(GoG Book 08) The Outcast (7 page)

Two River Legs began to harass it by darting in quickly with bites and snaps aimed at the belly. More blood spurted out. They obviously wanted to keep the Running Tree bleeding.

The creature began to wobble on its spindly legs, and then a few seconds later, it collapsed. But Coryn could still hear its labored breathing. A single River Legs now came up. It was the animal that had originally split the Running Tree from the herd. He walked around to the head of the dying beast. Coryn flew down close. He saw the killer dip his head close to the prey. Something astonishing was happening. This was not simply a stare now. The eyes of both animals locked together. There was something ceremonial about this locking of the eyes.

Coryn knew he was right. Something was being agreed upon between the predator and the prey. It was the River Legs who now seemed submissive, as if he were asking for
something, asking for the life of the Running Tree, and the Running Tree in silence was responding by saying,
I am valuable. My meat will sustain you. I am worthy.

Then in one slash with his fangs, the River Legs opened the animal’s belly and tore at its guts. There was a final gasp and then nothing.

Coryn was stunned. He had killed many animals in his young life but he had never locked eyes with them. He had never thought much about their dying. But this was a different kind of death. It seemed almost noble. There was dignity in both the killing and the dying.

He flew to a rock outcrop to watch as the rest of the River Legs came in for the feed. There seemed to be an order to this as well. Immediately after the death rip to the stomach, the River Legs threw his head back, closed his eyes, and howled. A large gray female trotted up to him. Coryn guessed that she was his mate. They ate first. Next came the other hunters, the ones that had chased the Running Tree and the ones that had brought it down and harassed it. The rest of the group next moved in, and finally the young ones—the yearlings and then the pups.

But Coryn noticed one yearling lurked around the edges seeming to beg for food. None of the others, not even the pups, would let him in for the smallest nip. His
coat did not gleam like the rest; in fact, his fur was scruffy and ragged and he even had bald patches. And one of his hind legs was bent and shorter than the other. Finally, when the other River Legs moved off, he approached the remains of the carcass in a limping gait.

Coryn wondered if there might be anything left for himself. He was not even sure that he would like the taste of a Running Tree. But he was hungry. He was just about to spread his wings when a shadow passed over him.

“Not so fast, young’un. We go first.”

Coryn looked up. It was the raven he had sensed earlier. There were now four others, as well. The raven lighted down on the outcropping.

“They don’t call us wolf birds for nothing, you know.”

“Wolf birds? I thought you were a raven.”

“We are, but we follow the wolves.”

“Wolves?” Coryn blinked.

“Wolves. What did you think it was that brought down that caribou? Fairy folk?”

“Fairy folk?”

The raven laughed raucously. “You’re in a land of great superstition here. Before our time, the Others and such like yourself believed in little spirits with wings. They called them fairy folk.”

“Oh.” Coryn was feeling exceedingly stupid. In a moment he would feel even stupider. “I didn’t know what those creatures were called. I just called them River Legs.”

“River Legs! Ha!” He cawed wildly. “And what did you call the caribou?”

Coryn was almost to embarrassed to say. He sighed. “Running Trees.”

With that, the raven let loose a loud and clamorous barrage of caws. “Hey, mates.” He tipped his head up to the other ravens that were flying overhead.

“You know what this owl calls wolves? River Legs.”

“You gotta be kidding!” one of the ravens yelled back.

“And he calls caribou Running Trees.”

It felt to Coryn as if the entire sky were laughing at him now. Even the scruffy yearling wolf looked around at him.

When the raven had recovered himself, he began to speak again. “Them’s not trees on its head. Them’s antlers. Now, here’s how it goes, laddie.”

Laddie? They certainly have a strange way of speaking here,
Coryn thought. It was Hoolian, but with a lot of different words and an odd accent, very similar to Gwyndor’s.

“May I introduce myself first and ask your name as well?” Coryn asked.

The raven gave him a dark, piercing look. “We don’t inquire about names in Beyond the Beyond. We prefer
being nameless—us birds, that is. The wolves—now they’re a different story. They all got names. Important to learn those. Every clan’s got a name, it does. The clan that brought down that caribou, them’s the MacDuncans, and Duncan be their leader.”

“Clans?” Coryn asked.

“Yeah. Like family.” Though not prepared to give his name, the raven seemed ready enough to talk. “Most wolves travel in packs, but these dire wolves call their packs clans. When a clan gets big, they break into two clans. So there might be as many as, say, five or six MacDuncan clans. But the main one is the one with the chieftain. And that was the main clan that took down the caribou.

“The dire wolves of these clans are bigger than any wolf you’re ever going to see,” the raven went on. “Special. So I guess they feel they should have a special way of naming themselves. ‘Pack’ just won’t do. So you got your MacDuncans and your MacDuffs and your MacFangs. Oh, a whole mess of them, mostly named Mac-something.”

“What about that little wolf ? The one they were always chasing away.”

“Oh, that fella. Hamish be his name. The ravens eat after Hamish, sometimes before he’s quite finished. He doesn’t seem to mind. He’s a nice fella. Sad about him.”

“Yes, it does seem sad. He doesn’t seem exactly part of the clan. They were chasing him off. Look, all that is really left are the bones.”

“Well, that’s just the point, now, isn’t it?” The raven blinked, cocked his head, and looked at Coryn with his beady black eyes.

“I’m afraid I don’t get the point,” Coryn said meekly.

“You see little Hamish there, he’s got a bit of a lame leg. So he can’t be a good hunter. That means he’s lowranking in the clan. The lowest. Has to eat last and all that. But it turns out he’s a gnaw wolf, or so they think.”

“A gnaw wolf—what’s that?” Coryn asked.

“Don’t quite understand it myself. It’s an art with them. They gnaw bones a certain way for the gnaw-bone mounds way out to the west where the Sacred Volcanoes are.”

“Gnaw-bones? Volcanoes?” Coryn had never heard so many new words in his life. Well, he’d come for an education and, by Glaux, he was getting one.

“Don’t know what a volcano is, laddie?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Well, you see them mountains over there, spewing steam and fire? Them’s volcanoes. The steam and fire comes out of the crater at the top.” He paused. “Now, that’s enough blather. I’m going down to pick what I can off this caribou. You wait a decent time, and after we get
a while at it ourselves, you can come down. I’ll warn the other fellas you’ll be coming.”

“Thanks,” Coryn said.

“Oh, think nothing of it. You see, laddie, everyone thinks that Beyond the Beyond is a lawless place. Well, it is and it isn’t. A lot of outcasts come here that can’t live in the civilized world. Thieves, egg snatchers, chick-nappers, murderers—hireclaws, you can buy them by the dozen. But we do have our way of doing things. You saw how them wolves brought down the caribou. That’s a strategy. Wolves have the best strategies in the world for hunting. Never seen anything like it. I’d almost trade my wings to be able to think like a wolf.”

Coryn blinked in surprise.

“Oh, yes, I would, laddie.” The raven, or wolf bird, now lifted off from the rock outcropping. “See you at the carcass!”

I
t would not be the last carcass at which Coryn and the nameless raven would meet. But it was at the carcass of the moose that Coryn finally met Hamish, the gnaw wolf he had seen his first night in Beyond the Beyond. Hamish fascinated Coryn. The more he observed the lame yearling wolf, the more he realized that he was not only scorned by the others of the clan but was, in an odd way, feared as well. Then one day Coryn realized that it was not fear or scorn the other wolves felt, but that they kept Hamish in a strange limbo, feeling for him something between pity and reverence. In any case, Hamish was clearly an outcast like Coryn, and he wanted to get to know the wolf better. Coryn knew that he should not be distracted from his mission, which was to complete his education, to become a wizard like Grank of old, so he might help little Coryn reclaim the ember. But he was drawn to the little lame wolf, as well as being fascinated. So he followed the clan for just a bit longer.

The MacDuncans had been stalking a moose for the better part of a day and a night. After his last foray into the river, he could hardly make it up the bank, and that was when the wolves closed in on him. Again, Coryn watched that mysterious moment when the prey seemed to accept its fate as it locked eyes with the predator. It stirred him deep in his gizzard as it had the first time. After the kill the wolves ate and ate. It seemed as if it would never end. The ravens were getting hungry, and the wolves even allowed the birds to join them at the carcass, a rare event. Hamish, however, was still chased away.

Then, toward dawn, Coryn spotted a huge bear on the other side of the river. Phillip had once told him about grizzly bears, and from his description this one certainly looked like a grizzly. The wolves retreated quickly, as did the ravens. It was clear that they did not want to have anything to do with a grizzly, which could swat their heads off in a single blow.

But the wolves were not to be run off from their own kill for long. After all, they had stalked this prey for half a day and a night. Coryn was amazed when he saw the wolves keeping low to the ground, creeping up on the bear. There was a sudden explosion from the winter grass as six wolves pounced on the grizzly. Two snapped at its hindquarters, one went for its muzzle and tried to bite its nose, and two
went for its belly. The sixth began barking and nipping. The bear spun and swung its immense paws. One wolf went flying from the blows, and the others scattered.

The bear went back to eating alone at the carcass. By this time, Coryn was starving. Dare he approach? He had an advantage, of course. He could fly off. He was just too hungry to wait another moment. He took off and hovered over the carcass. The bear took note of him but went back to eating. Coryn flew lower. This time the bear didn’t even raise its head. The bear was working on the ribs of the moose, so Coryn settled on the hindquarters. He began to peck at the flesh. The bear continued eating without even giving him a glance. This went on for several minutes. He felt the wolves slowly creeping closer now, obviously emboldened by his success.

Coryn continued eating and, without turning around, spoke: “Listen to me, MacDuncans. Send Hamish in first and then the rest of you may come and join us,” Coryn said in a tone he almost did not recognize. There was a strange calmness in his voice, like the stillness at the eye of a hurricane. He could sense the wolves laying back their ears and lowering their bodies in the signs of appeasement.

So the wolves stood back as Hamish came forward
and tucked in next to Coryn on the hindquarter. “I’m not used to this much meat. I mostly gnaw bones.”

“So I’ve heard,” Coryn replied.

Soon the other wolves joined them. They were careful to avoid the ribs where the grizzly was still eating and confined their own eating to the hindquarters, taking care to keep Coryn between them and the bear.

Occasionally, the wolves looked up, their muzzles bloody from their feasting, and wondered about the young owl. This had never happened before—bear, wolf, and owl feeding together—never in their lifetimes or in all the thousands of years that their kind had lived in Beyond the Beyond. And it all seemed the owl’s doing. It made them nervous. It made them think of the old stories they had heard. It made them think of the Sacred Volcanoes to the west, still guarded by their clansmen. For that was where the Ember of Hoole, placed there so long ago by another strange owl, lay buried.

F
ar away from Beyond the Beyond, across the Sea of Hoolemere, a Spotted Owl made her plans in utmost secrecy. None of her closest friends, not one of the Chaw of Chaws, could know that this Guardian of Ga’Hoole, Otulissa, would make a journey alone—alone and somewhat uninformed. Otulissa did not mind the alone part, but she vehemently objected to her own unavoidable ignorance. It was no one’s fault, really. No one knew of her mission except possibly the ancient Ezylryb. But Ezylryb was tight-beaked. One might more easily get a song from a stone as any information out of Ezylryb when he did not want to give it. And the same went for his ancient nestmaid snake, Octavia.

It had all begun in summer, and here it was now almost autumn. It had been midsummer when Otulissa had first begun sensing the scroom of Strix Struma. Strix Struma was her beloved leader and mentor, who had been killed by Nyra of the Pure Ones in a battle. And it was Otulissa
in turn who had marked Nyra for life when she raked her battle claws across her face in sorrow and fury at her mentor’s death.

Since the haunting by Strix Struma, Otulissa, who had not believed in scrooms before this, was driven by her inimitable scholarly curiosity to make a study of ghostly manifestations. She took from the library shelves a book she had never previously deigned to even look at:
Paranormal Activity in the World of Owls Since the Time of Hoole: Explorations, Case Studies, and Interpretations.
It was written by a certain Stronknorton Feevels, a Great Horned Owl. Otulissa had previously thought this was a pretentious title for a book that dealt in what she considered to be fake scientific phenomena. But as she read it, things began to make sense, especially when she compared it to her own experiences with Strix Struma’s scroom. In particular, the book described a kind of mutism that seemed to afflict many scrooms, rendering them speechless at times when explanations were most urgently required. At the same time as the hauntings by Strix Struma, Otulissa had been involved in a deep study of the Fire Cycle cantos in the legends of Ga’Hoole. She had been prompted by Ezylryb to take another good hard look at the fourth canto, the meaning of which had always been considered obscure and controversial. She came to suspect that there
was some connection between Strix Struma’s scroomly visitations and the Fire Cycle, which told of the Ember of Hoole. She had previously thought that the Fire Cycle pertained only to King Hoole, but after several readings she began to suspect something more in it: that there was another king yet to come who would rule by the grace of the ember. It was a staggering thought. But there was no escaping it. And when the scroom had last come to see her, she had broken out of her mute state long enough to tell Otulissa that she must go to Beyond the Beyond, a journey that, in living memory, no Guardian of Ga’Hoole had ever made.