“There were no temperature changes.” Otulissa looked almost mournfully at the temperascope, a clever device that Ezylryb himself had invented for measuring changes in temperature. “The gauge never changed. Never went up, never went down. So the key was useless.” She sighed.
“A key only works if you put it in the right slot,” Mrs. Plithiver said.
“It’s not that kind of key, really, Mrs. P.,” Soren said. “And if it were, we obviously haven’t found the right slot.” Soren felt Mrs. P. give a slight shiver. It was a shiver of disapproval at his tone. She would not scold him out loud when they were with others, but she had ways of communicating her disapproval silently.
“Well, how do we find the right slot?” Otulissa asked.
“You’re overthinking the problem,” Mrs. P. said. “Use the key as a key.”
“Now, what does that mean?” Twilight asked.
She did not reply to the Great Gray, but swung her head and skewered Gylfie, the navigator, with her blind eyes. “Gylfie, you are navigating as you normally would, by flying four points off the western paw of the whatever raccoon, this way or that way off the Golden Talons, taking into consideration the wind strength and direction and so on and so on. I don’t think that will work. These constellations are slipping away. I can feel it as we approach the curve. I even feel something is happening to time as we approach the…” Mrs. P. waggled her head high into the air as if searching for the right word. “The tomorrow line!” she said suddenly.
“The tomorrow line?” they all echoed.
“You see, this is not like when you go on a night flight and fly from midnight into the next morning. For you owls, that time is continuous—at least in the world that you know. The new night—the tomorrow—begins the next evening at First Black. But I think we have to think differently about where we are flying. In a funny way, I feel that as we continue to fly across this sea, somehow time is behaving differently. Maybe it is the influence of this central stream of fast-moving air. I’m not sure, but look: We know the Earth is round. If it is night here, it must be day someplace else. We know this from the movement of the stars, from our movement around the sun. We cannot always live in a world capped by the night. So we know that tomorrow must start somewhere. That place is out there. How many leagues? I don’t know. But that’s where tomorrow begins.”
“I think we’ll know it when we get there. It will be like a hole in the wind—no wind,” Mrs. P. said.
Gylfie blinked. She had a logical mind, the mind of a navigator. She was used to plotting courses using the angle of the stars and the most favorable wind directions. It was mathematical, and although time was involved it was not the kind of time Mrs. P. was talking about. Of this she was sure. But at this point there were few other options.
Coryn had been silent throughout this entire discussion. He now turned to Gylfie. “Gylfie, you have served admirably as navigator, but what if what Mrs. P. is saying is true?”
“You are absolutely right,” Gylfie said. “This is not my kind of navigation. Soren should fly with Mrs. P. in my usual spot.”
“Good.” Coryn nodded. “I say, after we have rested a bit, we should fly to tomorrow.”
“Pardon me, sir.” Mrs. P. could not bring herself to address the king simply as “Coryn.” “But I think if we are not too tired, we should go as quickly as possible. The point is to fly as fast as we can away from the dawn toward this new world.”
The eight owls blinked rapidly in confusion. They looked at the horizon.
Digger spoke first in his ponderous voice. “What Mrs. P. suggests is that we are right now trapped between the here and now and tomorrow. To break out of this trap, we must fly fast toward the tomorrow line.”
“And you say we’ll know it when we get there?” Soren flipped his head straight up and twisted it around so he could speak directly to Mrs. P.
“Oh, you’ll know it, Soren, don’t worry. You’ll know it when you get there.”
So as the dawn broke, casting a soft pink sheen across the unusually calm waters of the sea, the eight owls lifted from the wolf’s fang rock. On the distant horizon, low clouds were strung like pearls on a strand. The strand of tomorrow? Soren wondered.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Blue in the Night
Something blue, like fog at tween time, hovered over Bell. She blinked, and blinked again, then squinted. A form came into focus. “Matron?” Bell asked. It was a sensible question, for it was the matron who organized the nursing and care of wounded owls. And Bell knew she was a wounded owl. Every bone, every feather seemed to ache.
“Matron?” the voice echoed. The accent was strange. Bell was suddenly very frightened.
“Where am I? What has happened?” Is this even an owl? she thought as the creature bent over her. “W-w-wh…w-what,” she stammered. “What are you?” It was a bird. It even looked like an owl—perhaps a Snowy, but there were certain things about its features that reminded Bell of a Spotted Owl. Yes, something definitely spotted, but then…and this was the most incredible thing of all—Spotted or Snowy—this owl was blue! Its feathers were the color of a faded day sky. “What are you?” Bell repeated.
“Striga,” the blue owl said.
“Striga?” Bell repeated. “It sounds…sounds Krakish.”
The owl’s eyes, a very pale yellow, were suddenly alert. A riffle went through its feathers. “I come from a faraway place,” the owl replied in halting words.
Bell blinked. Her dark eyes shone brightly. “Of course. You must come from the Northern Kingdoms, where they speak Krakish. There are many Snowy Owls there. You must be one of them…a…a blue one. And…and you must be a Glauxian Brother…on a pilgrimage, right?” she finished weakly. This outburst had sapped Bell’s energy, which was very low.
“Yes…yes…a pilgrimage from a faraway place, a very faraway place.”
“And your name is Striga and you’ll take care of me?” Bell whispered.
“Yes, Striga…I am the Striga.” The blue owl felt something course through him that was almost beyond happiness, a rapturous exaltation. I must help this little one, he thought. I must help her.
As soon as the weather cleared, Pelli flew with the chawlets as fast as she could back to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. Eglantine and Primrose had remained behind to continue the search for Bell. Pelli had wanted to stay, but knew they were right in insisting that she return to the great tree and send back Doc Finebeak, the renowned retired tracker, who had recently settled there.
Fly! Fly! Pelli commanded herself. Think of nothing but getting back to the great tree. Surely Doc Finebeak wouldn’t say no to her urgent request. He had retired, he was older, and perhaps his tracking senses were not as keen as they used to be, but he couldn’t refuse her. She was absolutely gizzard-sick. Every time she thought of tiny Bell, a ghastly squishiness seized her gizzard. From a distance, she caught the first glimpses of the great tree, and at that same moment a strong headwind blew up. It felt as if she were slamming into a wall.
“Fly two points off the wind!” she called out to the chawlets. For truly, they could not fly a straight course but would have to tack, slicing back and forth at an angle to this headwind to gain any kind of forward movement. Hours would be added on to their journey, but there was nothing else to do.
Meanwhile, back in the great tree, Doc Finebeak was peering out of the hollow he shared with Madame Plonk. “Strange weather we’re having. First those westers, and now this contrary wind swooping down from the Northern Kingdoms. Yes, it’s got a bite to it, all right.” He had been studying the weather fronts for the better part of the early evening and turned now toward Madame Plonk. “I say, my dear. What’s that spider doing on your head?”
Octavia, their nest-maid snake, giggled to herself as she prepared some milkberry tea.
“Spider?” Madame Plonk replied. “What are you talking about, Docky? It’s not a spider. It’s a black velvet hat, a chapeau, Trader Mags calls it.”
“Oh…er�
�umm…well, it’s quite fetching, Plonkie. Yes, the black velvet”—whatever that is, he thought—“against your white feathers. Lovely. Ah, here comes Octavia with tea in the coronation teacup.”
The chubby old nest-maid snake offered Doc Finebeak the teacup on her back. I could get used to this, he thought. Then corrected himself. What do I mean “could”? I have gotten used to it. So refined. His tracking nights were over, and he had to admit he loved retirement. How wonderful it was to perch in this hollow with this lovely owl and just sip tea. It had been love at first sight, for him at least, when they had met. How long has it been now? he thought. Six, seven moon cycles ago? It was during the time of the Golden Tree. Madame Plonk had been placed under house arrest for some stupid violation of the ember laws, or whatever they were called, but she had escaped to warn the Band about Otulissa, who was being held under arrest in the prison. It was a brave thing for the singer of the tree to do. She had not flown abroad for years. She was not used to stormy weather or the hardships of life on the wing in the wild. Her tracking and navigation skills were weak. She had been a singer, for Glaux’s sake, and singing was her only duty at the great tree, singing and the musical instruction of the nest-maids of the grass harp guild. When Doc Finebeak had found her, she was one exhausted heap of feathers. But a beautiful one at that! When she had told him the vile things that were transpiring at the great tree he was determined to help her find the Band and the young king. What a bad time that had been, when the tree had remained unseasonably golden.
As if reading Doc Finebeak’s mind, Madame Plonk said, “You know I’ve never thought I would enjoy tea in this cup again after…after…” She hesitated. “After all the trouble during the time of the Golden Tree. But honestly, I have never enjoyed tea in this cup so much.”
“Why’s that, my dear?”
“It’s simple, Docky. Sharing it with you makes all the difference.”
Just at that moment something hurled into the hollow.
“Help! I need your help, Doc, right now!”
Doc Finebeak, Madame Plonk, and blind Octavia gaped at the mass of heaving feathers that was Pelli, the mate of Soren. “My chick,” Pelli sobbed. “She’s gone!”
Perhaps Octavia was the most stunned of all as, through wrenching sobs, Pelli told the story of what had happened to dear Bell, the spirited little daughter of Soren. I should have felt it coming, Octavia thought to herself. What’s happening to me? I should have known that an agitated mother owl was flying directly into this hollow—headwinds or not. My sense for vibrations isn’t worth two pellets these days.
“Now, calm yourself, my dear,” Doc Finebeak was saying as Madame Plonk ran her beak through Pelli’s flight feathers. They were littered with debris from flying through dirty weather at reckless speeds. “Are the other B’s all right?”
“Oh, yes, thank Glaux. They are fine. They flew home beautifully. But little Bell. She’s so tiny.” Pelli gulped and tried to swallow her sobs. “You will go look for her, won’t you, Doc?”
“How could you ever doubt that I would do anything but go? I shall leave immediately. This headwind that you encountered will be a tailwind for me and get me there in no time.”
He turned to Octavia. “Octavia, my feather, please.” He paused. “Ah, you already have it!”
Yes, she thought. At least she had anticipated this, been right in her instincts that Doc Finebeak would, as he said, leave immediately. The black feather was that of a crow. Doc Finebeak was both loved and feared by crows, and many years before had brokered a bargain with these bullies of the sky who delighted in mobbing owls during lightday. The black crow feather that topped his white plumage gave him a pass to fly anywhere, any hour of the day or night, free from the threat of crows.
So handsome, Madame Plonk thought as she watched him fly off into the darkening night.
CHAPTER NINE
The River of Wind
Oh, you’ll know it, Soren, don’t worry. You’ll know it when you get there. He certainly did know it. Mrs. Plithiver’s words ran through his head now. One moment the world had been suffused with the light of day, and the next it was the pitch of night. The blackness had slammed down upon them like one of Bubo’s hammers on the anvil. The stars were like sparks from hot iron being struck. They had arrived at the tomorrow line. No gaudy sunset dissolving slowly into First Lavender. No creeping gray before First Black. They were just there—into tomorrow.
“Uh…” Martin said. “We’re at the tomorrow line, right, Mrs. P.?”
“Yes, dear. Quite dramatic, isn’t it?”
“I would say that’s an understatement,” Otulissa replied. Did Soren detect in her voice a whiff of disdain?
Mrs. P. leaned over and whispered in Soren’s ear slit. “You know Otulissa. She prefers logic to intuition. She is very distrustful of these leaps over reasoning. She has such an orderly mind.”
“Yes,” Soren agreed. “So what do we do now?”
Mrs. Plithiver made her coil tighter and rose slightly higher on Soren’s back so she could address the owls. “Well, my dears…”
“I wish she wouldn’t call us that,” Otulissa muttered to Twilight. “I find it demeaning.”
“Oh, put a mouse in it, Otulissa,” Twilight huffed. “She’s always called us ‘dear’ and ‘dearie.’ It’s her way.”
Mrs. Plithiver continued. “I think that key of yours might work now, Otulissa. I think it just might,” Mrs. Plithiver said encouragingly.
“Terrific. Let me read the temperascope gauge and then…” She had not even finished the sentence when a slashing wind out of nowhere nearly whipped the device from her talons. This was followed by an onslaught of buffeting winds from all directions.
“Great Glaux!” Soren cried out. “We’re in the windkins. Climb!”
These were winds like none they had ever experienced, not even the Shredders, those winds that savaged the border between the canyonlands and the Shadow Forest, which few owls except for the Guardians dared to fly.
“The temperature is falling!” Otulissa shouted out. “We must fly up. The symbol on the key says ‘up’ when air cools.”
“Key! Key!” screeched Ruby. “Racdrops! Only flying is going to get us out of this.” But Ruby herself, the greatest flier in the five known kingdoms, was struggling hard.
“There’s a thermal upswing. I’m feeling it,” Otulissa cried out. “Banking turn to starboard.”
Crosscurrents, downdrafts, updrafts, wind pits, and thermal upswings whirled together violently to form a deadly vortex of winds.
“Stick close to us, Gylfie and Martin!” Soren called out. Together, Twilight and Soren had made a kind of storm kronkenbot, which they had used in the past to help protect tiny owls like Gylfie and Martin in violent weather. Mrs. P. herself tightened up her coil, but it was all she could do to keep from flopping around. Never had she experienced anything like this! Oh, maybe snakes really do belong on the ground, she thought. Why do we blind snakes always long for the yonder, the sky? Would that I were a simpler reptile!
“Oh, Great Glaux!” Ruby gave a terrifying shriek. “It’s the tumblebones!” Flying out ahead of the others, she had just spotted a bird skull. With a bit of flesh and feather still attached, it appeared half mummified.
“Down! Down! Down!” Otulissa shouted. “Down, or we’re dead!” The eight owls plunged at terrifying speeds, faster, even, than a kill spiral.
Do I have a gizzard? Mrs. Plithiver thought. I swear it feels as if a gizzard’s bouncing up to my head.
“Catch her!” Soren screamed.
“Oh, Great Glaux in glaumora! I’m flying and I have no wings!” Mrs. P.’s hiss seared the air as she felt her oncetight coil unfurl. The soft feathers of Soren’s ruff were gone. She was tumbling through the lacerating winds. “Oh, Glaux,” she called out. “Another tumblebones!” A great blue heron, belly up, wings down, its face a death mask of unending agony, sailed by. Then she felt something clamp down on her.
“Great catch, Di
gger!” Twilight shouted.
“Brilliant,” Ruby called out.
But Digger nearly went yeep. He began to plunge farther as he spied a piece of Mrs. P. go spinning off in the wind.
Mrs. Plithiver instantly knew what had happened as she hung from Digger’s mouth. “Don’t worry, Digger. Just a piece of my tail. Don’t need it. I’m not a rattler.”
“We’re almost through the windkin,” Otulissa gasped. “Just one more thermal layer to go through.”
“Count off!” Coryn ordered. It had been decided before they left that immediately following a dangerous situation, they would count off to make sure all members of the expedition were accounted for by calling out their own names in alphabetical order.
“Coryn—here!”
“Digger—here!”
“Gylfie—here!”
“Martin—here!”
“Otulissa—here!”
“Mrs. P.—mostly here!”
“Ruby—here!”
“Soren—here!”
“Twilight—here!”
“Alter course!” Otulissa shouted. “Wings about! Hard alee!” This was the command for making a 180-degree turn. “Now, up and over the last ridge of the windkins!” Otulissa shouted triumphantly as she confirmed the last temperature change with the key now emblazoned forever in her brain. The owls, their plummels stripped from their wings’ edges, staggered over this last rung of the violent windkin ladder and now tumbled gently into a soft, swift current of air untroubled by crosswinds.
It was perhaps ironic that it was Mrs. Plithiver, a non-flying reptile, who named this tantalizing current the River of Wind. But the name stuck. Each one of the eight owls would describe differently that fabulous moment when they first encountered the River of Wind. In the beginning, it was just rills, tiny streamlets that ran off the river that brushed their wing tips and ruffled their remaining plummels like mere whispers. But then the owls were pulled into the flow, into the very center of the main current. At times it was boisterous, but more often than not, calm and gentle, and always swift.
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