decided to allow him to stay a short while
even though he was not requesting to become a Guardian, for it was the compassionate thing to do.

The stranger was a singer who went by the name of Honeyvox, although he always introduced himself as “the World-renowned Honeyvox.”

“Greetings and salutations! I am the World-renowned Honeyvox, but of course, you already knew that,” he'd say.

Nobody at the great tree had ever heard of him.

Honeyvox constantly boasted of having sung for all the birds in the land, eagles and whooper swans in the north, and some fantastical purple flamingos in the south. (Ridiculous, of course. We all know that flamingoes are pink).

“The flamingo! Oh, Fernando—dear, dear Fernando. Lovely, lovely bird. Adored my rendition of the ‘New Moon Ballad,' he did. Begged me to stay, absolutely begged, I tell you. ‘Oh, Honeyvox,' he'd say, ‘how are we to live our lives without hearing your bewitching voice every day?' Alas, I had to be quite firm with him, you see. I told him that I simply must go north to share my gift with other birds.

“Ah, and I must tell you about Fiona and Dougal and their darling, darling cygnets. Those little ones…always trying to imitate me with their little ‘whoop-whoops.' Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, you know. And
then they'd giggle. Oh, I suppose they knew as well as I did that my voice cannot be emulated, and were simply laughing about their own effort. Why, they were always giggling when I was around. Just couldn't get enough of me. I would have sung for them longer had they not flown off. Something about an early migration for the family that year, just upped and disappeared one day. Strange birds, migrators. Oh, but they must have been very sad that I could not go with them, I'm sure.”

On and on Honeyvox went. He talked to any owl who would listen to him. Sometimes, he'd talk to no one at all. Honeyvox was also fond of bingle juice. This he made clear, having carried his own supply all through his difficult voyage.

To most owls, especially those who knew anything about music, Plonk was a household name. But Honeyvox claimed that he had never heard of the famous singing family.

“Plonk, you say? No, no, doesn't ring a bell. Snowies, you say? With that ‘kroo-kroo kroo-kroo' call, I never would have guessed that they made very good singers. Well, to each his own I suppose.”

Sir Lucien Plonk, the well-loved singer of the tree at the time, was clearly offended. But being the dignified owl he was, he held his beak.

The owls of Ga'Hoole listened to Honeyvox sing on many a night during his stay. He was grateful for the Guardians' hospitality and insisted on showing his appreciation with the “gift of song.” He also insisted that the harp guild accompany him every time. Sir Lucien magnanimously agreed, even though the harp guild wasn't too happy. He noted that, for such a small owl, Honeyvox did have a booming, though not especially refined, voice.

Honeyvox sang so much and so often, that Sir Plonk was hardly able to get a single note in. The owls of the tree enjoyed Honeyvox's singing for the first few days. It was a change of pace, after all. By the fifth night, however, the owls were clamoring for Sir Lucien Plonk to make his return. Honeyvox was singing the same two songs again and again. “That moon has dwenked already!” some owls would say under their breaths—one could only listen to the “New Moon Ballad” so many times, especially when the moon wasn't even newing.

On the seventh day of Honeyvox's stay, the snowstorm finally let up. The owls of the great tree assumed that their visitor would be on his way as soon as weather permitted. Yet, Honeyvox lingered on. Days turned into weeks. He could always be found in the gallery of the great hollow, trying to get the harp guild to accompany him on one more song. “Play it again, nesties!” he'd say. He was a freeloader,
everyone figured. But it was also clear that he had become enamored with the music of the great grass harp.

One night, Honeyvox asked Sir Lucien to “talk shop” over a cup of milkberry tea.

Honeyvox got right to the point, “Say, old Snow, I've come to fancy that harp of yours quite a bit, you see. Would you be disposed to selling it to me? Perhaps we could work out some sort of…arrangement. The other owls don't have to know.”

The Snowy was taken aback. “Well, I never! You are a presumptuous owl, aren't you? Absolutely not! That harp is a treasure of Ga'Hoole, it shall not leave this tree!”

“Quite right, quite right,” Honeyvox replied, a bit too readily, “I don't know what I was thinking. Foolish idea, obviously. Never mind, sir. Never mind.”

His plan having failed, Honeyvox knew he had to find another way. But how? He couldn't imagine ever singing
again without the accompaniment of the harp. He realized, too, that even if he was able to get the harp away from the tree, there would be no one to play it—the nest-maid snakes of the harp guild were the only ones who could play the instrument. And it was clear that the stewards of the tree wanted him to leave.

Before Honeyvox knew it, he was coming up on the second month of his stay. He was running out of time. He stayed up all day to think.
Why take the harp with me when I can simply stay with the harp? But, they would never have two resident singers here. Blast it!

Sir Lucien Plonk was an obstacle. Honeyvox would have to get rid of him somehow. He couldn't kill the Snowy, that would be…unseemly. He must find another way. By early evening, he had found the solution. It was one that would require guile and unwavering nerves on the part of the Tropical Screech. He swallowed a good glug of bingle juice for courage, and flew off to the infirmary hollow.

Bloodroot is a plant that's commonly used by the healer owls of Ga'Hoole to this day. Its juice is used to treat a myriad of symptoms from sore throats to gray scale. In small doses, it helps to relieve discomfort. In large doses, it is highly toxic. It was rumored that it could damage a bird's throat, causing it to become permanently
mute. Honeyvox hoped that there was truth to this rumor. Just before all the other owls woke, he gathered all the bloodroot juice he could find and stole quietly out of the infirmary.

When night fell, Honeyvox approached Sir Lucien. He would have to choose his words carefully so as not to raise suspicion. He anxiously took another slug of his bingle juice. “Say, Sir Lucien, I hope there are no hard feelings between us. I meant no disrespect the other night. Why don't you have a drink with me in the guest hollow…to, um, set things right?”

To Honeyvox's relief, Sir Lucien graciously agreed.

In the guest hollow, where Honeyvox had been staying for the last many weeks, he set out two nut cups. He filled both with his own special reserve of bingle juice. Into one of the cups, he added a stiff dose of the bloodroot juice he had stolen. Luckily for him, bloodroot is odorless, and its slightly sour taste was easily masked by the much stronger flavor of the bingle juice.

It was almost time. Honeyvox started to feel a little wobbly in the gizzard. He wasn't sure if it was the jitters or the bingle juice that was making his head spin.

Sir Lucien arrived exactly when he said he would. The two owls awkwardly exchanged pleasantries. They talked of the weather and of the coming spring…Boring,
pointless conversation that Honeyvox could barely pay attention to. All the while, he eyed Sir Lucien's cup nervously—the Snowy had not taken a single sip while his own cup was already empty, despite having been refilled twice.

Down the hatch, you wretched owl! Go on, take a sip. For the love of Glaux, just one sip!

“Oh, the time of the Silver Rain can be so lovely, my favorite time of the year, really,” Sir Plonk droned on and on. It was a wonder that the old owl didn't grow thirsty with all this chitchat.

Honeyvox nodded, and then nodded some more while trying to think of a way to get the Snowy to drink his poison. He kept refilling his own cup in an attempt to send a subliminal message to his guest.
Driiiink, Sir Plonk, driiiink…

Finally, in desperation, he raised his own empty cup. “How about a toast, then? To…say…music!”

Sir Lucien thought it peculiar that the Tropical Screech would change the subject so abruptly. Why, he was just telling him about the slim vines that cascaded down from the branches of the great tree, and how they were about to turn a pretty shade of silver any day now. But Honeyvox was a strange little owl, and he was happy
to bring this awkward little get-together to an end. So he, too, raised his glass. “To music.”

The next few seconds felt like days to Honeyvox. First, the Snowy held that cup aloft in his talon for far too long in his toasting gesture. As he lowered it, he swirled the cup deliberately, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. Then, he examined the liquid with his yellow eyes for what seemed like an entire moon cycle.

Does he suspect?

“I've always found bingle juice to have the most lovely color.”

Oh, stop looking at it, just drink it!
“Of course, lovely color, of course.”

Finally, Sir Lucien raised the cup to his beak and took a small sip. As the Snowy swallowed the concoction, Honeyvox's gizzard nearly sprang out of his body.

I've done it! I've actually done it!

But had he?

Having drunk the toast, Sir Lucien excused himself. Something about it being time for “Night Is Done.” Honeyvox hardly noticed the other owl's exit. He was overwhelmed by elation, a sense of his own power, and just a touch of guilt. He was practically bouncing from wall to wall in the guest hollow. He needed to settle
himself down. Some bingle juice should do the trick. Honeyvox picked up the nut cup next to him and swigged its contents in one gulp.

That morning, Honeyvox lighted down in his nest with a sense of accomplishment. Tomorrow, the owls of the Great Ga'Hoole Tree would find Sir Lucien Plonk mute, never to sing again. Soon, they would need a new singer. And conveniently, he, the world-renowned Honeyvox, would be there.

As Honeyvox went to the dining hollow for tweener the next night, he noticed a commotion. Several of the rybs of the tree, along with numerous other owls, were huddled around the center of the room. As he got closer, he realized that Sir Lucien was at the center of the crowd. This, he expected. But what came next, he did not expect.

Sir Lucien spoke.

“Oh, there you are, Honeyvox. Strangest thing. My voice seems to have grown awfully hoarse after our drink last night. Say, what sort of bingle juice was it?” Sir Lucien rasped. “Oh, I sound downright dreadful.”