It was Ezylryb who had seen how useful these snakes could be in war. He had come up with the idea for a stealth force of Kielian snakes that would fight both on the ground and in the air on the backs of owls. Hoke of Hock had been the supreme commander of this stealth unit. Octavia had trained under him. And now Martin and Ruby had been sent to recruit him for the war against the Pure Ones. A division of Kielian snakes was a crucial part of the plan for the invasion of the canyonlands.
But there was a problem. Hoke of Hock seemed to have utterly vanished and none of the other Kielian snakes or owls on Stormfast were inclined to say much about him. Ruby and Martin had first flown to the promontory called Hock. But there was no trace of the old snake. And now once again they were flying over the ragged promontory of the island that jutted out into the turbulent waters of this wind-lashed shore where he supposedly lived. They didn’t have much time. In a few nights they were due to rendezvous on Dark Fowl Island with the other owls of the Chaw of Chaws.
“It’s going to be terribly embarrassing if we are the only owls who don’t do our part,” Martin said.
“Yeah,” Ruby replied. “I’m sure Otulissa has done hers and more.”
“She’s probably found that book, memorized it, and four others besides.”
“Well, if we don’t find this snake before we meet up with the rest, maybe we can ask them to help us,” Ruby said in a hopeful voice.
“You forget we have a deadline. Pack ice, the katabatic winds.”
“Ohhh!” groaned Ruby. “I did forget. Pack ice sounds worse that getting mobbed by crows.”
“It’s not the ice so much as the katabatic winds that drive the pack ice. We don’t want to have to beat against those to get home.”
“Kind of like getting stuck in the rim of a hurricane’s eye, I guess,” Ruby said with quiet dread in her voice. Getting stuck in a hurricane’s eye rim was just about the worst thing Ruby and Martin could imagine. If this happened, an owl would spin around violently forever and ever, the force of the wind tearing off its wings and stripping every feather from its body. It was a terrible way to die.
“Look, I see something down there,” Martin said suddenly.
“Where?” asked Ruby.
“Straight down. It looks like a glimmering—”
“I see it!”
The two young owls began a dizzying spiral descent. A sinuous glowing streak oozed slowly over the ground. They hovered, almost mesmerized by the undulating movement. Suddenly, the streak coiled up, waved its large bulbous head, and opened a mouth showing long, very sharp fangs. “Vasshink derkuna framachtin?”
“Ruby, what’s the word for ‘little’ in Krakish?”
“You asking me?”
“‘Michten,’ I think that’s it,” Martin said and then began to speak to the snake. “Iby bisshen michten Krakish.”
“Hoolish fynn? Vhor issen?”
“Uh…uh…yeah. We’re from Ga’Hoole, the great tree.”
“Bisshen michten Hoolian, erkutzen. Speak me little Hoolian.”
Martin looked at Ruby. “I think we’d better land.”
As the two owls alighted on the rocky promontory, the snake, still coiled, said, “Gunden vhagen.”
Martin tipped his head. “Gunden vhagen.” Ruby, watching Martin, did the same and mumbled the Krakish words for good evening.
“Vhrunk tuoy achtin?”
“Huh?” Martin said. “I mean, pardon.”
“What comes you here for?”
“Oh…oh, yes…uh…uh…just a minute. Hold on.” Martin turned to Ruby. “Get out that word sheet Otulissa made up for us.”
Ruby untied a slender metal tube from her leg and then drew out a piece of paper.
“What’s the word for snake?” Martin muttered with exasperation.
“Hordo!” the snake said.
“Yes,” replied Martin. “Exactly. You are a hordo.”
The serpent slid his eyes in contempt. They glittered in an unnerving way. “I know I am snake. Vhat you tink, me stupid?”
“You’re a Kielian snake.”
“Ja, ja.”
“I mean…maybe you know this other Kielian snake we look for. His name is Hoke of Hock.”
“Why you need Hoke of Hock?”
Well, at least he’s chattier than the other creatures we’ve met, Martin thought.
“You good flier, Short-eared.”
“You’ve been watching us?” Martin said in a wary voice.
“Ja, ja.”
“For how long?” Ruby asked.
“Two days, maybe three,” the snake replied.
“And you—Northern Saw-whet, you spiral dive like…oh, cominzee bisshen?” It was obvious that the snake was searching for a word he needed. “…Like…like a coal diver.”
Martin blinked. “You mean, like a colliering owl?”
“That’s it. Ja, ja, colliering owl.”
Martin stepped closer to the snake. Northern Sawwhet Owls were small, and even stretching himself up as tall as he could, Martin was still shorter than the coiled snake. But he wanted the snake to pay attention to him. “You’re Hoke, aren’t you? You’re the Kielian snake that Ezylryb sent us to find.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Yes, you are. And you speak better Hoolian than we speak Krakish. You understand a lot. Why have you been hiding from us—and just now hiding how much you understand?”
“How I know Ezylryb really sent you? How I know who you are or who you pretend to be?” the snake demanded to know.
“We don’t pretend to be anything,” Ruby said huffily.
“I give test,” the snake replied. “Who is Ezylryb’s nest-maid?”
“Octavia!” both owls answered at once.
“How many talons does Ezylryb have on port foot?”
“Three,” Martin and Ruby both cried out.
“Hmmm.” The snake waved its head as if trying to think of a harder question. “All right. I got one.”
Ruby’s and Martin’s gizzards began to tremble slightly. What if they missed this question?
“Ready?”
“Ready!” they both answered.
“Vhat be that old Whiskered Screech’s favorite weather song? He always sing in dirty weather.”
“We know that!” Ruby lofted into the air with glee and began singing.
We are the owls of the weather chaw
We take it blistering
We take it all
Roiling boiling gusts
We’re the owls with the guts
By the time she got to the second verse, the snake was wagging his head to the beat. It was a robust, irresistible song.
“Sound almost as good in Hoolian as Krakish!” the snake said. Soon, all three creatures, the two owls and the old Kielian snake, were roaring the song. The owls lofted into short merry flights; the snake oozed and swirled himself into the unbelievable contortions of an ancient Kielian snake dance.
For blizzards our gizzards
do tremble with joy
An ice storm, a gale, how we love blinding hail
We fly forward and backward
Upside down and flat
Do we flinch? Do we wail?
Do we skitter or scutter?
No! We yarp one more pellet
and fly straight for the gutter!
Do we screech? Do we scream?
Do we gurgle? Take pause?
Not on your life!
For we are the best
of the best of the chaws.
Finally, as the last verse drew to a close, the snake coiled up again, waved his head in a most graceful manner and said, “You are right. I am Hoke of Hock. Now, what does my old commander want? You know, of course, I flew with his beloved mate, Lil.”
“You flew with Lil?” Ruby said with awe.
“Oh, yes,” Hoke replied softly. “I was with her when she died.”
Martin and Ruby had followed the Kielian snake to his “nost,” as he called the small rocky c
avern that the snakes lived in. It was fairly roomy, so the three creatures fit in comfortably. But the roar of the sea pounding on the rocks was tremendous, and they had to shout to be heard.
“But how come you didn’t die?” Ruby asked.
“Because I swim. Lil went down into the sea, in deep, deep water. I try so hard to rescue her…” Hoke shook his head wearily. “I do not have words to tell how hard I tried.” He wept a strange glittery fluid.
Martin hopped over to Hoke and gave his turquoise scales a small pat.
“Takk, takk,” the snake said, nodding his head. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“Gare heeldvig,” Martin replied, which meant in Krakish “think nothing of it.”
“Hey, hey,” said the old snake a little more cheerfully. “You learning to bisshen good Krakish, but now young’uns, you tell me vhat my old friend Ezylryb needs.”
Martin and Ruby took turns explaining. But as Martin drew to a close he had the distinct feeling that Hoke was not convinced. He was going to have to plead harder, let out all the stops. Martin gulped.
“Look, the coming battle is not just a matter of life and death for the owls of Ga’Hoole but for all the owl kingdoms.…It could even affect snakes, all snakes, Kielian and others. I don’t know if I can explain how deadly these flecks are. It’s not just that creatures die from them. To simply die would be easy.” Martin noticed a new alertness in Hoke. “It’s that the flecks have the power to make us mindless tools in the talons of the most evil owls in the history of owlkind. And, as we speak, the Pure Ones are learning how to use the largest supply of flecks on Earth.” Martin finally stopped. He looked at Hoke.
Hoke sighed. “Vhat you say is frightening but you see before you a very old snake. Too old to go into battle. But, yes, I could perhaps raise a battalion or two of owls and snakes and help in training them. But it must be agreed to by the parliament. Perhaps not the training but our going. The parliament will decide that. We are tired of war. You must understand.”
“Yes, we understand.” Martin nodded. “The War of the Ice Claws was so long. But you say a battalion or two?”
The snake nodded.
Martin knew they would need more, much more. Ezylryb was hoping for a regiment. Now Martin would have to ask the question he dreaded. “You realize it’s an invasion? We’ll need more than two battalions. Do you suppose you could train nest-maid snakes?”
In one swift flash of turquoise, Hoke coiled up. “Are you yoicks?! Yes, I know Hoolian word for crazy. Same in Krakish. Yoicks. Nest-maids? You two drop your brains in the sea?”
“Just asking,” Martin said in a small voice. “You know, they are hard workers.”
“They’re weak. They have no muscle. And they’re silly, too! Nunchat! Nachsun, Nynik, Nuftan!” Which basically meant “no, never, no way” in Krakish.
“All right. All right. Don’t worry about it. Forget I said anything about nest-maids. Gare heeldvig,” Martin replied quickly. Hoke relaxed and began to uncoil again. “Tell me something,” Martin said, trying to change the subject, but also asking out of genuine curiosity, “whatever happened to Ezylryb’s brother, Ifghar?”
“The turnfeather?” Hoke spat out the words.
“Yes.”
“He was wounded pretty badly himself. He went off with the League of the Ice Talons with his turnscale snake, Gragg.”
“A Kielian snake?”
“Ja, ja. Miserable piece of serpent if there ever was one. Liked his bingle juice too much.”
“Bingle juice?”
“Ja, ja. You know, can make one trufynkken.” Hoke wobbled his head around.
“Oh!” Martin and Ruby said at once. Bingle juice was like the Ga’Hoole berry wine the older owls sometimes drank at festivals.
“Ja, that snake go with anyone who give him a drink. That’s why he kept with Ifghar. Don’t know where they went. I think the Ice Talons League finally threw him out. Nobody trusts a turnfeather or a turnscale.”
“Turnscale? That’s a snake traitor?”
“Ja, ja. Gragg of Slonk, that be the old snake’s name. He’s a turnscale. Traded a kingdom for a quaff of bingle juice.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Ancient Warrior
of the Firth
Svall swam up the narrowing lead of water that threaded like a black ribbon through the clusters of ice floes jamming the firth. The bear moved at a stately pace, nosing aside chunks of ice that blocked his path. The four owls flew overhead. Soren thought he had never seen such a graceful swimmer.
There was a kind of magic to the starry night. The sky reflected in the black water of the firth, and it almost appeared as if the bear were swimming through shoals of stars. Svall seemed like a creature of earth and sky, ice and air, water and stars. Like a weaver in the night, the immense polar bear shuttled through these elements twining them into one single and fantastic piece, a tapestry of the Northern Kingdoms.
“If this is summer,” Twilight said, “I wonder what winter is like.”
“I hope we won’t have to stick around to find out,” Digger replied.
“Sssh!” Soren said suddenly. “I’m picking up something.”
“Me, too,” Eglantine said. “It sounds almost like singing.”
Eglantine and Soren began rotating their heads very slowly. Soren called down to Svall, “What are we hearing? It sounds like a song.”
“Ahhh, very good ears you have.” Svall looked up. “Me, I no hear yet. But we are getting closer. See cliffs?” Directly ahead on the land ice, silvery in the moonlight, gilded cliffs soared into the star-sparkled night. “That be where Moss roosts.”
“So, what’s that singing?” Soren asked. The other owls had begun to hear it as well. An eerie song spun out into the dark.
“The skog be there a-telling the tales tonight,” the bear answered.
“What’s a skog?” asked Soren. “What tales?”
“A teller. Skog means tell or sing. Tell stories. Tell history. Singer of songs. Every clan has a skog. The skog keeps the story of a clan, of a hollow. Listen now.” He held up his huge paw in the moonlight. “Be quiet until the song is finished.”
The lead of water they had been following opened up now into a lagoon surrounded by cliffs and dotted with caves. A few rocks jutted up out of the lagoon’s water. Svall motioned them silently toward one of the rocks, where the four owls alighted. When the song ended, Svall raised one paw and slapped the water’s surface so hard that the stillness of the lagoon was shattered. Then two great Snowy Owls flew out of the cave’s opening.
One of the Snowies was larger, presumably the female. Soren thought that must be the skog, and the smaller one must be the owl he had been charged to find, Moss.
“Gunden vhagen, Svallkin,” the smaller of the Snowies said.
“Gunden vhagen, Mosskin. Mishmictah sund heelving dast,” the polar bear replied.
“Aaah,” said the Snowy in response. Then the two owls settled down on a rock a few feet from the one where Soren, Digger, Twilight, and Eglantine perched.
“Bisshen Hoolian, vrachtung isser,” Svall rumbled. But neither Snowy seemed to be listening to the polar bear. Their fierce yellow eyes had fastened on the battle claws that Soren wore. “Ach!” the polar bear exclaimed. “Youy inker planken der criffen skar di Lyze.”
“What’s he saying? What’s he saying?” Twilight whispered.
“Something about Ezylryb’s battle claws,” Digger replied.
The smaller Snowy beckoned Soren with one talon.
“I think he wants you to come closer, Soren,” Eglantine offered.
“All right. Twilight, give me those sealed papers from Ezylryb.”
The great Gray Owl slipped off the small leather pouch tied to his leg. Soren took it. In his head, the Barn Owl was going over his opening remarks for greeting Moss, just as he had practiced them with Ezylryb. Soren lofted and executed a small but perfect air hop to land on the rock with the two Snowies. Well, here goes, he thought and then h
e cleared his throat and delivered his speech in the best Krakish he could muster.
Soren hoped he said what he was supposed to, which was, “I am Soren, ward of Lyze. We all come from the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. I bring to you good tidings and salutations from our King and Queen, Boron and Barran. I bear sealed papers of great importance.”
The two Snowies didn’t move a feather but continued to stare at him. He extended a talon with the pouch. Moss extended a talon to receive it and opened it without ever taking his eyes off Soren.
“Bisshen ich von gunde goot, eh, Svall?” Moss flipped his head down toward the polar bear, who was floating lazily on his back around the rock.
After what seemed like eons Moss looked up from the papers that Soren had given him. He then folded them neatly into a small packet, all while holding Soren in his intense gaze. Soren felt as if he were enveloped in a luminous amber fog that streamed from Moss’s eyes. His gizzard was quivering so hard he wondered if his whole body might start shaking. Without taking his gaze from Soren, Moss spoke in a rapid low voice to the skog. “Murischeva vorden Sorenkin y atlela heviggin Lyze y Octavia.”
“Aaah, Octavia y vingen Brigid!” the skog softly exclaimed, and Moss’s eyes grew misty, as if focusing on something long ago in a distant, unreachable time. The two Snowies continued to talk. Soren not only wondered what they were saying but what had been written in the sealed messages from Ezylryb. He knew that Ezylryb had written about the Pure Ones and requested recruits from his old division, the Glauxspeed, for the invasion, as well as the fearsome Frost Beaks. But there were other things contained in the message that he knew nothing about.
Moss looked directly at each one of the owls as if to take their measure, a kind of measure that had nothing to do with size.
“So you are the Chaw of Chaws,” Moss said.
Soren almost gasped. Moss was speaking with just the slightest burr of a Krakish accent. The Snowy noted the Barn Owl’s surprise.
“Ja, ja, I speak a bit of Hoolian. So does Snorri.” He nodded at the skog.
The Burning Page 5
