The Rescue

by Kathryn Lasky

  “I missed Eglantine’s Meat-on-Bones!” A sob seemed to swell in Soren’s gizzard. “Why…why…” he stammered.

  “Why didn’t she tell you about it?” Barran asked. Then she proceeded to answer her own question. “Because isn’t it always a surprise when your parents come home with that first whole vole or ground squirrel and say ‘Beak up! Down the gullet!’? No more of their stripping out the bones like when you were a baby. So why shouldn’t it be a surprise here?”

  Soren merely blinked. Tears filled his eyes, and the big old Snowy blurred like a cloud. “But she didn’t even tell me about it when I got back.”

  “Eglantine is a sensitive young owl. I’m sure she knew that you would have felt awful for missing her First-Meat-on-Bones ceremony, and the last thing your sister would want is for you to feel bad. She loves you too much, Soren.”

  Soren’s wings hung limply by his side. He felt positively horrible.

  “Now, young’uns,” Boron had begun to speak for the first time since saying enter.

  Oh, Glaux. He’s going to ask us where we’ve been, Soren thought.

  “You were off looking for Ezylryb, I’d wager?” Soren nodded. “Well, that’s to be expected.”

  Dewlap suddenly swelled up in a puff of indignation. “I beg to differ, Boron, but duty is what is expected.”

  “Oh, you’re right. You’re right, of course.” But Soren sensed that Boron did not think that the boring Burrowing Owl was exactly right. Maybe they’d get off with just a light flint mop but, more important, maybe Boron would not ask them where they had been.

  “Where have you been?” squawked Dewlap.

  “It doesn’t really matter where,” Boron spoke now. “What matters is that in going away, the band missed the sorting and grading of the milkberries. Soren missed his sister’s First-Meat-on-Bones ceremony, and Twilight missed his flint mop for you. Thus, the tree suffered as a whole.”

  “I would say,” Dewlap’s voice thundered, “it’s payback time! The four of you are on pellet-burying detail for the next three days, twice a day.”

  As they flew back to their hollow from the parliament, Soren muttered under his breath to the others, “We can’t complain…We can’t complain…We got off light.”

  “Light? You call having to bury pellets a ‘light’ flint mop?” Twilight hissed.

  “Look,” Gylfie said, “it was because you forgot your flint mop that we were discovered in the first place. So just shut your beak.”

  “You know,” Digger was saying, “in spite of my being a Burrowing Owl and Dewlap being a Burrowing Owl, I feel I have nothing in common with that old hoot.”

  “How could you?” Gylfie asked. “She is so boring.”

  “And mean,” Soren added.

  The others blinked. They had never thought of Dewlap as mean, just boring. So had Soren until Dewlap had squawked, and he had seen a weird greenish glimmer in her yellow eyes that seemed to mask a stingy gizzard. Soren’s mother had always told him that it was a stingy and envious gizzard that made owls mean. His mother had said that envy and stinginess were the worst faults an owl could have. Her words came back to him: There is never any call for envy or stinginess in owls, Soren. We have the sky, we have the great forests and the trees. We are the most beautiful fliers on earth. Why would we envy any other bird or animal?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rusty Claws

  By the time the four owls had returned to their hollow, Eglantine had fallen sound asleep. And soon the rest were also sleeping. Eglantine was twitching nervously in her sleep. She had seemed upset ever since they had told her about the walled garden of the forge.

  Soren couldn’t think about any of that now. There was still this dreadful unfinished business of Metal Beak and the “you only wish.” A horrid image if there ever was one—a half-faceless owl flying around slaughtering creatures. Then again, there was just getting through the flint mop for Dewlap. Gylfie stirred and Soren saw that she was awake, too.

  “Gylfie, why do you think Boron and Barran didn’t ask us where we had been?”

  “They knew that it had something to do with Ezylryb. They know how you feel about him. They didn’t have to know exactly where you went.”

  “You know,” Soren said slowly, “I have the feeling that in some way Octavia might be important to all that stuff the rogue smith of Silverveil told us.”

  “How?” Gylfie asked in her usual practical way. “What’s the link?”

  “I feel it in my gizzard,” Soren continued, thinking aloud, “that she somehow is connected to Ezylryb’s past when perhaps he was a different kind of owl.”

  “Different?” Gylfie asked.

  “Remember how the Snowy told us that she met Octavia before she was blind?” Gylfie nodded. “And it was Octavia who told her about the Dark Fowl Island where the master blacksmith nested. There’s a connection there, a link with Ezylryb. Did Ezylryb know her then, too, before she was blind? And the rogue smith said they came here together years and years ago. She was blind then, but what was she really before that? What did she do for Ezylryb? How does a snake know about a forge on an island that makes battle claws?”

  “What are you suggesting we do, Soren?” Gylfie asked.

  He turned and looked at his best friend in all the world, the little Elf Owl with whom he had already endured so much. Could he ask her to do this? He knew it would shock her. He took a deep breath and then told her what he wanted to do. “I am suggesting that we get into Ezylryb’s hollow when Octavia is not around.”

  Gylfie gasped so loud that she almost woke Twilight. “Soren, I can’t believe it. That’s trespassing, snooping, spying, and Ezylryb is your favorite teacher. It’s so…so…”

  “Scummy,” Soren offered.

  “Well, yes,” Gylfie nodded. “I was going to say unethical. But yeah, ‘scummy’ just about sums it up. Soren, you surprise me. I mean, that’s really asking for a flint mop.”

  “Who cares about flint mopping? This is life or death. If we can discover something that would help us find and save Ezylryb, it can’t be scummy, unflecktual.”

  “Unflecktual!” Gylfie whispered hoarsely. “Flecks, Soren? Do you think this is connected with flecks?”

  Soren blinked. He had meant to say that word Gylfie had used—unethical. But it had come out wrong. Still it was just a slip of the beak. But was it connected with the flecks in some way? There was a web being spun here. He could feel them all being reeled in, and at the center of the web sat a spider with a Metal Beak.

  “I have to go,” Soren said.

  “I won’t let you go without me,” Gylfie said.

  “It should only be the two of us.”

  “No,” Digger suddenly spoke up.

  “You awake?” Gylfie asked.

  “I just woke up. Listen, I want to be in on this. You’ll need a lookout. I’ll stand guard. What are you two going to do if Octavia slithers in? I could distract her long enough for you to get out. Ezylryb does have a few sky ports in his hollow, doesn’t he?” Sky ports were the openings directly to the outside of the tree from which the owls could fly from their hollows. There were smaller holes called trunk ports which the nest-maids usually came through.

  “Of course,” Soren replied.

  So it was set. They would go the next day just after tween time and their flint mop for Dewlap, during harp practice. Octavia, as a member of the harp guild, would be attending.

  “Gylfie! My dear, that hole is simply not deep enough.” Dewlap came up to the Elf Owl. “Here, let me demonstrate. And don’t use that excuse of being an Elf Owl and your beak being too tiny. One of my best chaw members ever was an Elf Owl. She dug exquisite holes.”

  “Doesn’t she ever sleep?” Digger said under his breath at tween time as the four owls poked holes with their beaks in the soil to bury the pellets.

  When the first chords of the harp rang out, they all breathed a sigh of relief. Their flint mop was done for now. And the investigation of Ezylryb’s hollo
w could begin. The other owls were still sleeping, for during these first days following the harvest festival, the owls tended to rouse themselves later. Soren, Gylfie, and Digger made their way to Ezylryb’s hollow. Located in one of the highest parts of the tree, the hollow was the only one facing the northwest, the direction of the cold prevailing wind that most owls did not fancy. But, of course, Ezylryb was not most owls. And perhaps he liked facing the direction of the Northern Kingdoms from which he had come.

  As soon as they entered the hollow, Digger took up his lookout position at the trunk port. He tried to take in as much as he could of the old teacher’s quarters, which appeared to have hundreds of books and maps, but Soren and Gylfie hurried him along to his watch post.

  “Where do we begin?” Soren asked, looking at all the piles of papers, charts, maps, and infinite numbers of gizmos that Ezylryb had to help him interpret weather patterns. There was a vial of sand that he often hung outside his hollow, which registered the moisture in the air. There was another vial of quicksilver to gauge atmospheric pressure changes. There were at least twenty wind indicators. Ezylryb was always experimenting with new wind indicators that used feathers sometimes plucked from his own body, but it was usually a molted one from some very young owl who had just shed its baby down.

  “It would be easier to know where to begin if we knew exactly what we were looking for,” Gylfie replied, lighting down on a dangerously tilting stack of books.

  Soren just sighed. There was something so sad about the hollow. In the month or so before the Great Downing, Ezylryb had taken to inviting members of the weather chaw to his hollow to share tea. The old ryb would talk about his latest weather theories or inventions for interpreting weather. But now the coals in his grate were cold. The plates of his favorite snack food, dried caterpillars, went untouched and a fine layer of dust had settled on all the books.

  Soren knew that off of this main parlor of Ezylryb’s hollow there was a smaller one where he slept. Gylfie had already flown into it. So Soren followed her. “Anything here?”

  “Practically nothing,” Gylfie replied.

  In definite contrast to the parlor, the sleeping hollow was sparsely furnished to the point of austerity. There was a bed, a mixture of down with generous portions of Ga’Hoolian moss known for its fleecy quality. By the bed stood a small table with a slender volume of poems atop another large leather-bound volume. Soren peered at the book.

  “What’s the book?” Gylfie asked.

  “Something called Sonnets of the Northern Kingdoms, by Lyze of Kiel.”

  “Whoop-de-doo,” Gylfie said. “Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, you know Ezylryb. Everyone says he is the best scholar here. He likes all this weird obscure stuff. It’s not all just weather science with him.”

  “What’s the other book?” Gylfie asked.

  Soren moved the poetry volume. “I can hardly read the title, this book is so ancient.” The leather had crackled into fine lines and the gold leaf in which the title had been written had nearly flaked away. But underneath was the faint impression of an outline of the embossed letters. Soren, looking hard at the letters, spoke slowly. “Sagas of the North Kingdoms: The History of the War of the Ice Claws by Lyze of Kiel.”

  “Talented fellow, I guess,” Gylfie said. “I mean, sonnets and war history.” Gylfie was talking as she flitted here and there in the almost bare chamber. “What’s this?” she said suddenly.

  “What’s what?” Soren asked. “Oh, it looks like a perch. Must be for his exercises or something.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” And at the moment Gylfie lighted down on the perch, it fell from the wall. The Elf Owl tumbled through the air and landed lightly on her small talons. “Some perch! Can’t even hold an Elf Owl like me.”

  Soren blinked in dismay. That was weird. Where the perch had been was a hole. Soren flew up to the hole and then, using fast, scooping motions of his wings and by angling his tail, he managed to tread the air in order to hover. Glaux! I wish I were a hummingbird! he thought. Hovering in a tight space for a bird of Soren’s size was no easy matter. “Gylfie, get over here and hover. You’re smaller. You can do this better than I can. Peek into that hole. I see something.”

  “You do?” Gylfie had flown up as Soren backed off. Now Gylfie hovered and then suddenly poked her beak in and within a fraction of a second came back with a string clutched in it. It was a long string and it was firmly attached to something in the hole.

  “Pull it!” said Soren.

  Gylfie gave a little tug. “I can’t, you’re stronger.”

  So Soren came up and gave a yank. There was a creak and suddenly a door, previously invisible, opened. The owls blinked at each other. There was no need to ask if they should or should not go in. Their minds were instantly made up. Soren entered first. It was dark but, of course, darkness never bothered an owl. They could actually see better in the dark. They made their way through a very narrow corridor. Flying through it was almost impossible even for an Elf Owl. Soon, however, the corridor widened and they found themselves standing in another hollow, about the same size as Ezylryb’s sleeping quarters.

  A secret chamber, thought Soren. Then both owls blinked in astonishment.

  “Soren, do you see what I see?”

  “I certainly do!”

  Hanging on the wall in front of them was a pair of ancient, rusted battle claws. Yes, a secret chamber for hiding secrets. Soren now thought of his last conversation with the rogue smith of Silverveil. The words came back to him: Ezylryb has a past. He is a legend. He does have enemies.

  How shocked Soren had been. How unbelievable it was to him that the most nonviolent owl on earth could ever have an enemy. Ezylryb, the owl who had the greatest contempt for battle claws!

  “Well, will you look at these claws! Holy Glaux!” Gylfie had flown up close to them. “Makes my gizzard wilt to even be this close. Soren you won’t believe this. These suckers are deadly. They’ve got jagged edges. Glaux almighty. Come up here and look at them.”

  “No!” Soren said. He couldn’t stand the thought of his teacher—his hero—wearing those. Killing. He himself had killed before. He had helped kill the bobcat in the forest of The Beaks, and he had helped kill the top lieutenants of St. Aggie’s, Jatt and Jutt, when the two Long-Eared cousins had attacked them in the Desert of Kuneer. But this was different somehow. This was like being a professional killer. Yes. What had they called those owls he had heard about—Hireclaws? They hired out to anyone to fight and kill. That was the only reason that an owl would have his own set of claws. All the claws in the Great Tree were kept in the armory. There weren’t many rules at Ga’Hoole, but it was strictly forbidden to keep arms in your hollow.

  But Soren was drawn to them nonetheless. Slowly, he flew in short hops toward the claws on the wall. “Well, they’re rusty,” Gylfie said, looking nervously at her friend. She knew how much Soren admired Ezylryb. She knew this must be difficult for him. Hireclaws were the lowest of the low.

  “Because they’re rusty, I don’t think he uses them much. Maybe not for years and years, Soren.”

  “Maybe,” Soren said weakly. He peered more closely at the claws. There was something familiar about them. Something in the way the claws curved in such an exact likeness to the way an owl’s talons curved and were angled. The fit must be perfect, Soren thought. Then it burst upon him.

  “Gylfie,” he turned suddenly to the Elf Owl, “these claws were made by the rogue smith of Silverveil.”

  “No, young’uns,” the two owls whirled around. Slithering into the chamber was Octavia. “Not the smith of Silverveil, but her master from Dark Fowl Island in the Everwinter Sea. They were made for Lyze of Kiel, poet, warrior, and writer of sagas.”

  “Lyze of Kiel,” Soren whispered the words. They rang in his ears. The letters rearranged themselves in his mind’s eye. Their true meaning turned in the deepest part of his gizzard.

  The old blind snake seemed to sense all this. �
��Yes, Soren. You’re getting the picture, aren’t you?”

  “Huh?” Gylfie said.

  “Lyze of Kiel, Gylfie. Rearrange some of letters and it spells Ezyl.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Octavia Speaks

  Yes, my dear, the ‘ryb’ was added after we arrived here and the owls knew that the greatest of scholars and warriors had come to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.” She paused. “You know him as Ezylryb.”

  At that moment, Digger entered the secret chamber. He was frantic. “I called and called trying to warn you. I tried everything to distract her. I’m really sorry.”

  Octavia swung her head toward the Burrowing Owl. “Don’t worry. For a long time I have felt that Soren was up to something. Since that first night of the harvest festivities. I would have found out sooner or later.”

  Soren remembered now how Octavia had slithered out onto the gallery to help Madame Plonk, who had passed out from the milkberry wine. Everyone else had been distracted by the comet’s appearance. It was the perfect distraction, camouflage for their leaving. But just as Soren was sweeping from the Great Hollow, he had felt the gaze of the sightless snake boring into him. She did have extraordinary powers, even if she had not been born blind.