The First Collier

“Where there are legends, there can be hope. Where there are legends, there can be dreams of knightly owls, from a kingdom called Ga’Hoole, who will rise each night into the blackness and perform noble deeds. Owls who speak no words but true ones. Owls whose only purpose is to right all wrongs, to make strong the weak, mend the broken, vanquish the proud, and make powerless those who abuse the frail. With hearts sublime, they take flight…”

by

On a branch outside a hollow of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, three owls hunched against the first blasts of an early winter gale. One was an Elf Owl, one a Great Gray, and one a Burrowing Owl. They were known collectively as the Band, but their fourth member, the Barn Owl Soren, was in the hollow of his beloved old teacher, Ezylryb. And Ezylryb was dying.

The little Elf Owl Gylfie huddled close to Twilight and the huge Great Gray extended his wing to shelter her from the wind. Digger crept closer to them on the branch. Although Soren was inside and they were out, it was as if they were connected. These four owls who had known one another for so long could never really be separated.

“I feel it all,” Gylfie said, and she blinked. “It’s almost as if our gizzards are one.”

Twilight and Digger nodded. “All of our gizzards,” Digger whispered. And they, indeed, were feeling in that most sensitive of all owl organs the terrible grief that was racking their dear friend’s gizzard as he stood by his old mentor. “I know it sounds silly,” Digger said. “But it’s almost like being orphaned again. And
for Soren, it really must feel that way. I mean, after all, he is Ezylryb’s ward.”

Twilight blinked. “I don’t remember being orphaned. I can’t even remember my parents. I think I hatched by myself.”

If he says something about the orphan school of tough learning and how he taught himself everything, I’ll yarp,
Gylfie thought.

But Twilight didn’t. “And even though I can’t remember any of that,” he continued, “I think I can almost feel what it would have been like to have a father, to be a son. Poor Soren!”

Inside the hollow, Soren might have dimly sensed the tremors in his dear friends’ gizzards, but, in truth, he let himself be swept to some unreachable place in a tidal wave of grief. His glistening black eyes turned dull. A peculiar stillness took hold of his gizzard. He was numb, almost yeep.

Octavia, Ezylryb’s nest-maid snake, was coiled up in a corner weeping as her old master lay dying. Coryn, the new king of the great tree and leader of the Guardians, shifted nervously from one foot to the other. The young Barn Owl felt odd being in the old ryb’s hollow. He felt out of place. He was new to the tree and had no history with Ezylryb, as did Octavia and his uncle, Soren.

Octavia had arrived with the Whiskered Screech countless years before and had served as his nest-maid and closest confidante as long as any owl could remember. Soren had been adopted by Ezylryb as his ward when he was quite young. Ezylryb had sensed
the remarkable genius for leadership in the young Barn Owl even before Soren was aware of his own natural abilities. Coryn, though he was king, felt he did not belong here at this moment. But Ezylryb had summoned him along with Soren. Now the old ryb raised one mangled foot, and with it he beckoned the two Barn Owls to his side.

“Step closer, lads. Step closer,” he whispered hoarsely.

It made Coryn feel good that Ezylryb had called him “lad.” The old owl had used no title except “lad” to address the young king since he had arrived a short time before.

Now Coryn and Soren bent close to the old ryb’s beak. “Listen closely to what I have to say.”

“Yes, Ezylryb, I am listening,” Coryn replied.

“Yes, Cap,” Soren whispered. This was the last time he would call the old ryb “Cap.” Everyone in the weather interpretation chaw called Ezylryb “Cap,” for he had been the ultimate captain of the winds, teaching them how to ride the baggywrinkles and navigate the troughs and scuppers of a gale. Oh, what wild flights they’d had—through every kind of weather, every sort of boisterous wind. And always singing those riotous songs!
Is that what he would miss most?
Soren thought. Or perhaps he would most miss the talks that went long into the day; or the times in the library when Ezylryb would direct him to a book with that mangled talon. Great Glaux, he had learned so much from the old Whiskered Screech. So much!

Ezylryb tried to raise himself up from the downy pillow.

“Ezylryb,” Soren said gently, “rest.”

“No, Soren. I can’t rest until I tell you both this. I know we have defeated the owls of St. Aggie’s, destroyed their great stores of flecks. And, thank Glaux, the Pure Ones have been decimated. But who knows what evil might be lying in wait?” Ezylryb’s breath became more labored. “The ember has returned to the Great Tree.” His voice was now barely a whisper. Soren and his nephew tipped their heads closer to the old ryb’s beak. “It brings great promise…and great danger. Ignorance is perhaps the source of all evil. Forget battle claws, forget ice swords and ice daggers. Knowledge is the most powerful weapon of all. It is vitally important that you know how we came to be, the stories even older than the cantos, the legends of Ga’Hoole. You must learn from that brilliant prince, that knight in the times of magic, who became our king Hoole, and whose ember, you, Coryn, and you alone, retrieved from the volcanoes of Beyond the Beyond. You must both read the oldest of the legends.”

“We’ll go to the library at once, sir,” Coryn replied.

“No, no.” He shook that mangled foot with more vigor than he had shown in a long time. “They are not in the library. They are here in a secret place in this hollow.” He nodded at Soren. “He knows.”

Yes, Soren did know. Within this hollow, there was a secret chamber that Soren and Gylife had discovered years before. It was where they had found Ezylryb’s old battle claws, the ones that Ezylryb gave to Soren when he made Soren his ward. And there
were books in that chamber and ancient scrolls from Ezylryb’s homeland, the ancient Northern Kingdoms.

“Read them. Read them and learn,” Ezylryb said. “Read them and know where we came from…and what we must guard against. The future is yours if…”

But he never finished what he had begun to say. His amber eyes slid back in his head. His beak was still. There was one last shallow breath. Then a light breeze blew through the hollow and with it a spirit passed. The old ryb was dead.

It was not until three days later after the Final ceremonies that Octavia led Coryn and Soren into the small hidden chamber behind Ezylryb’s main hollow. Soren fetched the first of three ancient tomes. The two owls bent over the dusty old book. They had to squint to make out the faded gold letters of the title inscribed on the mouseleather cover.
T
HE
L
EGENDS OF
G
A
’H
OOLE
,
and then beneath this in smaller letters:
T
HE
F
IRST
C
OLLIER
.