(GoG Book 02) The Journey (6 page)

“Well, true. But with the wind coming from that direction, they just got sucked up into the Narrows and then that williwaw came.”

“What’s a williwaw?” Soren asked.

“You get a big tumble, like an avalanche. Suppose you don’t know what that is—an avalanche.”

“No, what’s an avalanche?” Digger said.

“You know, a big snow slide, but it’s not snow in a williwaw. Just cold icy air comes over the wall and crashes down. That’s what sucked you up into the Narrows and slammed you into our wall—our home.”

“This is home?” Twilight asked.

“Yes, sir. Only one we’ve ever known,” the male said.

“But where do you live?”

“In the ice cracks and some rocky holes. The wall is not all ice. Plenty of boulders. There are places if you know how to find them,” he said and then looked at his mate. “Another storm is coming in from the south. We’d better get you owls inside. Follow us.”

The ice nest was roomy, but it reeked something horrible. “What’s that smell?” Gylfie whispered.

“What smell?” asked the little puffin they called Dumpy.

“That smell!” Digger snorted.

“Probably fish,” the male said.

“Fish! You eat fish?”

“Not much else. Better get used to it.”

“And I’m going fishing before that storm comes,” the female said.

As she waddled toward the nest opening, Soren began to appreciate how truly preposterous this bird was. It was not only her face, with its large bulbous orange beak and the dark eyes ringed in red and set in slightly skewed ovals of white feathers, but also her body was the strangest shape. Chubby, with not one slim or graceful line and, with her chest thrust out, she appeared as if she might
topple forward at any second. How this thing flew was a mystery. Indeed, now, tottering on the edge of the nest, it appeared as if she hesitated to take off, but finally she did by windmilling her wings awkwardly until, at last, she seemed to organize them for a direct plunge into the sea. And that was something to behold. She suddenly grew sleek. Her broad head and thick beak split the icy turbulent waters, which then closed over her tail feathers. She completely disappeared beneath the surface. Soren had been joined by Twilight, Digger, and Gylfie at the edge of the nest. They waited and waited, then looked at one another.

“Sir,” Gylfie began, “I think something might have happened to your mate…uh…er…She dove into the sea and no sign of her yet.”

“Oh, she’ll be a while. Lot of mouths to feed.”

It seemed like forever, but then they saw her break through the surface. Several small fish hung neatly from her beak. “There she is! There she is!” Gylfie said.

“Good old Ma,” Dumpy sighed. “Hope she brought some capelin. I just love capelin. If you don’t like it, will you give me yours? Please, please, please?”

“Sure,” Soren said. Every minute that he stayed in this smelly hollow he was getting less hungry.

“Look at that,” Twilight said. “How’s she going to get off?” The others now crowded to the edge of the ice hollow. Down below, it appeared that the female was trying to run across the surface of the water while madly flapping her wings.

“Water takeoff—not easy for any of us. We’re not the best fliers, but, as you can see, we can dive. Got these little air pockets so we can go really deep for a long, long time. Getting back to the nest is the hardest part for us.”

The male stepped out of the ice hollow and called down. “Dearest, try that patch over there under the lee, the water is smoother.”

She gave her mate a withering glance, and somehow through the mouthful of fish yelled back, “You want me to fly directly into the wall, Puff Head! There’s a tailwind. I’ll slam beak-first into it. Then where will your dinner be? If you’re so smart you come down and go fishing yourself.”

“Oh, sorry, dear, silly me.” Then he turned to the owls. “We’re really not that bright. I mean we dive well, know how to fish, and deal with ice, but that’s about it.”

But, in fact, the puffins knew more and were not that dumb at all. “Just low self-esteem,” Gylfie said. The puffins, in addition to knowing how to dive and fish, knew weather. And just now they were telling them that there would be
a small pocket of time when the wind would turn, and they could leave before the next storm came in.

“You see, young’uns,” said the male puffin, “nine days out often, the wind slams full force up these Ice Narrows. That’s how you got sucked into here in the first place. But on the tenth day, it can turn around and suck you right back out. Nice high stream coming through that could pull you right back to The Beaks, if you want to go that far.” He paused and each of the owls stole a glance at one another. The Beaks sounded lovely. This place was so harsh and cold and there was the terrible stench of the fish and the awful oiliness that seemed to make their gizzards greasy. How could they help but think of the Mirror Lakes, where it was always summer and the voles were fat and the flying spectacular? They would be liars if they said they weren’t tempted.

“So when should we leave?” Soren asked.

“I think since you owls like night flying you should go tonight. Just when it’s getting dark is when the wind will begin to turn. It’ll be easy flying out of here, and then when the wind finally gets behind your tail feathers, you’ll really go, straight out to Hoolemere.”

“But the blizzard?” Gylfie said. “When will that start up again?”

“Not before tomorrow, I think, at the earliest.”

“We should all get some rest now,” Soren said. “If we’re going to fly tonight.”

“Good idea,” Mrs. Plithiver nodded.

“Better go to the back of the hollow,” the female puffin called. “Sun’s coming out and it reflects so brightly off the ice you won’t be able to shut your eyes against it.” It was dimmer in the back, but still rather bright as streams of sunlight bouncing off the ice-sheathed rocks pried into the shadows of the hollow.

Soren could hear the steady drip as some of the ice began to melt. But finally he fell asleep. Perhaps it was the melting ice that made him think of that warmer place with the pools of crystal-clear water, his lovely white face shimmering on the surface. Why couldn’t they go back there? Where were they supposed to be going instead? Soren kept forgetting. All he could remember were the rolls of warm wind to play on, the still, glasslike lake, the everlasting summer. No ice, no blizzard. Why not live there happily ever after? The dream tugged on him. In his sleep, he felt his gizzard turn and something begin to dim, while the longing for The Beaks and the Mirror Lakes grew stronger and stronger.

“Time to get up, young’uns.” It was the male puffin, nudging Soren with one of his large, orange, webbed feet.
“Wind died down. You can fly out of here now. The wall’s weeping.”

“Huh?” Soren asked. “What do you mean the wall’s weeping?”

“The ice is melting. Means warm air, the thermals have come. Easy flying.”

The other owls were already up and standing at the rim of the hollow. The wall certainly was weeping. Glistening with wetness, it appeared shimmering, almost fiery as the setting sun turned its ice into liquid flames of pink, then orange and red.

“Dumpy,” his father called. “Come over here, son. I want you to step up here and watch the young’uns fly. They are the masters of silent flight. Never going to hear a wing flap with these owls!”

Just before they took off, Soren looked at each of the owls. He wasn’t the only one who had dreamed of the Mirror Lakes. They all wanted to go back. Could it be that wrong if they all wanted to do it? Twilight slid in close to him. “Soren, the three of us have been thinking.”

“Yes?”

“Thinking about The Beaks and the Mirror Lakes. We’ve been thinking, why not go back there for just a little while? You know, just to kind of rest up, get this fish out of
our system. Eat us some nice fat voles, then go on to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.”

It was so tempting, so tempting. Soren felt Mrs. Plithiver shift in the feathers between his shoulders.

“I…I…” Soren stammered. “I think there’s a problem.”

“What’s the problem?” Twilight pressed.

“I think that if we go there, we won’t go on—ever—to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree,” Soren replied.

Twilight paused. “Well, what if some of us think—you know, kind of differently? Would that be wrong of us to go? I mean, you’d be free to go on.”

After they took off, Soren could feel Gylfie flying nervously beside him. He turned and looked directly at Gylfie. Together, they had survived moon blinking and moon scalding. Together, they had escaped St. Aggie’s. He spun his head toward Twilight and Digger. They had fought with him and Gylfie in the desert and, together, killed the murderers of Digger’s brother and parents. It was in that desert stained with blood that the four of them had, within the slivers of time and the silver of moonlight, sworn an oath and become a band. And it was as a band they had sworn to go to Hoolemere and find its Great Ga’Hoole Tree. That was no dream. That was real. But it
was a dream that now threatened them, a dream of the Mirror Lakes and endless summer that could, in fact, destroy their reason for living.

Twilight continued, “I mean, Soren, as I said, you could go on if you wanted. What would be wrong with each of us doing what we want to do?”

Soren looked hard at Twilight. “Because we are a band,” he said simply. And he sheered off toward an inlet near the end of the Ice Narrows that streamed into the Sea of Hoole-mere.

T
he puffins had told them that there was a current of darker green water that swirled out from the Ice Narrows, then curved into the Sea of Hoolemere and, if they followed it, it would lead to the island. Soren was very thankful that they had found the current quickly. For, although the other three owls seemed to understand what he had said about being a band, he did not know what he would have done if they hadn’t found the current. At least for now he could assure them that they were on course. One more navigational error, one more time getting blown off in some wild direction—well, Soren wasn’t sure if he could hold the band together. The draw of The Mirror Lakes was powerful. It was odd, but he often thought of the night that he and Gylfie escaped from St. Aggie’s. When Skench, in her full battle regalia with claws and helmet, had burst in on them in the library, something had drawn her into the wall where the flecks were stored. She had actually slammed into the wall and become completely
immobilized for a few brief seconds. But it had provided them with the time to escape. Somehow The Beaks and the Mirror Lakes had a similarly powerful draw for them. But it was just a dream and that is what Soren didn’t understand. How could a dream do this? However, this current of dark green water beneath them was real. All they had to do was follow it.

They had been flying hard and fast for a while now. With each stroke of their wings, they felt surer of their course, and their gizzards began to tremble with excitement. And with each stroke that drew Soren closer to the island with the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, he knew he was flying somehow farther away from St. Aegolius Academy for Orphaned Owls. How dare they call that place an academy? For nothing was learned there. Indeed, one of the worst rules that an owl could break was that of asking a question. The most severe and the bloodiest punishments were reserved for questioners. The foulest words one could utter at St. Aggie’s were the cursed
wh
words:
what, when, why.
Soren at one point had all of his just-budging flight feathers ripped out and his wings left with a slick of blood because he had asked a question. Knowledge was forbidden.

Soon it began to snow, rubbing the pinpoints of starlight into smears, feathering the edges of the moon
into a blurry softness, and smudging the dark green line of the current. I
can’t lose the current!
Soren thought.

“I don’t know how we’ll ever see this Island of Hoole,” Digger said. “Look down. Everything is turning white.”

“Where’s the current?” asked Gylfie anxiously.

Soren felt Mrs. Plithiver shift nervously in his neck feathers.
So near but so far!
They couldn’t lose the current now. Soren thought that the Island of Hoole and the Great Ga’Hoole Tree seemed almost like the sky did to Mrs. Plithiver, the Yonder. And right now it felt as if they were just this side of the Yonder.

The conditions became increasingly confusing for the owls to fly in. Accustomed in night flying to opening up their pupils so wide that they nearly filled the entire size of their eyes, on this snowy night the owls had to do the reverse and yet it was not like day flying. There was too much light and it was all the same color, a shadowy gray. Water would appear no different from the surrounding land. Were they still over water? Or could they be over the Island of Hoole? Or maybe they had been blown off course again! Soren remembered what Mrs. Plithiver had said, that one had to see with one’s entire body. Mrs. P.’s words came back to him. The four owls were bunched together in a tight V–shaped formation with Twilight at the point. Soren realized that flying on one side of the V or the
other was not the best place to take advantage of the uneven placement of his ears and his good hearing.

“Let me fly point, Twilight. I’ll be able to hear better.”

Twilight slowed his speed and Soren stroked past him. “Hang on, Mrs. P., I’m going to have to do some head rolls.”

An owl’s neck is a strange thing. Unlike most birds, owls have extra bones in their necks that allow them to swivel their heads far to each side, in an arc much wider than any other living creature. Indeed, an owl can flip its head back so that its crown touches its shoulders, or turn its face almost upside down as Soren was doing just now. “Hello!” said Soren to Mrs. P., who nestled now directly beneath his beak as he flipped his face about. “Just scanning.”

After several minutes of this, Soren noticed a change in the night. He was not sure exactly what it was but something seemed different. “Digger, remember that coyote song you were singing?”

“Yes.”

“Sing it again and tip your head down.”