Finny had caused Hortense’s death. Hortense was the most courageous owl Soren and Gylfie had ever met, but when they had first arrived, it appeared that Hortense was the most perfectly moon blinked of all the owlets. Her number had been 12-8.
Odd, Soren thought. He could remember Hortense’s number and not his own. It had turned out that she was not an owlet at all, but a fully mature Spotted Owl, small for her years, with slightly crippled wings. And she was a double agent. Assigned to the hatchery as a broody, she had been sneaking some of the eggs snatched by St. Aggie’s patrols and delivering them secretly to two huge bald eagles who returned them to the forest kingdoms—in some cases, the very nests from which they had been taken. But then she had been discovered. From a split in the rock where Soren and Gylfie hid, they had witnessed the terrible battle that had raged between one of the eagles against Finny, Skench, Spoorn, Jatt, and Jutt. They could not see it all, but they could hear the horrendous fight. Soren would never forget the voice of Hortense growing dimmer and dimmer as she fell from the high outcropping, pushed, they knew, by Auntie. And then Auntie’s words in her cooing voice, “Bye-bye, 12-8, you fool.” The last two words had become a snarl that scalded the night.
Oh, Glaux! Soren did not want to see Auntie ever again.
But that was not to be the case.
Four days passed. Then came the first evening of sleep marches. Along with the hundreds of newly snatched owlets, the older owls were herded into the glaucidium. Each member of the Chaw of Chaws knew by heart and by gizzard his or her own saga of the Ga’Hoolian legend cycle. They knew, perhaps not as well, the sagas of others. Martin stood near Soren and looked up at the newing moon.
That I would ever fear the moon? Martin thought. How extraordinary! He tipped his head up. There would be new constellations in this part of the world, for they were far to the south of Hoolemere and the Island of Hoole. He had learned about these constellations in navigation class with Strix Struma, the navigation ryb, but had never actually seen them or traced them with his wing tips as they did in class with her.
It did not seem long before the sleep alarm sounded and the owls were required to march.
Just as Soren and Gylfie had warned, the owls were told to repeat their names as they walked. But the Chaw of Chaws very quietly did just the reverse—they repeated their numbers. This was perhaps the easiest part of their resistance strategy, for there was such a babble of voices that no one really knew what anyone else was saying. If a sleep monitor did come near the owls, each had a fake name that he or she would say for that moment.
“Albert!” Soren blurted out as a monitor approached. It was a Boreal Owl with dim yellow eyes.
“Excellent, excellent,” the Boreal Owl said as he lighted down next to the block of owls that Soren had been grouped with for the sleep exercises.
When he passed by, Soren resumed repeating his number very quietly. He did not want to attract anyone’s attention, especially the Barn Owl two rows in front of him. Soren had planned to move his way up toward that Barn Owl. Every Barn Owl in St. Aggie’s, except possibly the ones that had been snatched as owlets, was suspected of being an undercover agent, a slipgizzle, for the Pure Ones. And this was perhaps the most important part of their mission: to find out if the Pure Ones were infiltrating St. Aggie’s.
“Halt!”
Great! Soren thought. He was right next to the Barn Owl.
“Assume the sleeping position!” The head sleep monitor barked from an outcropping several feet up from the floor of the glaucidium. Hundreds of owls instantly stopped repeating their names and tipped their heads back so that the small scrap of moon shone down on them. Soren stole a glance at the owl next to him as the beginning of his portion of the Ga’Hoolian legend cycle began to whisper in his head. His gizzard seemed to tingle with delight.
Flint was the Barn Owl’s name. Soren had heard him say it right before the halt was called. But now Soren had a disturbing thought. If Flint was an infiltrator, how was he supposed to resist moon blinking? What use would a moon-blinked owl be to Kludd and the Pure Ones? He would have to discuss this with Gylfie when he got a chance. He stole a glance at Flint. How could he tell if this owl was an infiltrator? He was a Tyto alba, which was the only possible clue. But not all Tyto albas belonged to the Pure Ones, and certainly very few believed this ridiculous notion of owl purity. Well, Soren could not think of that right now. He must remember his part of the Ga’Hoolian legend cycle. He had chosen the very same saga that he had repeated when, as a young owlet, he and Gylfie had been taken to the moon-blazing chamber to be scalded by the light of the full moon. It was the one that began “Once upon a time, before there were kingdoms of owls, in a time of ever-raging wars, there was an owl born in the country of the Great North Waters and his name was Hoole…”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Flecks in the Nest
Now that their first moon blinking had occurred, the owls in the Chaw of Chaws were considered ready to be assigned to their first task. Soren was bitterly disappointed that he had not been sent to work in the pelletorium, or at least the inventorium, for these places would have provided him with the most access to activities connected with flecks. Instead, he had been assigned to the eggorium, along with Martin. Ruby had been assigned to the hatchery as a broody. Gylfie was in the pelletorium, which was good because she knew her way around there. Digger was in the inventorium along with Otulissa, and Twilight was in the armory—a seemingly perfect match. He was to learn how to polish the battle claws.
As they were about to enter the eggorium, Soren turned to Martin. “Nothing I can say, Martin,” he whispered, “can really prepare you for what you are about to see.”
Martin gulped. Soren had told him about the hundreds upon hundreds of eggs that patrols from St. Aggie’s snatched from nests to bring to their own hatchery and raise in captivity. Soren had said that one of the worst things he had ever witnessed was a hatching of an owl chick at St. Aggie’s. It was loveless, unnatural, despicable, and cruel. Martin gave a little gasp now as hundreds of white eggs of all sizes glistened in the dark. But then he felt Soren freeze beside him. A scarred old Snowy had waddled up to them. One of the Snowy’s eyes wept continuous tears. It was cloudy so that its yellow color seeped out pale and foggy. There was a nasty gash that ran down her face and across her beak at a steep angle. It had healed jagged, and the scar was very black in the stark white feathers of the Snowy’s face. It appeared to Martin like a bolt of lightning in reverse—black on white.
But despite the mangled face, Soren would recognize this owl anyplace. It was Finny.
“Call me Auntie,” she spoke now in a creaking voice as she inclined her head toward them. She had an odd smell about her. Soren wasn’t sure what it was. But now Soren saw that the reason her voice creaked was that there was another large gash like a black necklace around her throat. He hadn’t seen her after the terrible battle on the outcropping when the eagle had tried to save the egg that Hortense was delivering. Great Glaux, thought Soren. Finny might have killed Hortense, but the eagle certainly did a job on Finny.
Is she looking funny at me? he wondered. Does she recognize me?
“Another Barn Owl,” she was saying. “Well, we can use them. Got a passel of Barn Owl eggs.” She then explained the procedure for sorting the eggs according to their types. Soren was familiar with this and although his gizzard was quivering madly, he managed to pretend to pay attention and nod as she explained that they were to look for eggs of their own species and roll these eggs into a designated area.
Martin and Soren’s plan was to do their work so well as to be promoted to the position of moss tenders. Being moss tenders would give them greater range of movement. They would not only spend time in the eggorium, but in the hatchery where Ruby, as a broody, was sitting on a nest. Soren and Martin worked hard and efficiently for several hours, rolling egg upon egg to the designated areas.
“82-85! Report to main station,” a Barred Owl had come up to Sore
n and, in the hollow tones of the truly moon-blinked, had issued this command. Sore’s gizzard stirred and then gave a joyful little leap as he saw the Barred Owl head in the direction of Martin and repeat the same command. Maybe we’ve been chosen! he thought. Maybe this will lead to something.
None of the seven had yet discovered anything substantial about Barn Owl infiltrators. They had their suspicions, but so far there wasn’t any real evidence.
“82-85 and 54-67.” Auntie stared at them. The jagged scar gleamed darkly on her face. “You have proved yourselves efficient as egg sorters. You shall now be permitted to work, on occasion, as moss tenders. You shall begin tonight. With the additional duties, you have earned additional dietary supplements.” She paused and Soren’s gizzard turned squishy as the pale light in her eye hardened. “My sweeties, you may have a bit of vole. I think it will be a treat. That will set you up just fine, dearies.” And she gave Martin a little tweak with her beak. Soren saw him flinch.
Oh, Glaux, Soren thought, it’s the old Finny. There was something even scarier about Finny when she was being all honey-beaked and charming because Soren knew it was false. And there was always a price to pay. She might slip you an extra piece of vole, or one of the plump rock rats that scurried through the canyons, but then you were expected to give her something in return—information, or perhaps to spy and report to her. That was the way it worked and, little by little, an owl dug himself in deeper, owing her more, making himself more vulnerable to her power, deceit, and brutality. Nonetheless, they had no choice now. This is what they had wanted and this is what they got. At least they would get to see Ruby in the hatchery. But it would not be until their third day as moss tenders that they would have a good opportunity to speak with Ruby.
“Moss tender! Moss tender! Attention, please!” It was Ruby. She was broody on a nest of Barn Owl eggs. There was never any attempt to match up the species of the broody with that of the egg. Therefore, Barn Owls might be sitting on Barred Owl eggs, or Short-eared Owls, such as Ruby, might be sitting on Great Gray eggs. It seemed that they tried their best to avoid matching up the broody with the type of eggs. Soren supposed it was because when an egg finally hatched, they didn’t want the chick to have the least sense of anything familiar—like a true parent. Love was not part of hatching. These chicks were not supposed to love; they were supposed to obey.
“I was just there,” another Barn Owl said. “You don’t need anything more.”
“Oh, I just thought a nice fat worm would do. Don’t you worry about it. There’s two moss tenders right nearby,” Ruby said, looking in Soren and Martin’s direction. “One has a worm in that wad of moss. And the other, I know, will fetch me that rat from the crack over there where I just saw the tail of one disappear.” Martin blinked, for he did not have a worm in his moss. Soren had been next to the crack, and he hadn’t seen a rat disappear into it.
He and Martin had managed a few fleeting conversations with Ruby before the end of this third day as moss tenders. But this was the first time that she had actually called them over. The previous day she had been sitting on Spotted Owl eggs. But they had hatched out, and she had been assigned to a new nest.
The other Barn Owl seemed relieved to not have to fetch anything for the broody. Broodies were treated well. They were constantly being offered a great array of delicacies and nutritious foods that the other owls hardly ever saw.
“I have to make this quick!” Ruby spoke in a whispery hiss. “Listen! They’re doing something funny to the nests of Barn Owl eggs.”
“Who?” Soren asked.
Ruby nodded toward two Barn Owl moss tenders who were tucking in bits of moss and dry grass into some nests on the far side of the hatchery.
“What do you mean?” Soren asked. Oh, the sound of those wh words were like honey in his beak. He could almost taste them!
Ruby stirred in her nest. “Shield me so they won’t see.” It was strictly forbidden for a broody to climb off her nest, but now Ruby moved to one side. Because she was such a superb flier, she was able to loft herself very quickly into a low hover inches above the nest.
Martin and Soren gasped. Deep amid the woven twigs and grasses of the nest were three eggs. Between them, in the strands of moss, glinting fiercely, were small sparkling bits.
“Flecks!” Soren said.
The truth suddenly broke upon Soren like a clap of thunder. There were infiltrators. They had somehow escaped being moon blinked. They had gained control of at least some of the flecks—but why were they weaving them into the moss that they poked into the nests? What could flecks do in a nest with unhatched eggs? Soren felt his gizzard grow still and cold. They’re doing something dreadful, he thought. I am sure! I must get to Gylfie. Racdrops! If only we were in the same pit!
And there was still so much of the day left. It would be hours until tween time, when they could return to their pits.
“And there’s another thing,” Ruby said. “It’s worse.”
Soren couldn’t imagine what could be worse.
“You know that old Snowy Owl down in the eggorium—Auntie Finny?” Soren nodded. “You know how she has kind of a weird smell about her?”
Soren nodded again. “But how would you know that? She’s not up here in the hatchery.”
“She comes up here a lot. She’s an egg eater!”
“What?” Soren and Martin asked.
“Yeah, I think it’s easier for her to sneak them up here than in the eggorium. She does it just before a new broody has been assigned to a nest, and not only that, she eats hatchlings—the ones that aren’t quite perfect.”
Soren and Martin were dizzy with nausea. Their gizzards twisted painfully, and they both thought they might yarp.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The World According to Otulissa
Otulissa was counting the bits of bone, teeth, feather, fur, and flecks picked from the owl pellets in the pelletorium and placing them onto trays in the inventorium. She had been working there for several days with Digger and two other owls. When the trays were filled, they were taken for storage in the library. But she, Digger, and the other two owls—a Barn Owl and a Whiskered Screech—were not permitted any farther than the entrance to the library. Once there, they would hand over the trays to Skench or Spoorn, the only owls allowed in the library.
Otulissa and Digger wanted to know more about this library, which was so heavily guarded. Was it just because the flecks were there and Skench and Spoorn didn’t want them stolen? But that didn’t exactly make sense. Flecks slipped away all the time from the inventorium. Otulissa had figured this out just the night before. She had not yet been able to tell Soren. But this Barn Owl, 92-01, while on duty, had slipped some to another Barn Owl. Otulissa was sure 92-01 was an infiltrator, and she planned to watch her closely. But watching wasn’t enough. Otulissa had become a master of disguising questions as statements in order to extract information. She and Digger had planned a small dialogue between the two of them that they hoped would encourage the two other owls to contribute some information.
Digger yawned elaborately. “I could use a good leg stretch. You know, a Burrowing Owl like myself never minds a long walk. I wish that they’d allow us to go into the library, if only to exercise. What a shame it is forbidden.”
“It has always been strictly forbidden except for Skench and Spoorn,” Otulissa added, knowing perfectly well from Soren and Gylfie that this wasn’t completely true.
“Not always,” said 92-01. Ah, it worked! Otulissa thought at once. The statement was drawing out an answer to a question unasked. “Once there was a fracas, I am told. An owl who had betrayed Skench and Spoorn was killed, and Skench, through some strange event, was made powerless.”
“Powerless!” exclaimed Digger. “It is almost impossible to think of the Ablah General as becoming powerless.”
“Yes, almost yeep,” said 92-01. When an owl went yeep, its wings seemed to lock. It lost its instinct to fly and would suddenly plummet to the ground.
“Unthinkable,” Otulissa gasped in awe.
92-01 seemed pleased that she had so impressed this snooty owl. What does she have to be snooty about after all? the Barn Owl wondered.
But she was soon to find out. For it was as if Digger and Otulissa silently read each other’s minds.
All right, Digger thought, time for you to show off what you know, Otulissa. Gently, gently.
“Yes, almost yeep,” 92-01 continued. “It’s hard to think of, I know. But it really wasn’t yeep, mind you. It was magic.”
“Magic!” Otulissa exclaimed. “No, I don’t think it was magical at all. It was higher magnetics, probably a typical higher magnetic reaction.”
The Barn Owl blinked. It was clear to both Digger and Otulissa that she was dying to ask a question. Otulissa took pity on her and fed her just a bit more. “Yes, if Skench had been wearing diamagnetic materials, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“Wh”—92-01 clapped her beak shut on the nearly escaping question. “How interesting,” she said instead. She looked almost in pain as she tried to contain the unasked question.
Later, after Digger and Otulissa had finished their work, they were able to talk in private on their way back to their stone pit.
“I was pretty excited for a while there with 92-01,” Otulissa was saying. “But where did it all lead? We’re no closer than before to knowing why the Barn Owl is sneaking flecks out, and what is going on in the library with the flecks. Where is she sneaking them to? How would the Pure Ones get them? We need to talk to Soren. Too bad there are no sleep marches now,” she said.
The moon had dwenked again, and it would be another two days until they could meet up with the other owls in the glaucidium when the moon-blinking process would begin again. In the meantime, they were allowed to sleep in their stone pits.
The Siege Page 6
