“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!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A Visit to Bubo
One—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.
“Yes, Martin,” Elvan said.
“Well, I don’t understand why we need new coals all the time. Once you start a fire going, wouldn’t there always be new coals?”
This was some smart little owl, Soren thought. Why hadn’t the others thought of this question? Why were new coals from a new fire needed?
Elvan turned to Bubo. “Bubo, as chief smith, would you care to answer that?”
“Sure thing, mate.” Then he stepped up to Martin and, towering over him, began to speak. “A very good question. You are right, it is very possible to keep fires going forever and that is fine for some things—things like cooking and warming up a hollow. But for certain tasks, especially certain metalwork in the forge, we need new fresh coals that have been born of sparking trees full of sap. They become the blood of our hottest fires. Then again, we need a variety of coals. Certain coals from certain trees last longer. That’s how a fire gets bonk.”
“What’s bonk?” asked Martin.
“Ah, it’s an old smithy term. Hard to explain unless you’ve been working with the fires for some time. Then you know when you got a bonking good fire going in your forge. You know you got to look for the blue in the flame and then, this is the hardest, a tinge of green around the blue.”
Soren was impressed. Being a blacksmith was truly a complicated business. Even though Bubo did not have the title of ryb, Soren thought he must be very smart.
Soon, rest time was over, and they were told to begin marching without their coals to establish the rhythm again.
“I simply can’t bear this a minute longer,” Otulissa said.
“I think it’s going to be great fun when we can fly,” said Ruby, a ruddy-colored Short-eared Owl that Soren nearly bumped into.
“How can you say that, Ruby? This is really not the appropriate chaw for you, either, no more than for me. You of all owls, with your family background—you should be in tracking.”
“Just because my family nested on the ground doesn’t mean I can’t try something new.”
“But you fly low and slow; that’s good for tracking.”
“But I’ve never flown through a forest fire. And I can’t wait until weather interpretation—a hurricane! Just imagine flying through that. Life in that ground nest was boring. We were out there in the grasslands—every day just the same. The sound of the wind in the grass just the same, the way the grass moved just the same. Oh, yes. Sometimes it moved slower or faster, depending on the wind. But there was a terrible sameness. I can’t believe how lucky I am to be double chawed.” Ruby sighed with pleasure.
Soren blinked. He wished he felt this way. He wanted to ask Ruby if she was nervous about Ezylryb, but at the same time he didn’t want to admit that he was. Ruby was a very tough little owl. She had been brought in by search-and-rescue shortly after Soren had arrived. She had not fallen from a nest, for indeed to fall out of a ground nest was virtually impossible. But something had scared her so bad when her parents were out hunting,
she had actually flown before her primaries were fledged. No one was quite sure what had scared her. She had been found exhausted but perched in one of the few trees in the grasslands, declaring, “They’ll never find me here! They’ll never believe that an immature Short-eared made it to here!” But no one knew who they were. And Ruby never said.
Finally, chaw practice was over. Soren dreaded teatime. If it was like yesterday, Twilight would be bragging about his power dives and reverse spiral twists. Gylfie and Digger would both be talking about how exciting their practices were, and he, Soren, would have nothing to say. Maybe he would skip tea. Just as he was having this thought, Bubo waddled over to him.
“It gets better, Soren. It really does. I know this is tough for you. It wasn’t the chaw that you wanted, but it’s really an honor—double chawed and all. I think you’re the first Barn Owl ever to be. Come on now, lad. Come with me. Take tea in the forge. I got some fresh moles, you can have them raw or smoked—whatever takes your fancy, and Cook made a nice milkberry tart.”
So Soren followed Bubo into a cave not far from the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, which served as both Bubo’s forge and home. Soren had never been in Bubo’s cave before and, once one went deep enough into the cave to escape the heat, it was quite comfortable—all fitted up with moleskin rugs and a surprising number of books. Soren had never taken Bubo for a bookish sort of owl.
He could not help but think of the dying Barred Owl’s cave and wondered if that owl had been a blacksmith. But a blacksmith for what? That owl had lived completely alone in those woods. Somehow Soren didn’t feel comfortable talking to Bubo about the Barred Owl because it made him think of “you only wish.”
“What’s this?” Soren said as he spotted a contraption dangling from the ceiling of the cave. It had bright-colored things swirling about, catching the reflections of the many lit candles. As the bright bits swirled, they cast spots of color all over the cave.
“Ah, me whirlyglass. Plonk helped put it together for me.”
“Madame Plonk?” Soren couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. He had never heard anyone refer to her as simply “Plonk.”
“Oh, yeah, Plonk and me go back—way back.” He winked his eye. Soren wondered if Bubo was part of Madame Plonk’s book about her life and fabulous times. “She’s got a special relationship with Mags so she can get me lots of bits of glass.” Bubo shoved a cup of milkberry tea over to Soren and a morsel of mole. “You know, when you start flying weather with Ezylryb, he won’t let you eat meat cooked. He likes you to eat it raw with the fur on it. Says you can’t fly into a blizzard or a hurricane with burnt-up meat in your gut and nothing for your gizzard to grind.”
“Oh,” said Soren. “But who’s Mags?”
“Oh, dear me, ain’t you never heard of Trader Mags?” Soren shook his head. “I forget, you only just got here a bit ago, didn’t you, and Mags, I guess, she hasn’t been here since summer.”
Bubo pointed a talon at the whirlyglass. “Those bright pieces came from what was called a window in something called a church.”
“Churches!” Soren exclaimed. “I know about them. And that’s stained glass from their windows! Barn Owls used to live in churches.”
“Certainly did. Some still do, live in churches and barns as well, and even castles.”
“Castles—what’s a castle?”
“Well, it ain’t a church and it ain’t a barn, but it’s a big old fancy thing made from big stones, towers, walls, one of them things that the Others made.”
Soren had heard of the Others but he was never exactly sure what the Others were, except that they definitely were not owls, or birds, or really any other living thing that he had ever seen. And, for that matter, they were no longer living. They were creatures from long, long ago, maybe in the time of the first Glaux. Glaux was the most ancient order of owls from which all other owls descended.
“Castles,” Soren said dreamily. “Sounds exciting, beautiful—very grand.”
“Oh, grand indeed. But you ask me, no owl, Barn Owl or not, belongs in a church or a barn or a castle. Better life in a tree.”
“But you live in a cave.”
“That’s different.”
“I don’t see why.”
Bubo squinted one eye at Soren as if studying him more closely. “Got a lively mind, don’t you, lad?”
“I don’t know.” Soren shrugged self-consciously.
Then, as if trying to change the direction of the conversation, Bubo said abruptly, “Don’t you want to know about glass?” Soren nodded again. “Well,” continued Bubo, “the churches and castles, they have these windows made of glass and they colored the glass.”
“Oh, I read about that in a book in the library.”
“Yes, they made it all pretty. Well, Mags the trader, she knows where there are a lot of broken-down old churches with smashed-up windows. Leave it to a magpie to find such bits, but that’s their nature and she knows Plonkie.”
Plonkie! Soren thought, They must have been close!
“Plonkie has a weakness for all these colored bits and things. So Mags always brings a bagful with her here when she comes to trade. Plonk thought this place needed brightening up”—Bubo gestured around the cave with his talons—“so she made me this whirlyglass. Plonk has a number of them in her apartments—as she call her place—ridiculous name, if you ask me.”
It did brighten it up, but Soren couldn’t help but ask another question. “Don’t you miss living in a tree? I mean, it’s not like you were born a Burrowing Owl used to living in holes. Don’t you miss the sky?”
Soren thought of his own hollow that he shared with Gylfie and Twilight and Digger. There was an opening just the shape of an owl’s beak through which they could glimpse the sky. So during the day there was always a pretty slice of blue in their hollow and when they came back from night flights before the dawn rose, it perfectly framed the last of the evening stars. They could feel the wind and hear the stirring of the milkberry vines. Soren did not think he would like living in a cave.
“I warn’t born a Burrowing Owl, that’s the truth. I be a Great Horned, and it ain’t customary for any Great Horned to go about life in a cave. But you see, I be a smith. It’s in my gizzard, this feeling for the metals.” He gestured toward his bookshelf that indeed had many books about metals and forging. “And we smiths, no matter if we’re Great Grays or Great Horneds or Snowies or Spotted Owls, get these special feelings in the old gizzard, you know. We fly, yes, we love the sky, but we is drawn to the earth as well—not like the Burrowing Owls, not the same thing at all. It be a strange and most peculiar force. It’s as if all these years working with the iron, we get a bit of the magnet in us, you know. Like them special metals, you know, iron. It’s got what we call a field. Well, you’ll be learning this in metals class, in higher magnetics, where all the unseeable parts are lined up. It makes this force that draws you—same thing with me—I get drawn to the very earth from which them little flecks of iron come from.”
“Flecks!” Soren nearly screamed. Flecks were part of Soren’s worst memories from St. Aggie’s.
“What’s a matter, boy? You gotta yarp? Go right ahead. We ain’t formal around here.”
“At St. Aggie’s, they made us pick apart pellets for bones and things and then something they called ‘flecks.’ Only first-degree pickers could pick for flecks.”
“You don’t say?” Bubo blinked his eyes.
“But Gylfie and I never knew what flecks were. And, of course, we could never ask. But we did know they were kept in the library.”
“Odd place to keep iron.”
“Is that what flecks are—iron?”
“Yes, in their smallest bits, but better if you can find a nice big hunk of iron ore, just like if you can find a nice hunk of silver or gold in a creek. The metals chaw brought me back a very handsome piece of gold the other day. Wouldn’t you know Plonk spotted me with it practically as soon as they lit down and was all over me to make something
for her. ‘Course Boron and Barran will have a thing or two to say ‘bout that. Silver, gold, that is all kept for the whole tree and not for one vain old Snowy with a taste for the glitter.” He made the soft churring sound of laughter. “Speaking of which, Plonk’s going to start singing good light any minute. You better fly on up to your hollow. A lot to do tomorrow. Elvan thinks you’ll be ready to fly with the coals. Now you pay attention, son. Don’t go smacking into Otulissa like you nearly did in practice.” Then he squinted at Soren. “You know, not everyone is chosen to be double chawed like you. Boron and Barran must think you got something special. And Ezylryb, too.”
“But why me? I don’t get it. I’m not that special.”
“Oh, but you are. You had the mark on you.”
“The mark on me? What are you talking about?”
“Ezylryb spotted it. None of the rest of us could see it, of course. He got something special with that squinted eye of his. You’d been messing about with coals—hadn’t you, lad? Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. Good Glaux, no! Flew with one, maybe?” Bubo cocked his head and looked quizzically at Soren.
“I did, but I washed off the smudge.”
“Ah, but you still be marked. Only none else can see it, except Ezylryb. He’s a tough one, Ezylryb. And smart! Smartest owl in the whole place. He wouldn’t just choose any old owl. He wanted you, mark or no mark. So you be all you can be, Soren.”
Be all you can be. What exactly did that mean? Especially when he wasn’t even sure what he wanted to be, except not in a double chaw with Otulissa and have Ezylryb as his ryb. Soren kept thinking of Bubo’s words long after Madame Plonk’s song had ended, and Twilight and Gylfie and Digger were asleep. Or at least he thought so. But just then he heard the slightly raspy voice of Digger curling through the milky light that slipped in through the opening of their hollow.
“Soren, are you all right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’m just worried about you. I mean, you’ve been so quiet since the tapping, and you didn’t come to tea, and all.”
The Journey Page 10
