In a colony where Blend In was an unwritten rule (well, all rules were unwritten before the Age of Writing), you can imagine what most auks thought of Egbert and Ruby. Naturally, Lockley was an exception. He and Lucy thought it made life a little more interesting to have these fellow misfits around. A coastline full of black-and-white seabirds could get a bit monotonous.
And even though Lockley had never taken to this idea of reading and writing, he had become quite fond of Egbert over the years, and Ruby too. If he occasionally grew short with their bickering, it was only because he felt protective of them, and wanted to keep them from irritating the other auks so much.
“Don’t start, you two,” he said. “You don’t want me to lose my temper!”
Egbert and Ruby stopped arguing, each drawing a mental picture of an angry puffin. They both burst out laughing.
“Stop that,” said Lockley, as the laughter continued. “Stop laughing this instant if you want smidgens at your party.” Egbert abruptly fell silent. “Good, now if you’ll help me gather these fish up, I’ll put them all in a seaweed net and take them to Lucy.”
Egbert helped Lockley bundle up the fish while Ruby supervised. “Lockley?” she said. “Are you sure Lucy can even cook all those smidgens? Especially if she has to make enough for the mainlanders?”
Lockley got that feeling in his throat like when he accidentally inhaled an oyster. Summer was breeding season on Auk’s Landing, and he and Lucy were expecting their first piffling (the puffin word for child). Two summers ago, she had fallen ill and lost her egg. Then last year, the volcano the birds called the Mouth of Fire rumbled and collapsed their burrow. It was their habit to dig burrows into the ground rather than live higher up on the cliffs like other auks. They were less exposed to egg-snatching seabirds this way—but it left them exposed to other dangers. Many puffins lost their eggs the day the earth shook.
That said, Lockley had begun to take their bad luck personally. He was determined not to let anything happen to either Lucy or their egg this time. Even if it meant plugging the Mouth of Fire (perhaps with Egbert, he thought, watching his enormous friend sweep fish into the net with his forefins). After making such a promise to himself, was it possible he was already failing Lucy?
Then, something else Ruby had said jarred him. “You invited the mainlanders?” Lockley asked Egbert. That was what the birds of Neversink called the creatures of Tytonia.
“How can such a small bird have such a big mouth?” Egbert wondered aloud.
“I suppose as long as you didn’t invite the owls,” said Lockley.
Ruby was on the verge of blurting something out when Egbert swatted her away.
“Egbert, in the name of Sedna, you didn’t! You know how things are between auks and owls!” That was Egbert’s problem. He always meant well, but he didn’t always consider the consequences of his actions. It was just the sort of thing that kept him on the bad side of most of the auks.
Lost in thought, Lockley wandered to the shoreline and stared across the sea in the direction of Tytonia, domain of the owls. On either end of thick forests rose two peaks—to the south was Falcon Crest; to the north, Murre Mountain, former home of the auks, until the Cod Wars had led to their exile from Tytonia and relocation to Neversink.
This had all happened long before Lockley’s time. But he often wondered what it would be like to live on Tytonia. It was also an island, but much larger. It was sunnier and warmer, too, a half-day’s flight southeast of Neversink. Trees, grasses, and flowers of great variety flourished there, so that beasts and birds of all kinds could find their habitat. Under the current political arrangement, owls could not even visit Neversink without a direct invitation from a member of the colony. Needless to say, those weren’t often handed out. But if Egbert had invited them…well, he just might have opened a can of worms (which for birds is normally a good thing, but not in this case).
“Yoo-hoo! Zombie puffin!” It was Ruby, hovering right in front of his face. “If Lucy’s gonna get cookin’, we better get crackin’!”
“Yes, right,” Lockley agreed. He threw the net of fish over his shoulder, the extra burden threatening to topple him right over, until the great weight was lifted off him. It was Egbert, grabbing the net and carrying it himself.
“Thank you,” said Lockley. And so the three headed for home under a leaden sky, toward the serrated ridge of white cliffs in the distance.
“It surely will be a party to remember,” boasted Egbert. “But I’ll have to send out new invitations. No one would miss a chance to eat Lucy Puffin’s fish smidgens!”
On Tytonia, the sun sank below the horizon and cast twilight upon the forest. A small brown bird, a thrush, lit out from her branch, snaring dusk-dwelling insects from the air. Long ago her father had taught her not to leave the Green-Golden Wood of Tytonia, where the songbirds lived, for the nearby swamp known as Slog’s Hollow. But the damp ground and humid air of the hollow was home to juicy grubs, beetles, mosquitoes, and fireflies, and the temptation caused many songbirds to stray.
Skirting the edge of the hollow as much as possible, the small thrush satisfied her appetite and began her way home. Crossing a moonlit glade, she glimpsed an apparition out of the corner of her eye that caused her to seize up in terror—an owl. A barn owl, swooping out of the forest on silent white wings toward the middle of the glade. The thrush banked to the left, but the owl did not pursue. It wasn’t after her.
She watched the owl dive into the grass and emerge with a rat clutched in its talons. But no sooner had the owl captured its prey than it dropped the rat suddenly, and flew quickly back into the woods.
Curiosity got the better of the thrush. She flew into the glade to examine the owl’s abandoned dinner. The rat was alive—but barely. Its black eyes were clouded by a milky film, its fur was mangy, and a blackened tongue lolled grossly out of its mouth. The thrush recoiled in horror at the diseased rodent. The very air around it seemed foul.
She flew quickly away, but in the wrong direction, and by the time she detected the damp air of the hollow and tried to reverse course, it was too late. A blow knocked her to the ground, and before she could right herself, a small but sharp pair of talons grasped her around the throat.
“Don’t eat me!” she cried.
A tawny-colored pygmy owl, no bigger than a grapefruit, pinned the thrush to the ground. He stared at her with fierce yellow eyes the size of sand dollars, impossibly large eyes for his tiny head, it seemed. Framing those immense eyes were bushy white eyebrow markings that made him appear as cross as he sounded.
“Why on earth not?” said the owl.
The thrush squirmed in the owl’s grasp, searching for a good reason. “I might be sick,” she said at last. “Diseased.”
“What are you talking about?” said the owl. But the thrush felt his grip loosen. She had struck a nerve.
“Back there, in the glade,” she said. “I’ll show you.” And she took him to the rat, who had since died. But the telltale signs of disease were still there. “If you don’t believe me, ask the barn owl I saw try to eat it.”
“Another owl saw this?” snapped her attacker.
The thrush bobbed her head nervously.
“Have you seen more like this?” said the owl.
“N-no,” stammered the thrush. It occurred to her that she probably should have lied. If the rat was an isolated case, the owl might not worry about the thrush being contaminated and eat her anyway. But after staring at her for a few more agonizing seconds, the owl released her.
“Spread the word about the rat,” he hissed. “But don’t dare tell anyone Rozbell let you live.”
“Rozbell?” gasped the thrush. But the owl had already flown away.
THE GREAT AUK AND THE LITTLEST OWL
That night, Lockley Puffin dreamt of owls. In this dream, dusk was falling, and at first he only heard them. Their soft hooting seemed to come from miles away. But he walked just a few steps before a lush forest appeared, and from the lo
west branches owls were looking down on him, their shapes blurred by shadows but their eyes sharp, unblinking.
Lockley was afraid. His feet were cold. He was standing on ice, he realized, and a chill wind disturbed his feathers. It didn’t make sense. There was no ice in the forest. And Lockley’s home had no trees—or owls. He looked up again. The trees were now upside down, their gangly roots a cluster of nerves.
No, not upside down. Their leaves had all fallen, and what he had thought were roots were just bare branches. But in those branches an even stranger sight—instead of owls sitting in their nests, the owls’ nests were sitting on them.
Lockley rubbed his feet together…they were so cold….
The next thing Lockley knew, he was awake. He was lying on his back and, peering over his round belly, he noticed his orange feet sticking out from under the blanket.
“For the love of fish,” he grumbled, trying to pull part of the blanket back from his wife, Lucy, still sleeping soundly. She had become a much heavier sleeper since becoming pregnant, in addition to needing a greater share of blanket, Lockley noticed.
He rolled out of his cozy, down-filled nest, shuffled off to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, plopped down in his favorite chair, and promptly fell asleep again. He awoke what seemed like a short time later to the unmistakable smell of slightly burnt fish. “Ah, I bet I know what that is!”
“It’s fish!” said Ruby, appearing from nowhere and scaring Lockley half to death. “You can smell it a mile away!”
Lucy Puffin appeared from the kitchen, waddling even more than usual. She carried a steaming tray of what would look to you like tiny crab cakes.
“Who wants a fresh smidgen?” she said.
“I do, I do!” cried Ruby, and before anyone could stop her, she flicked her tongue out and tasted one. “Ugh,” she said, recoiling from the pan. “I forgot I don’t eat fish.”
“Can I have the one she just licked?” said Lockley.
“You overslept, dear,” Lucy replied.
“What? What time is it?” Lockley drew back the sealskin front door and let out a high-pitched scream when he saw a giant whiskered face blocking his doorway.
“Do I smell smidgens?” said Egbert.
Lockley and Lucy had a good-sized burrow, but it certainly wasn’t big enough for a walrus. Egbert was often surprising them this way.
“Would you like to try one, Egbert?” said Lucy, offering up the tray.
Egbert studied them carefully, his great whiskers twitching. “No really, I shouldn’t,” he said. “I’m watching my figure.”
“That must take all day,” said Ruby.
Ignoring Ruby, he considered the tray a bit longer. “Come outside so I can take a better look.” Lucy took the tray outside, followed by the others.
“Oh my, you browned them just right,” said Egbert, practically drooling. “Maybe just one.” He picked up a tiny smidgen, gave it another sniff, and then placed it gently into his mouth. “Mmm, yes. Flavorful. Tender. Practically melts in your mouth. I must say, quite delicious indeed.”
Lucy smiled, but before anyone could move, Egbert grabbed the tray from her and began shoveling smidgens into his mouth. “So good!” he cried, bits of fish flying everywhere.
“Egbert, no! They’re for the party!” said Lockley. They tried to pry the tray away from him, and Ruby pulled at his whiskers. The damage, though, was done.
“Well,” said Lucy, “at least they were delicious, right?”
“That’s why you can’t invite a walrus to tea,” said Ruby. (Which is probably a sensible rule of thumb to follow even today.)
“You’re welcome to tea anytime,” Lucy assured Egbert, who was horribly embarrassed. “Now everybody, shoo! I need to get back to work.”
Lockley herded his friends toward the water, where he saw a trio of neighborhood pifflings, along with several young murres and guillemots. He smiled. “Boys and girls! Egbert’s looking for playmates!”
“Lockley!” cried Egbert, but it was too late—the children were headed his way, squeaking with mischief.
“Let’s play Pin the Sea Urchin on the Walrus!” said Arne Puffin, to much agreement.
“I hate that game!” said Egbert, already trying to make his escape. “I always have to be the walrus!” And off he went, scrunching through the sand like some gigantic earthworm, chased by several immature auks and one immature hummingbird.
“That should hold them for a while,” said Lockley, walking back into the kitchen. He reached for a smidgen that had just come out of the oven, but Lucy swatted his wing.
“What’s the matter with you?” she said.
“I’m hungry!”
“That’s not what I mean, Lockley. You tossed about last night like you were in a sea storm. I woke up without a blanket!”
Not likely, he thought. But what he said was, “Sorry, dear.”
She came over to him and rubbed her bill against his. “I know this has something to do with the Great Auk. He’s sent someone looking for you twice. Which means you didn’t go the first time.”
She was right. Yesterday the Great Auk had sent word to Lockley that he needed to speak with him about a vision—a vision of owls. (It was never a good thing on Neversink when owls came up.) Now Egbert had invited owls to his party, and owls were invading Lockley’s dreams. He hoped it was just a coincidence, but either way, he didn’t want to worry Lucy. “It’s nothing, dear. I’ll talk to him after the party.”
Lucy grunted. “You should be an ostrich if you’re just going to stick your head in the ground at the first sign of trouble.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale,” said Lockley. “At the first sign of trouble, ostriches flee.”
She stuck a pungent-smelling bag under his wing. “Take these to the Great Auk.”
“Were you planning to tell me about this?” said Rozbell.
The small owl with the angry eyebrows pointed to the dead rat as he spoke. In front of him stood the barn owl spied by the thrush, his legs trembling. On either side of the pygmy owl loomed a pair of radiant snowy owls.
“Of course,” said the barn owl, his voice quavering. He had good reason to be afraid. For despite being one of the smallest owls in the world, Rozbell was the leader of the opposition party in Parliament and the second most powerful owl on Tytonia. “You—or the Great Gray Owl, of course.”
At the mention of the king’s name, Rozbell’s eyebrows plunged like daggers. “I thought I made it clear that all incidents of this nature were to be reported to me. How many times does an owl in my position have to repeat himself?”
Suddenly, Rozbell began blinking spastically and shaking violently. The snowy owls shifted their feet. Rozbell turned his back on them, and then, over his shoulder, he shooed the barn owl away. The terrified creature left the glade as quickly as possible.
Finally regaining his composure, Rozbell turned to the larger snowy owl and said, “Astra, how many is that?”
“A half dozen perhaps,” she replied. “A couple of rats, some small birds. Unless my brother has a different assessment?”
Rozbell turned to the other snowy owl. “Well, Oopik?”
“I haven’t seen that many,” he said flatly. “But if Astra says so, I believe her.”
Rozbell hopped around the ground, churning leaves like a robin foraging for worms. “And what if the Sickness has returned?”
“The entire owl food supply could be threatened, if not the food supply for all Tytonia,” said Astra, seeming to dread the thought.
“I don’t mean that,” said Rozbell. “I mean, what would the Great Gray Owl do?”
The snowy owls exchanged looks before Oopik spoke. “He is one of the few owls to have lived through the last Sickness,” he said.
“He didn’t just live through it, he ruled during it,” snapped Rozbell.
“Yes, and the histories are mixed, at best, on his leadership during that terrible time,” said Oopik. “He would be reluctant to acknowledge a new pl
ague.”
“Exactly,” said Rozbell, fluttering his wings. “His fear is to our advantage. He won’t act unless he has no other choice.”
“In the king’s defense, there is no evidence at this point that the Sickness is widespread, if it has returned,” said Oopik.
Rozbell spun toward him. “It’s not the place of my second-in-command to defend the king, now is it?”
“My brother only meant, we have time to plan,” said Astra, cutting a look at Oopik. “The question is whether there is currently enough evidence of the Sickness to make the king’s supporters wonder. We could wait, and hope evidence of the Sickness grows. But if these are isolated cases, then waiting would be a mistake.”
“Yes, timing is everything, isn’t it?” said Rozbell, but he seemed to be talking to himself as he wandered around in small circles. He had been so close to the throne for so long…if the Sickness had returned—or at least, if enough owls thought it had returned—he might finally have the chance to prove that the Great Gray Owl was no longer fit to lead them. The king that had let those despicable auks out from under owl rule.
“Just look at this!” sputtered Rozbell, pulling a small scroll of parchment from under his wings. He unrolled it to show Astra and Oopik an invitation to Egbert’s party. At the top it said, You’re Invited! At the bottom it was signed, Egbert of Neversink. In between were many, many words, including the generous command, Invite Your Illiterate Friends Too! “I found this in my nest. The auks are having a party to celebrate a tooth-walker’s birthday!”
“Why would any creature want to celebrate the aging process?” said Oopik.
“That’s not the point!” said Rozbell. “The point is, here we are, faced with the return of a plague that could destroy our food supply, and the auks are celebrating! It must be nice to have food that practically swims up to your nest! Am I the only one bothered by this?” He seemed to address the question to both snowy owls, but his huge yellow eyes were fixed on Oopik.
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