Book 12 - The Golden Tree (8 page)

eating dried caterpil ars out of them. "What'l you
take for them?" he asked.
"Oh, let's see. I've had a hankering for some yoick 89 101 stones." Yoick stones were smal rocks with traces of both gold and silver that could be smashed by a Rogue smith and then fired to release the silver and gold, even though it was an inferior grade of these two metals.
"Don't have any,"Soren said. "How about a fine rabbit skin?"
"Perhaps."
"Digger, wil you get the botkin with the skin? Digger went out, returning quickly, and spread the skin on the stone floor.
"Kil ed him myself,' Twilight said. "I don't doubt it," Mags said as she. careful y stepped around the skin, examining it.
"It was an artistic kil if I do say so." Twilight's voice brimmed with pride.

Trader Mags stopped in her tracks. "There ain't
no such thing, you brute, as an artistic kil !" She then looked up at Soren. "I'l take, it." So the deal was made and the owls were off. The night was stil long. "I'd say," Digger began, "that you, Twilight, are not high on Trader Mags' list of favorite creatures."
"That's the least of our problems," Gylfie said. "Where in the world are we going to find this owl with the book? We don't even know his name.' 90 102 "His name is Stryker and he was my mother's top lieutenant."
"Our worst fear," Gylfie moaned. "Not exactly," Coryn said cryptical y. The other four owls spun their heads to look at Coryn. "Our worst fear is a half-made hagsfiend with a book on how to finish the job."
"But the book," Digger said. "What little we know from reading the legends did not tel how to make a hags-fiend but how to create new monsters.

Hagsfiends were born, not made."
Now al the owls peered at Digger. "That is smal comfort, Digger!" Gylfie said. "A monster? A hagsfiend? Not exactly delightful company." "Words, just words," muttered Twilight. "Quit squabbling!" Coryn barked. He was trying to think how they might find Stryker. Where he might be. For a long time, the Pure Ones had been encamped in the canyonlands. But they had been routed by war and must have moved by now. If he could get some coals from a Rogue smith's forge they could kindle a fire. Just a smal one that might yield a few hints as to where the old lieutenant might be. But Coryn knew from past experience that his firesight never seemed to work very wel when he sought specific answers. The images were often vague and
91 103 confusing. The flames did not like to be forced. They yielded what they would at their own whim and not on demand. As he was thinking about this, he caught a glimpse of something sparkling

beneath them. Like diamonds strung through winter
grass, a spiderweb hung in the night. And then a rapid heartbeat. The rabbit!
92 CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Coronation Teacup
Otulissa had been busy in the library for at least half the day and had not yet slept. As she flew back to her hol ow through the strands of golden milkberry vines and heard the soft susurrus of stirring leaves, she thought how wrong al this felt. It's the time of the white rain, for Glaux's sake. It's winter. Winter everyplace hut here, she thought miserably. The golden strands should be withered and white. The berries should be shriveled and even whiter and there should be no leaves. The tree should loom dark, stripped of the splendors of summer or autumn. That was the way it was supposed to be. Was she the only owl feeling this way, she wondered. She was pretty sure that Soren's mate was not al that pleased with this perpetual summer.

But of course, Pel i was so busy with her three
owlets she barely had time to worry. Fine thing, Soren going off like that just when the Bs were about to learn how to fly! Males! She'd never mate. Wel , she thought, one should never say never. She felt a little squeeze in her gizzard as she thought 93 105 of Cleve. A gizzard squeeze was the closest an owl came to blushing.
Cleve was a dear friend whom she had met in the Northern Kingdoms. He lived at the Glauxian retreat on the island in the Bitter Sea. He was a healer and was continuing his study of medicine. So far he had not taken vows. I'l smack him if he does! Otulissa thought. Cancel that! What a terrible thing to even think of dear Cleve. But she knew that if they mated, there would be a mess of hatchlings, and guess who would get stuck taking care of them? Otulissa wasn't real y mother material. She loved young-'uns. But how could she raise chicks in a proper manner, head up the Ga'HooIogy chaw, fly weather and col iering, teach the history of the tree, and give special seminars in higher magnetics, al on her own? She was one of the busiest rybs in the entire tree. No, it was out of the question.

tree. No, it was out of the question.
But then she returned to her original question: Was she the only one disturbed by the unchanging nature of the tree, this so-cal ed Golden Tree that seemed condemned to a perpetual summer, that shed very few of its leaves? And those leaves that did drop left behind odd golden traceries like some sort of scroom. A scroom tree? she wondered. Taking one more look at the branches of the tree before she entered her own hol ow, she thought for perhaps the thousandth time how peculiar everything felt.
94 106 She was fairly sure that Eglantine didn't think things were normal. And Eglantine had hemmed and hawed and not yet given an answer about participating in one of the endless rituals that the GGE was always dreaming up. But Primrose, Eglantine's best friend, seemed most enthral ed with al the ceremonies and had agreed to become an acolyte at the altar of the ashes that were col ected from the ember.

Otulissa alighted on the branch outside her hol ow.
There was a cross fire of bril iance that almost hurt her eyes as the midday sun reflected off the golden vines and limbs of the tree. Years before they would have cal ed this a perfect late-summer day - the milkberries approaching the copper rose color of early fal would indeed have a special luminosity on a day like this. Owls would even get up from their daytime sleep for a glimpse of such splendor. But now it did not seem splendid. Too much of a good thing and, alas, even beauty becomes quite ordinary. Even vulgar. Yes, vulgar. The tree is vulgar. Otulissa sniffed. "Vulgar" was one of her favorite words. Tawdry, vulgar, coarse, gaudy, ostentatious, flashy - like Madame Plonk. Madame Plonk was al of those words.
"Oh, great Glaux, Madame Plonk! You scared the living nightlights out of me!" Otulissa gasped as the Great Snowy entered her hol ow. Indeed, none other than Madame
95 107 Plonk perched just inside Otulissa's hol ow. She looked in al her frippery about as out of place among Otulissa's simple furnishings - books,

maps, and such - as golden milkberries in winter.
"I know we've had our differences but..." Madame Plonk began.
"We are different." Otulissa blinked. There was no owl who could be more different from herself than Madame Plonk. Right now, however, Otulissa had to admit she had never seen Madame Plonk look so sad - indeed, devastated. "Whatever is the problem, Madame Plonk?" And she was tempted to add, How could I ever help you with arty problem you might have?
"It's my teacup." Madame Plonk's eyes wel ed up with tears.
"Your teacup?" Otulissa was bewildered. What in Glaux's name is she talking about? And the way she was scratching her breast with one talon suggested that her teacup was some vital organ that had begun to act up. "Madame Plonk, I am not quite fol owing you. Your teacup?'
"My coronation teacup. I've had it for years." She sobbed and col apsed now from the guest perch

into a smal mountain of white feathers.
"Pul yourself together, Madame Plonk. This is most unseemly. Get a grip!"
96 108 The Snowy picked up her large head. "You don't remember? You helped me read the numbers and the name. I'm not as smart as you and you were so kind."
Aahh, the pel et drops! Otulissa thought, but did not say so out loud. It was a crude expression for final y remembering something. She did remember the teacup now. It was another gewgaw that Plonk had gotten from Trader Mags. Yes, there was a picture of a female Other wearing a crown gazing out with great dignity, a dignity that far exceeded anything Madame Plonk could ever aspire to. And there were numbers.
"One-nine-five-three. Yes, of course." "Queen E, you remember?"
"Yes, I can't imagine why anyone would give a one-letter name to a queen. One must assume the rest of the letters were worn away though time. So

what is the problem?"
The very question threw Madame Plonk into a new fit of sobs. She was beating her wings now on the floor of the hol ow. To Otulissa, she seemed like an actress who was enjoying her own performance a bit too much. But then again, there was something rather
gizzard-rending when she began to speak. "You cannot imagine how, over al these years as the dark fades from the day, after I have sung 'Night Is Done' and al the owls go to rest, how wonderful it is to settle on the branch just outside my hol ow 97 109 with my coronation cup fil ed with milkberry tea. So restorative to not only the voice but the spirits. I watch the sun creep up over the horizon."
Great Glaux, she's waxing absolutely poetic! Otulissa thought as Madame Plonk wiped away a tear.
"And now would you believe it?" "Believe what, Madame Plonk?" Otulissa said

gently.
"They want, no, they demand, my coronation teacup."
She flopped down again with a huge soh. Great Glaux in glaumora, what am I going to do with this ,.. this ... thing? Otulissa thought as she regarded the heaving heap of white fluff. She sighed deeply and then spoke calmly. "Who precisely wants the teacup?"
Madame Plonk raised her head and said crossly, "Not just any teacup, the coronation teacup of Queen E."
"Al right, who wants the coronation teacup of Queen E, and why?"
"The acolytes of the altar.'
"Oh, racdrops!" Otulissa exploded. "Whatever for?" "The sacred ashes of the ember," "Oh, now they've real y gone too far," Otulissa said. And apparently they truly had, for Madame

Plonk, who had enjoyed until now al the ridiculous
vulgar ritual of what was being cal ed the "cult of the ember,' was fed up.
Otulissa spoke briskly. "I don't know when this 98 110 stupidity wil end, but surely Primrose could help you out. She's an acolyte, isn't she?" "She is, but she is ... I don't know how to put it.... She
is real y enjoying being one. She's changed. Even Eglantine says so. And you know she's writing plays now."
"Yes, I heard that. I heard that she's quite good." "Yes, odd, isn't it? Al of us in some way have been able to do so much more. Why, I never thought that I could ever reach those high notes in the moonlight cantata with hardly taking a breath but since the ember arrived I can." She paused and raised her head. Her yel ow eyes turned hard. "BUT I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS! I WON'T GIVE UP MY CORONATION TEACUP."

"But what can I do about it, Madame Plonk?"
"Hide it, please, Otulissa. No one would ever suspect that such a rare and beautiful thing would be kept here." She looked about the spare hol ow not so much with disdain as pity.
Otulissa would never know quite what made her agree to take the teacup, but she did. Perhaps it was just the wrongness of the tree and the stupidity of al this ritual. What, indeed, gave these idiot owls the right to commandeer personal possessions for their ridiculous rituals? Acolytes of the ashes! And that Primrose, a very sensible owl, a responsible member of the search-and-rescue
99 111 chaw, had bought into it! Wel , I shal have a very serious talk with her, Otulissa thought. But then she thought again. She knew she wouldn't. Teacups might be hidden, but words could be overheard, could leak out, and she had noticed that for the first time in al the years she had been at the Great Ga'Hoole Tree, the owls in this golden era had become more guarded. They were frightened to say what they real y thought. Indeed, what was

considered a great flourishing of the Golden Tree
could be the beginning of its death. How she longed for a true season of white rain, when the berries would turn the color of dried bones and the tree, leafless, would look grim and dignified with its dark limbs spreading like a black skeleton against a wintry sky.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Rabbit at Last
Coryn motioned to the Band to hold back and remain on the limb where they had just lighted down while he settled silently on the ground near the rabbit. In a pool of moonlight, it stood seemingly frozen in front of a spider web. As rabbits went, this was not an especial y impressive one. Smal of stature, with an undistinguished brownish-gray pelt, it was completely unremarkable except for the white crescent on its forehead. This, in fact, was the signifying mark of a web reader, a mystic rabbit who could read in the webs of spiders "tidings,' as the rabbit cal ed them, from the present, the future,

and the past. But the information was most often
incomplete and vague. It came in fragments, the rabbit had explained to Coryn, much like the pieces of a puzzle.
There was no greeting, and the rabbit did not deflect its gaze from the web. It merely took up as if there had been no interruption between that first time it had met
101 113 Coryn and now. "A dark feather, ashes, bone. Is it now? Was it then? Or is it yet to come?" Coryn knew better than to ask a specific question. If he did, the rabbit would give him a very confusing answer. But he could not help it, "Is it something about me?"
The rabbit final y turned slowly toward him, "Me ... me ... me. Aaah, youth! Even with kings, it's al about me, me, me.
The four other owls fluttered down and stood in a circle around the rabbit. "I wish I could help you more. You're looking for her, aren't you?" Nyra's name did not need to be mentioned. Al five owls

nodded. "And I can only come up with these three
things - a dark feather, ashes, and bone. Coryn has explained to you that I can only offer pieces. I cannot put the puzzle together. And these pieces are very difficult. I am not sure if they are real or just... confusing!" the rabbit exclaimed. "What I see in the web is either a wisp or a whisper." "You can see a whisper?" asked Twilight. "Shhh," said Digger. "You're being too literal." "If it's a wisp, it is just an escaped thread from a dream. But if it is a whisper, wel , it might be real. What I am seeing has the - how should I put it? - the cloudiness of a dream, but there is also an echo." 102 114 "Do whispers have echoes?" Twilight asked.
"I asked myself the same question. One does not think of whispers as having echoes. Does one?" The five owls shook their heads. "'Unless that is a whisper in a cave."
It was as if a holt of lightning had shot through Coryn's gizzard. "Bones! Feather! Ashes! Cave!