The Rescue

by Kathryn Lasky

  “I was right here?” Soren was incredulous.

  “Course you were, young’un,” Poot said and looked at him curiously as if he’d gone yoicks. “Right here you were. I would have noticed you up in the tree, believe me.”

  Had it just been a dream? Soren thought. But it felt so real. I heard Mum’s and Da’s voices in my head. It was real.

  “Time we be takin’ off.” Poot looked at the sky that was turning a dusky purple. Pink clouds sliding against it. “Wind’s going our way,” Poot remarked, after studying the clouds for a minute. “We’ll catch a westerly and come in on a nice reach.” A reach was easy flying with the wind being not on the beak or on the tail feathers directly, but a little aft of the wing, giving a nice steady boost to their flight. The others were beginning to stir from their daytime slumbers.

  “Form up!” Poot commanded. It was to be a ground start, which was a bit harder than taking off from a branch. But they did it nonetheless. Soren and Martin were the last to rise in flight. They ascended in tight spiraling circles and were soon clear of the spirit woods.

  When Soren looked back, he saw the mist gathering again. Like silky scarves, it began to wind through the trees. He strained his eyes to find those two familiar shapes. Just one more glimpse, that’s all he wanted. One more glimpse. But the mist lay thick and shapeless over the white forest. Had Soren been able to see through it, however, he might have spotted a feather, just like one of his, but nearly transparent, drifting lazily down from the branch of a tree in the spirit woods.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bubo’s Forge

  Soren had been back for two days. But he had said nothing of his strange experience in the spirit woods to anyone, not even his closest friends, his friends in the “band”—Gylfie, Digger, Twilight, himself, and now, since her rescue, his sister, Eglantine. But every day when he fell to sleep he dreamed of the scrooms of his parents. Had it been a dream in the spirit woods as well, just a dream? And the words Metal Beak, those two words seemed to almost clang in his brain and send ominous quivers to his gizzard. The words took on a life of their own and grew more dreadful with each passing hour.

  “Something’s spooking you, Soren, I just know it,” Digger said as they were sitting in the library one evening after navigation practice.

  “No, nothing at all,” Soren said quickly. Soren had been reading a really good book, but he was distracted and had read the same sentence about five times. Leave it to Digger to pick up on the worries that haunted him day and night.

  “Nothing at all, Soren?” Digger blinked and looked at him closely. The fluffy white brow tufts that framed his deep yellow eyes waggled a bit.

  Soren looked back at Digger. Should I tell him about the scrooms—about Metal Beak? The best thing is to be honest, yet…

  “Digger, something is bothering me, but I can’t tell you just now. Do you understand?”

  Digger blinked again. “Of course, Soren. When you’re ready to tell, I’ll listen,” the Burrowing Owl said softly. “No need to say anything until you’re ready.”

  “Thank you, Digger, thank you so much.”

  So the Barn Owl got up, closed the book he was reading, and went to put it on the shelf. The shelf was next to the table where Ezylryb always sat absorbed in his studies, munching on his little pile of dried caterpillars. The library wasn’t the same without the old Screech Owl. Nothing seemed the same without him. Soren slid the book back into its place on the shelf. As he turned to leave, a book on metals caught his eye. Metals! Why hadn’t he thought of this before? He must go to see Bubo, the blacksmith. He must immediately go to Bubo’s forge. Soren might not be ready to tell Digger, but he was ready to tell Bubo—not all of it, but part of it—the part about Metal Beak.

  He flew out of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, spiraled down toward its base, and then swept low across the ground to a nearby cave. This was Bubo’s forge. The forge was just outside the entry of the cave and the rock had blackened over the years from Bubo’s fires. It was to this forge that Soren and the other members of the colliering chaw brought the live coals that fed the fires, which smelted the metals used for everything from pots and pans to battle claws and shields for the great tree. If anyone knew about metal beaks, or whatever it was that the scrooms had spoken of in the whispery voices that still swirled in Soren’s head, it would be Bubo. The fire had been dampened down, however, and there was no sign of Bubo. Perhaps he was inside.

  Although Bubo was not a Burrowing Owl, who always made their nests in the ground, he preferred living in a cave to a tree. As he had once explained to Soren, blacksmiths like himself, no matter if they were Great Horned Owls, Snowies, Spotted, or Great Grays, were drawn to the earth where, indeed, the metals lodged.

  Soren now stepped into the shadow of the overhanging rock ledge of the cave’s opening. Deep inside, he could see the glints of the whirlyglasses that Bubo had strung up. These contraptions were made from bits of colored glass and when light crept into the cave and struck the glass, reflections spun through the air and bounced off the walls in swirling dapples of color. There was no moonlight tonight, though. It was the time of the dwenking when the moon disappeared to barely a sliver.

  “Bubo!” Soren called. He waited. “Bubo!”

  “That you, Soren?” A large shadowy bundle of feathers started to melt out of the darkness of the cave. Great Horned Owls like Bubo were large, but Bubo himself was unusually large and towered over Soren. His two ear tufts, which grew straight up over each eye, were exceedingly bushy, giving him a slightly threatening demeanor. But Soren knew that beneath the gruffness there was no owl who had a gentler heart than Bubo. Although, like most Great Horned Owls, his feathers were basically the dull somber grays, browns, and blacks, they had been shot through with bright red and hot yellow like the hottest of fires—the ones said to have “bonk.” Bonk was the word that blacksmiths like Bubo used to describe the strongest and most energetic fires. Such fires have special hues and colors unlike ordinary ones. Bubo also could be said to have bonking colorful plumage. It was as if he had been clothed in the flames of his own forge instead of just the usual drab feathers of his species. “What brings you here, lad?”

  “Metal Beak,” Soren blurted without preamble.

  “Metal Beak!” Bubo gasped. “What’cha know about him, laddie?”

  “Him?” Soren blinked. “It’s a him?” Until that moment, Soren thought that the scrooms of his parents had been referring to a thing—something that struck dread in him, like flecks. Yes, he had suspected flecks because it was Bubo himself who had first explained to him that the flecks they had been forced to pick at St. Aggie’s were a kind of special metal with what he had called “magnetic properties.” He had said that when all the tiny unseeable parts, the flecks in these metals were lined up, it created a force that was called magnetic. Now Soren didn’t know what to think. He was relieved that Metal Beak had nothing to do with flecks. But why was Bubo so agitated? The big, flaming Horned Owl was almost hopping out of his feathers.

  “You stay clear of him. You ain’t to go tangling with that owl, Soren.”

  “Metal Beak is an owl?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “What kind?”

  “No one is for sure what kind he be. A bad kind, that’s all I can tell you.”

  Soren was confused. “How can you not be sure about what kind he is?”

  “Because he wears a metal beak and a metal mask over most his face.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Wouldn’t really know,” Bubo said as if he didn’t really want to discuss it. “Some say he flies noisy like a Pygmy Owl, but he ain’t no pygmy size, I’ll tell you that. Well, maybe Barn Owl but bigger, much bigger, but not as big as a Great Gray. Some swear he’s got ear tufts like a Great Horned, yours truly here. Others say no. But there’s one thing they all agree on.”

  “What’s that?”

  Bubo’s voice dropped. “He’s the most brutal owl in all the kingdoms of owls. He’s t
he most vicious owl on earth.”

  Soren swore that he felt his gizzard drop to his talons. When Soren and his band had been on their journey to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, they had come across a dying Barred Owl. To Soren and his mates it looked like a murder by St. Aggie’s top lieutenants.

  “Was it St. Aggie’s?” Glyfie had asked. And the dying Barred Owl had responded with his last breath. “I wish it had been St. Aggie’s. It was something far worse. Believe me—St. Aggie’s—Oh! You only wish!”

  Soren, Gylfie, Twilight, and Digger could not imagine anything worse, anything more brutal than St. Aggie’s. But the Barred Owl had told them differently. There was something far worse. It was nameless and now possibly faceless, but so frightened were the four owls that they had begun to refer to this monster or possibly monsters as the “you only wish.” The few times they had begun to ask about this evil thing, the owls of the Ga’Hoole Tree, the rybs, had deftly turned the conversation to something else. But now Bubo was telling him of this brutal owl known as Metal Beak.

  Bubo would never turn away from a young owl’s question. That simply wasn’t his style. So Soren did not feel reluctant to press him. “You know, Bubo, how Gylfie, Digger, Twilight, and I found that dying Barred Owl in The Beaks?”

  “Yes, I heard tell of that and the bobcat that you four young’uns managed to kill right stylishly, I’d say. Dropped a coal in his eye, direct hit from how far up was it?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure, Bubo. But tell me this—do you think that the Barred Owl might have been done in by this Metal Beak?”

  “Very possible! Possible, indeed. Maybe even probable, which, as you know if you study your arithmetic, can happen more often than possible. In other words, probable is more possible than possible.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Bubo could go off in this way, and it could be very difficult to get him back on track. “I see what you mean. But why would it be very possible, or maybe even probable, that this Metal Beak killed the Barred Owl?”

  “Well, the Barred Owl were a rogue smith, warn’t he.” But it really wasn’t a question. Soren wasn’t quite sure if he understood Bubo’s meaning. It was as if Bubo was saying that if an owl was a rogue smith, this sometimes could happen.

  “Yes,” said Soren hesitantly. “But…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, Bubo, I am not sure exactly what a rogue smith is.”

  “Don’t know what a rogue smith is, don’t you?”

  Soren shook his head and looked down at his talons.

  “Nothing to be ashamed about, lad. A rogue smith is a blacksmith just like me. But he ain’t attached to any kingdom. I mean, we here at the Ga’Hoole Tree be the only ones who know how to use fire in all different ways, like for cooking, and the light for the candles for reading and, of course, for tools, like battle claws, and pots and pans and cauldrons. But these rogue smiths, they know about forging some and they mostly make battle claws. Weapons, you know.”

  “But who do they make them for?”

  “Anyone who comes along. They don’t ask no questions about the who, but seems like they get plenty of information one way or the other. They have to deal with rogue colliers. Get a lot from them.”

  “Rogue colliers? You mean colliers like me and Otulissa and Martin and Ruby?”

  “Yep, but no chaw. You get it? They just go it alone.”

  “Alone into forest fires?”

  Bubo nodded. “But it’s the smiths who really get all the good information. This Barred was a slipgizzle.”

  “Yes,” Soren replied.

  “Now, you know what a slipgizzle is, don’t you?”

  “Uh…kind of a secret agent owl?”

  “That’s it, basically. Keeps their eyes and ears open for any news, then reports back to us. But they never stay long when they come. They likes living wild. I think I recall this Barred Owl coming in here once a while back. A rough-trade sort of bird. Didn’t like his meat cooked, no sirree. Said candlelight, smell of wax wobbled his gizzard.”

  “Are there any other rogue smiths?” Soren asked. An idea was forming in his head.

  “Oh, yes—a few. There’s a Snowy Owl over near the border between The Barrens and Silverveil.”

  “Do you know his name?” Soren asked.

  “His? What makes you think it’s a ‘his’?”

  “Hers?” Soren asked tentatively. Bubo nodded. “I’ve never heard of a female blacksmith.”

  “Well, now you have.” Bubo batted his talon on one of the whirlyglasses and the colors seemed to ignite as they were caught in the light of a candle dappling the walls of the cave.

  “What’s her name?” Soren asked.

  “Don’t know. Most of them rogue smiths keep their names to themselves. They’re an odd sort, I’m telling you.” Then he looked narrowly at Soren and fixed him in his amber gaze. “Rogues are unpredictable and not only that, they are often visited by bad sorts. After all, they make weapons. So, Soren, don’t you be getting ideas.”

  But that was just exactly what Soren was doing: getting an idea!

  CHAPTER SIX

  Eglantine’s Dilemma

  Beware of Metal Beak.’ It was the scrooms who told me.” Soren was in the hollow with Twilight, Gylfie, Digger, and Eglantine.

  “But did they actually say it out loud?” Gylfie hopped up close to Soren and looked straight up.

  “Well, no—not exactly. Scrooms don’t speak out loud.”

  “Then how do you know,” Eglantine asked in a broken voice, “that it was them, the scrooms of Mum and Da? Because if it was, that means they are dead, doesn’t it, Soren?” Tears began to leak out of his sister’s coal-black eyes.

  “It does, Eglantine, and there is nothing we can do about that,” said Soren.

  “Dead is dead,” Twilight said in his usual blunt way. Gylfie turned and kicked him in his talons.

  “What did you do that for, Gylfie?”

  “Twilight, she has just found out for sure that her parents are dead. You could be a little more sensitive!”

  “But it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Twilight said, slightly abashed by Gylfie’s reprimand.

  “It is, and it isn’t,” Soren said. “You asked me how I heard them, how I could be sure. I can’t explain exactly. It was them. I felt their spirits, and their words were not out-loud words but seemed to form in my brain. First, they would come like fog or mist, and then they would gather into a shape that had meaning, a picture. But I felt so close to them. I knew it was them.”

  Digger now spoke. “But why do you say that it is and it isn’t true that they are dead, Soren?”

  “Mrs. Plithiver told me that one reason the scrooms of owls do not go to glaumora is because they have unfinished business on earth. I think Mum and Da’s unfinished business was to warn me about Metal Beak. We must find this Metal Beak, and I think that the best way is to go to the rogue smith of Silverveil.”

  “But we can’t, Soren,” Eglantine said in an almost whiny voice. “I have navigation and Ga’Hoolology, and they really get mad at us new owls if we skip class. Especially the Ga’Hoolology ryb. She says that these are the most important days for the tree.”

  Ga’Hoolology was the study and care of the great tree, which not only gave habitat to the owls of Ga’Hoole but nourishment through its nuts and berries. Indeed, there was hardly a part of the tree that was not used in some way.

  “Yes, but the berry harvest is coming up,” Soren said.

  “So?” said Eglantine.

  “It’s a big festival.” Gylfie turned to Eglantine. “There are no chaw practices or classes for three days. We all have to help with the harvest and then on the third night, there’s a big banquet that goes on every night for another three or four at least, to celebrate. They say the rybs always get very tipsy on the milkberry wine. It’ll be the easiest time to fly off with no one noticing.”

  “Oh,” said Eglantine. She sounded slightly deflated as if some last hope had vanished for her. “So when does
this festival start?”

  “Five days,” Digger said.

  “Five days!” Eglantine sounded panicked.

  “Yes,” said Soren. “But we shouldn’t plan to leave until after the banquet is really going. The banquets don’t begin for another eight days.”

  “Yes, yes,” everyone agreed. They began making plans immediately. Should it just be the five of them or should they include others like Martin and Ruby? Soren felt it might be a good idea because colliers knew the ways of smiths and other colliers and, quite honestly, Soren realized he did not want to take on the entire burden with this rogue smith. She might prove difficult. He wondered to himself if Eglantine was really strong enough to go yet. She still seemed frail to him—even though it had been almost two months since her rescue—not just physically frail, but frail in the gizzard. Then again, would her feelings be hurt if she were left behind?

  “What about Otulissa?” Gylfie asked.

  There was a resounding “No!”

  “She can’t keep her beak shut,” said Twilight.

  “Right,” said Digger. “She’ll be hooting about it all over the tree.”

  “I can come, can’t I, Soren?” Eglantine asked in a small tremulous voice.

  “Do you feel strong enough?”

  “Of course I do!”

  Soren didn’t have the heart to say no.

  Then another thought suddenly occurred to him. “You know, all this time I have been thinking that this Metal Beak, whoever he is, might be the one who killed the Barred Owl. Do you suppose that—”

  It was as if the three owls, Twilight, Digger, and Gylfie, all read Soren’s mind. “Ezylryb,” they all gasped.

  “Exactly. Do you think Metal Beak could have something to do with Ezylryb’s disappearance?” The owls began whispering in excited voices.

  “We must work out our strategy,” Gylfie said.

  “We better go to the library and look at maps of Silverveil,” Digger added.

  “Well, Bubo said the rogue smith was on the border between Silverveil and The Barrens. So doesn’t that mean it could be in either place?” Soren asked.