(GoG Book 02) The Journey (12 page)

“So, Twilight,” Boron began. “I’ve got one that you’ll like. Did you hear the story of the wet pooper who was flying over Hoolemere and hit a fish?”

Otulissa dropped back to where Soren was flying. “He’s just too much,” she muttered.

“Who’s too much?” Soren asked.

“Our king, Boron. He’s telling a wet poop joke. I think it’s undignified for one of his position.”

Soren sighed. “Give it a blow, Otulissa.” This was not the most polite way for an owl to say, “A little less serious, please.”

“Well, I sure hope he doesn’t head a chaw. I would find it most unpleasant. You know, tonight the tappings begin?”

“They do?”

“Yes, and I just have a feeling in my gizzard that I’m going to find ten nooties in my bedding down.”

Each chaw had symbolic objects that the leader left in a young owl’s bedding. Find ten nooties arranged in the pattern of the Great Glaux constellation when you went to sleep at First Light, and that meant you were in the navigation chaw of Strix Struma. A pellet was for the tracking chaw, a milkberry for the Ga’Hoology chaw. A molted feather was the symbol for the search-and-rescue chaw. A dried caterpillar was naturally for Ezylryb’s weather chaw. A piece of coal and a caterpillar meant that you had been picked for colliering and were by necessity in for double duty and required to fly with the weather chaw as well.

“Don’t you have any feelings, Soren?” Otulissa asked.

“I prefer not to discuss my gizzardly feelings,” he replied almost primly.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I’m just not comfortable doing it. You know I don’t mean to be rude, Otulissa, but for someone so well bred you push awfully hard.”

“Well, honestly.” Otulissa turned to Primrose, who was
flying rather noisily due to her lack of plummels, the fringes at the edge of the flight feathers that helped owls fly in silence. Neither Pygmy nor Elf owls had such fringes. “What about you, Primrose? Any little twinges in the old gizzard?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Otulissa. One minute I think I’m a sure bet for search-and-rescue, which I’d love, and then the next, I think they’ll tap me for tracking, which I guess I wouldn’t mind. You know, I just don’t know. I mean, I think that’s part of the problem.”

“What do you mean—what problem?”

“My gizzard—it’s just so here, there, everywhere. I mean, when you said ‘old gizzard,’ I realized my gizzard isn’t so old, nor is yours for that matter, but you seem to know it better.”

“Oh, I know my gizzard.” Otulissa nodded smugly.

“Lucky you,” Primrose sighed.

Soren had been listening and blinked in wonderment at Primrose’s words. They were exactly what the author of the book had been talking about—the immature gizzard of an immature owl.

Soren cut behind Otulissa and came up on the windward side of Primrose. “Primrose, were you in the library reading that book about the physiology and the temper of owl gizzards?”

“Oh, great Glaux, no. I only read joke books and romances, for the most part, and never anything with any ‘ol-ogy’ in the title. Do you know that Madame Plonk has written a memoir about her love life? She’s had a lot of mates who died. The book is called
My Fabulous Life and Times: An Anecdotal History of a Life Devoted to Love and Song.
There’s a lot about music in it. I love Madame Plonk.”

“Who wants to read about that?” Twilight flew up. “Enough to make a person yarp, all that romantic stuff. I like reading about weapons, battle claws, war hammers.”

“Well,” said Otulissa, “I don’t especially like reading about weapons but I find Madame Plonk coarse and unrefined, and they say she’s got a touch of the magpie in her. Have you ever been to her ‘apartments,’ as she calls them?”

“Oh, yes,” Primrose made a rapturous little low hooting noise. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Oh, yes, beautiful with other creatures’ things—bits of crockery and teacups made out of something she calls porcelain. Now where would she get that stuff? Well, I think under all those snowy white feathers is a magpie in disguise—that’s what I think. And frankly, I find the apartment vulgar—rather like its occupant.”

Great Glaux, she’s obnoxious,
Soren thought. Simply to change the subject, Soren decided to ask Otulissa how she came to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.

“When did you come here, Otulissa?”

“It was during the time of the copper rose rain. I came from Ambala. You might have heard that Ambala suffered a great many egg snatchings because of St. Aggie’s patrols. My mother and father had lost two eggs this way and had gone out to see if they could find them, somehow. I was left in the nest under the care of a very distracted aunt of mine. Well, she decided to go visit a friend, and I became worried. I couldn’t fly yet, and don’t for a minute think I was trying to. I was a very obedient owlet. I was only looking over the edge for Auntie, and I just fell. It’s the honest truth.”

Racdrops it is,
Soren thought. She was doing what many other owlets had tried to do, like Gylfie and dozens of others, trying to fly. Except Gylfie had admitted it. Otulissa wasn’t all that different. If she just wasn’t so smug about everything.

“Luckily,” Otulissa continued, “some search-and-rescue patrols from the Great Ga’Hoole Tree came by and found me. They put me back into my nest and we waited and waited for my aunt and for my parents, but none of them ever returned. So,Imustassume that they met with disaster trying to recover the eggs. Of course, my aunt, well, I’m not sure what really happened to her. As I said, she was a very
scatterbrained owl—for a Spotted one. In any case, the patrols took me back here to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.” She paused for a second, then blinked. “I’m an orphan like you.”

Soren was taken aback. It was perhaps the nicest thing that Otulissa had ever said. Otulissa seldom thought of herself being like anyone else or sharing any traits, except with the most elegant and distinguished of her
Strix
ancestors.

Boron had just clacked his beak loudly, announcing that night flight was finished, and he had spotted Strix Struma making her way upwind to take over for navigation class.

“It will be a short class tonight, young ones,” she announced upon arriving. “For as you know, this is a special night, and we want to be sure to get back before First Light.”

So, indeed, they returned to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree at that border of darkness that owls call the Deep Gray, when the black has faded but the sun has not yet spilled even the first sliver of a ray over the horizon. Nobody really wanted tea. It all took too long and the nest snakes seemed unbearably slow as they slithered in with the cups on their backs. It was an unusually silent teatime. It was as
if everyone was too worried to speak, and there was absolutely no talk about feelings in one’s gizzard. Even Otulissa had shut up.

“No seconds, anyone?” Mrs. P. said. “I’d be happy to go back and get some, and there are more nice little nootie cakes.”

Soren saw Otulissa blink her eyes shut for the longest time. He knew exactly what she was thinking about: nooties, and not the ones that had been baked in a cake. No, she was thinking of ten nooties arranged in the figure of the Great Glaux constellation. He almost felt sorry for her.

Finally, the time came for good light. Madame Plonk would, of course, sing the beautiful good light song, and then they were allowed to look into the down fluff and discover their destinies. Usually, after Madame Plonk’s song there was total silence, but there would not be tonight. Instead, there would be raucous shrieks mixed with some groans, and owls saying, “I told you so. I knew you’d get into that chaw.” While others would be quietly thinking,
How shall I survive Ga’Hoolology with that old bore of a Burrowing Owl?

Soren, Digger, Twilight, and Gylfie went to their hollow.

“Well, good luck, everybody,” Digger said. “Twilight, I really hope you get what you want. I know how much it means to you.”

Suddenly, Soren realized that was his problem. He didn’t know what he wanted. He only knew what he didn’t want. He truly was an immature owl with an immature gizzard.

They each tucked into their corners. The first chords from the great harp were plucked and then came the soft
plings
of Madame Plonk’s eerily beautiful voice. All too quickly, the last verses of the song came up. Soren felt his heart quicken and a stirring in his gizzard.

Far away is First Black,

But it shall seep back

Over field

Over flower

In the twilight hour.

We are home in our tree.

We are owls, we are free.

As we go, this we know

Glaux is nigh.

Then there were the sounds of owls burrowing into the downy fluff of their beds and then the first gasps. “A
pellet!” Digger exclaimed. “I got tracking chaw. I can’t believe it!”

Next, a whoop from Twilight. “Hooray! I’m search-and-rescue.”

From other hollows came more cries:

“This iron tree is beautiful—great Glaux, I did get metals!”

“A milkberry—oh, no!”

“Ten nooties!!!!” But the voice was not Otulissa’s. It was Gylfie’s. “Soren, I can’t believe it. I didn’t think Strix Struma liked me that much,” Gylfie whispered as if she couldn’t believe her great luck. And then there was silence as six pairs of yellow eyes turned to Soren. “Soren,” Digger said, “what did you get?”

“I…I…I’m not sure.”

“Not sure?” Gylfie said. They were all puzzled. How could one not be sure?

“I haven’t looked yet. I’m scared.”

“Soren,” Twilight said, “just look. Get it over with. Come on. It can’t be so bad.”

Can’t be so bad?
Soren thought.
No, of course, not for all of you who got exactly what you wanted.

“Come on, Soren,” Gylfie said in a softer voice. She had walked over to the pile of down where Soren slept. “Come on. I’ll stand right here beside you.” Gylfie was half Soren’s
size but she stretched up and began preening Soren’s feathers in a soothing gesture.

Soren sighed and, carefully, with one talon, plucked away the down fluff so as not to disturb anything. A dark lump poked through and beside it the shriveled body of a dried caterpillar.

“Colliering!” the wail peeled out into the morning. But the voice was not that of Soren, who simply stared in disbelief at the piece of coal and the caterpillar. “I can’t believe it. I’m on colliering and weather chaws. Disaster!” The voice was that of Otulissa.
Great Glaux,
Soren thought. As if things weren’t bad enough—he was now double chawed with Otulissa!

O
ne—two—one—two. That’s it, Ruby. Tuck the beak…one—two—one—two…” This was their second chaw practice for colliering and Soren had never been more depressed, not since his horrible time at St. Aggie’s. The colliering ryb, a Great Gray named Elvan, stood in the center of a circle that had been inscribed on the ground at the base of the tree. It was near the forge where Bubo worked, keeping them supplied with red-hot coals. Elvan barked commands at them and insisted that they march in time as he kept count. Soren had a deep aversion to marching. They had been forced to march all the time at St. Aggie’s. Elvan said this marching was necessary to establish the proper rhythm that helped in holding a live coal in their beaks. And it seemed as if his previous experience with live coals in the woods of The Beaks had deserted him. He could hardly believe that he had actually picked up live coals, buried them, and flown with them! Soren had spent the first minutes of class being scared and
the remainder being bored. If anyone had told him that it was possible to be both in the same practice, he would have said they were yoicks. It was odd that he hardly felt the heat. He remembered thinking this before when he was in the woods of The Beaks. He did notice, however, that Elvan’s fringe of light feathers below his beak seemed to be a permanently sooty gray.

Soren thought of his own face, covered in pure white feathers. This was the most distinctive feature of Barn Owls, and he really did not want to think of it growing singed and sooty. Maybe he was vain but he couldn’t help it.

“Pay attention! Soren!” Elvan barked. “You nearly ran into Otulissa.”

Thank Glaux she couldn’t speak,
thought Soren. That was the only good thing about colliering. It was hard to speak with a live coal in one’s mouth. So Otulissa was effectively shut up for once.

“All right, rest time. Drop your coals,” Elvan announced.

Rest wasn’t really rest, however, as the ryb lectured them the entire time. “Tomorrow you shall begin flying with the coals in your beaks. It is not that different, really, from walking. Although you must take care to keep your coal alive and burning.”

“Yeah!” Bubo boomed. “Dead coals ain’t going to do me
a bit of good, young’uns. No sense flying in here with a great lot of ashes, cold as Glaux knows what.”

“Yes,” continued Elvan. “We don’t want to disappoint Bubo.”

“Oh, Glaux forbid that we should disappoint Bubo,” Otulissa mumbled.

Soren stole a glance at her. There was pure venom in her eyes.
Why couldn’t she just be angry about being in this chaw? What did Bubo have to do with it?
Soren thought. He knew why, of course. Otulissa thought she was too good to have anything to do with Bubo. Neither Bubo nor any of the owls in this chaw had the distinguished background of Otulissa. It was an outrage, as she told Soren forty times a night, that she had not been included in Strix Struma’s navigation chaw.

Elvan continued speaking during their break. “And then, of course, after you have had enough nights of weather training we shall find a nice forest fire for you—nothing too big, mind you. Just a nice little beginning fire with a good mix of trees—Ga’Hooles, firs, pine, some soft and hard woods. Not too many ridges or mountains to complicate wind patterns.”

“Pardon me,” piped up the little Northern Saw-whet Owl, Martin, who had been rescued the same night as Primrose.