The king blustered objections amid the uproar caused by Rozbell’s offer and looked to Otus for legal aid, but the scops owl quietly shook his head.
Rozbell, feeling he had sufficiently stirred the ant-hill, said nothing more and led the Roundheads out of Parliament before it was even officially adjourned.
Rozbell met up with Astra and Oopik again, this time in his owlery.
“You made a compelling case,” said Astra. “I could see it on the faces of many of the king’s owls.”
“Yes, well, thank you for bringing me that second message,” said Rozbell. “Those worthless carrier pigeons must have forgotten to deliver mine.”
Oopik looked at Rozbell’s nest, where an unopened scroll lay partially crumpled, as if it had been sat on.
“I should have known those fish-eaters were bound to eat something other than live sand eels—and plain scones, of course.” Rozbell laughed heartily at the memory of the decree he had helped push through Parliament. He could barely contain his enthusiasm, cocking his tail and flicking it from side to side. If he could convince more owls that the auks offered a desirable food source, he might have feathered his case enough to sway the king’s weakest supporters.
“Astra, my pet, you’ve done well,” said Rozbell, glancing at Oopik as he said this. “Now I have to meet someone. Begin putting together the landing party for Neversink.” And off he went, undulating toward the forest.
“Well played,” said Oopik.
“I’m trying to keep Rozbell happy,” said Astra. “You should do the same.”
Oopik seemed surprised. “What do you mean, sister?”
“You say what you think too much,” said Astra, “instead of what he wants to hear.”
“Don’t worry, Rozbell needs both of us,” Oopik assured her. “After all, we are twins. One that has become two. We go together like darkness and light. Even, dare I say it, like owls and hats.” As he said this, he pulled off his bowler and kicked it away with contempt.
Astra just shook her head. “You’re a fool.”
“You don’t care about crushing some little island of auks any more than I do,” said Oopik.
“No, but I don’t care about saving them, either. And I don’t want to be on the wrong side of another owl civil war.”
“As if we had a choice,” said Oopik. “Mother and Father hated the king.”
“There you go again,” said Astra, “stating unnecessary truths.”
Oopik returned his hat to his head. “I will support Rozbell, but I won’t bow to him. This is still a parliamentary system, if I am not mistaken. A king is not a dictator.”
And with that, the two snowy owls left the owlery, flying off in opposite directions.
THE WORST PARTY EVER (UNLESS YOU’RE A WALRUS)
On the morning of Egbert’s party, Auk’s Landing was at full throat with anticipation. The air hummed with high-pitched whistles and hoarse growls from the razorbills and murres. Guillemots were wheezing and hissing at everyone. Seals were barking and gulls were scolding. Every burrow, hole, and ledge as far as you could see was occupied by black-and-white birds, some waddling along the rocks, others flying to and from the sea and often landing on top of each other, which provoked even more hissing and growling.
On top of all that, the shore was awash with creatures from Tytonia—at least, ones that could fly or swim: perching birds of many species; giant beavers; river otters. Even among this strange collection of beasts and birds, it was easy to spot the Great Auk. He was at least twice as large as any other auk—more than three feet tall—and when Lockley saw his head bobbing above the sea of creatures, he hurried to catch up with him.
“Oh, hello, Lockley. Quite a turnout, no?”
“I have to admit,” said Lockley, “I have no idea how Egbert managed to draw this sort of crowd.”
“He’s a resourceful one, to be sure,” said the Great Auk.
“Especially when it involves himself being the center of attention,” said Lockley.
They both chuckled and walked on until they were in sight of the Thermals, where the party was to be held. “I need to go meditate before my presentation,” said the Great Auk.
“Of course,” said Lockley.
But the Great Auk didn’t leave. “I assumed you caught up to me because there was something on your mind?”
“Oh, right,” said Lockley, embarrassed that he was still so timid around the law-speaker. “I was just thinking…perhaps, based on our previous conversation…perhaps it would benefit all of us to hear a story about how we came to be here. You know…who we are, and why our way of life is worth preserving.”
The Great Auk looked kindly at Lockley. “We’ll speak again after the party.”
The Thermals were great, boiling fountains of water called geysers that sprang forth from the earth. Their periodic eruptions created warm, steamy air and permanent hot springs, which the auks found soothing. It was clear that many guests had come to see the great towers of white steam—and to visit the Guillemots’ Bazaar, a sort of marketplace where creatures could exchange goods and services. These included spa services: preening (for the feathered) and cleaning (for the furry); talon or claw sharpening; paw-pad buffing; tail fluffing; bill polishing; deep-tissue massage; and parasite and insect removal.
The bazaar was run by a crusty old guillemot named Algard. Because of his expertise, Egbert had asked him to help organize his “surprise” birthday party—even though Algard failed to understand the point of celebrating the aging process. At the moment, Egbert was hovering over the guillemot’s every move, appearing to offer helpful suggestions. Algard appeared not to be appreciating Egbert’s advice. Though it was hard to tell—guillemots always look a bit sour. Unlike puffins and razorbills, they have narrow bills that taper to a point, as if they’re permanently pursing their lips at you.
There were also arts and crafts for sale. (Or trade, to be more accurate. At this point in history there was no such thing as money, because only marsupials had pockets.) Ivory and wood sculptures. Decorative skin rugs or wall hangings. Feather-down pillows and blankets. All in all, there was much to do other than acknowledge Egbert’s birthday, which is exactly how Algard had planned it.
Lockley let out a deep sigh: “No owls.” Relieved, even pleasantly surprised, he wandered around the bazaar until Lucy arrived. He helped her set up her smidgens station, and though he would never admit it, he was proud that his wife’s treats had much to do with the large crowd. Lucy would never show off, of course. But Lockley was happy to do it for her. Why do puffins always have to be so humble? he thought. Eventually he followed the crowd to an open, grassy area, where a large flat stone sat in the middle of the Thermals. He and the others formed a semicircle on the scrub grass around the stone and waited.
Before long, the Great Auk appeared through clouds of hot mist and walked slowly toward the stone platform. He kept his small wings clasped behind his back, the way people with a philosophical bent often do. As he took his place atop the stone, geysers erupted in turns behind him. The effect was something like a statue in a plaza fountain.
No one was sure exactly how old the Great Auk was. In the time before the time of humans, animals of all kinds lived much longer than they do now. Perhaps because they didn’t keep track of every second of every day, so that they weren’t constantly worrying about “where all the time went.” There was little doubt, though, that the Great Auk had lived in the Days of Yore (which, as best this author can tell, was what birds called any period of history that most of them couldn’t personally remember).
Traditionally, he appeared before the colony for two reasons: to Speak the Histories and to Speak the Law. Auks were not as highly organized as owls. Families generally dealt with their own problems. But if disputes could not be settled, the Great Auk was summoned by the Council of Elders to judge who was right and wrong under the law. As law-speaker, he had also represented the auks before the Parliament of Owls.
On more ceremonia
l occasions, the Great Auk assumed the role of history-speaker, in which he told the auks one of the great stories of their past. “The Cod Wars” and “The Age of Settlement.” “The Betrayal of Alca Torda.” “The King of Murre Mountain” and “The Island of the White Seal.” At least, those were the titles Lockley could recall now, watching the Great Auk wait for the auks and their visitors to fall silent.
“I’ve thought a great deal about which story I want to tell you,” said the Great Auk. He stretched himself to his impressive full height, to better project his voice. “I think I should tell you again of the World Tree. And afterward, I think there are some treats we are all looking forward to.”
All heads turned in the direction of Lucy Puffin. Off to the side, a dejected Martha Razorbill stared at her unpopular caramel snails.
“As some have heard told,” said the Great Auk, “the First Goddess gave birth to the world in the form of an egg. And day and night she protected the world-egg from harm. But in the regions of darkness lay coiled a giant serpent, who plotted to take the egg by trickery and devour it.
“One day he came to the First Goddess in disguise, and told her about a nest of vipers nearby that wished to destroy her egg. He warned her to seek out the nest and crush the vipers while they slept. And in this way he tricked the First Goddess into leaving her egg.
“The giant serpent captured the egg in his mouth and tore it apart with his fangs. When the First Goddess realized she had been tricked, she flew into a rage and called all the gods to war against the serpent. They finally slew him, but it was too late to save the world-egg. In mourning, they planted a seed in the blood that grew into the World Tree, which branched into the Past, Present, and Future. And they created the perching birds to carry time through the branches, and the oceans to nourish its roots, and the Eagle to protect it.”
There was a murmur of appreciation among the crowd as they pictured the towering strength of the World Tree, listened to the far-off currents of the sea washing against their shores, and admired the Eagle’s courage.
“It was in the Past that the Birds of the Four Talents roosted,” the Great Auk continued. “The Merlin, the Auk, the Raven, and the Owl. Each had one gift to bestow upon the other birds. The Merlin gave the gift of flight. The Auk gave the gift of swimming. The Raven gave language. And the Owl gave wisdom—but only to other owls, which destroyed the harmony that once existed among all birds.”
Many auks softly clicked their bills at this reminder of the owls’ betrayal.
“The Auk demanded that the owls be punished for their selfishness. But the Merlin and the Raven refused because the four birds roosted equally in the World Tree. The Auk took away the gift of swimming from owls, ravens, and merlins. The Merlin and the Raven retaliated, taking back their gifts from the auks. In protest, the Auk left the World Tree, and no auk has roosted in a tree since.”
The Great Auk paused and looked at the faces in the crowd, as if to make sure they all appreciated the significance of this.
“From the World Tree the first Great Auk led us to Murre Mountain”—and here the Great Auk gestured across the ocean, in the direction of Tytonia—“where he learned the gifts of language and wisdom on his own, and shared them with other auks. He even learned the gift of flight in order to teach it, though he himself never practiced it. And Murre Mountain is where we would be to this day, if not for the owls.”
Everyone nodded in agreement, in defiance almost, at the mention of owls and the suggestion of what had gone before.
“We should all be proud of what it means to be an auk—simple in our ways and self-reliant, born with an innate sense of justice and a love of community. Never take your blessings, most of all your independence, for granted. Now, before we go and enjoy the rest of our celebration, I think we should take a moment to give thanks to Sedna.”
A remarkable quiet fell over the large crowd as the auks silently gave thanks to the goddess of the sea, who controlled all the beasts and fishes of the ocean and provided the rich harvest of Neversink’s waters. She was known to be a vengeful goddess, easily offended. And she had a complicated history with the birds. The auks were ever mindful of this. After a few moments the Great Auk lifted his bill to sniff the briny air, then turned and came down from the stone.
“Marvelous,” said Egbert, who had somehow managed to sneak up on Lockley. “Such a wonderful story, ‘The World Tree,’ and such a durable element of bird mythology.”
“Mythology?” said Lockley.
“Oh, certainly,” said Egbert. “Talk to the great migrators and you’ll find there are similar stories all over the known world. Each one tailored to a given territory. A perfect example: near the Southern Ocean the auk is replaced by a penguin.”
A penguin in a tree. Lockley had never heard of anything so silly. Egbert, though, was eager to begin his big presentation. He lumbered off toward the rock where the Great Auk had just spoken. Ruby was already there, Lockley noticed, busy covering something with a small grass mat, tugging at the corners with her tiny bill.
“If I can have everyone’s attention, please!” Egbert shouted above the din of birds. Most of them thought there would be a feasting period between speeches, and they were quite disappointed to learn otherwise. “Everyone, please, look this way!”
Egbert had now raised up his enormous, wrinkled body until he looked like a giant termite mound. But when everyone did finally turn in his direction, all they saw was the dark flock of birds soaring through the white steam of the Thermals, descending slowly on the island.
As the birds neared, it became obvious that they weren’t a flock. They were a parliament. Owls had arrived on Neversink: a pair of snowy owls, swan-white and shrieking as they extended their feathered feet for landing; a pair of splotchy brown hawk owls, letting out a piercing kwikikikikkik as they swooped low over the tundra; a barking, brown eagle owl, even larger than the snowy owls.
There were others, which Lockley thought might be long-eared owls or great horned owls. But it was impossible to tell. For these particular owls were all wearing hats. They began perching wherever they could, even on top of stunned auks. And finally, fluttering to the front like a moth compared to his larger companions, was a small, tawny owl wearing a small black hat. The entire colony of auks was rendered speechless by the invaders and their alien headgear. Fear and confusion seemed to paralyze everyone, except Egbert.
“Rozbell!” he exclaimed. “What an honor! I never dreamt someone of your stature would come.”
“Yeah,” said Ruby, appearing over his shoulder. “We weren’t expecting anything smaller than a shrew.”
Rozbell’s enormous eyes seemed to expand even further to take in the entirety of the walrus. “You must be that tooth-walker I hear so much about.”
Egbert bristled. “My good sir, you probably aren’t aware that tooth-walker is an offensive term. Nevertheless, I’m delighted you received my invitation!”
At this, the colony erupted in a chorus of angry bird noises. Lockley wanted to use the chaos to sneak away. After all, he had defended Egbert when he first proposed the party. He had even convinced Algard to help Egbert out. Lockley caught Algard’s eye; the guillemot, as if reading Lockley’s mind, opened his black bill and stuck out his red tongue at Lockley.
“Yes, your invitation,” said Rozbell. He produced the small scroll and had Astra deliver it to the Great Auk, who was the only auk not to seem surprised by all this. “Not that I need an invitation to investigate unauthorized assemblies in the territory,” Rozbell added, with a decided emphasis on the word unauthorized.
The pygmy owl flitted over to Egbert’s makeshift podium. “What’s this?” he snapped. And to Egbert’s horror, Rozbell clutched the grass mat in his talons and stripped it away, revealing…something.
Egbert let out a sigh that was like a gust of wind. “It’s a book.”
“What in the name of the World Tree is a book?”
“I was building to that,” said Egbert. At which p
oint he launched into a lengthy monologue on the genius of the walrus mind, the expanse of the walrus imagination, and the invention of writing by walruses by carving slabs of ice with their tusks—exactly the sort of thing you should be grateful I omitted from this version of the story.
Finally getting to the point, Egbert began flipping the pages of his book as he explained, “Many pages of parchment can be folded up and stitched together like so and printed front and back, so there’s virtually no limit to the number of words I, er, any author can use!”
A guillemot standing at the front said, “You do realize that none of us can read or write?”
“Not yet,” said Egbert.
“He’s invented a printed version of himself,” said a razorbill. “Big, heavy, and it just goes on and on and on.”
Many of the auks and even a few of the owls wearing hats laughed, but Rozbell just stared in disbelief at Egbert. He hopped right onto Egbert’s book, his legs straddling the spine, until he was beak-to-snout with the walrus. “This is why you called the whole territory together?”
Egbert clapped his fins to his face, genuinely surprised by Rozbell’s hostility. “I thought you and your friends above all would be interested in this,” he said. “After all, most owls can read and write. And owls are legendary for their gift of wisdom, although I think we all know that’s just a myth. I must admit, however, that your binocular vision does give you a certain bookish quality. But the brain in a creature your size couldn’t be any larger than a walnut….”
“Silence!” screamed Rozbell. “Doesn’t he ever stop talking?”
Everyone just shrugged.
Rozbell was so angry he began panting. He could feel his eyelids twitch. Not now, he thought, and he pulled the brim of his hat lower on his face as he twitched and flinched, and his fellow owls began arching their wings and shuffling nervously from one foot to the other.
Neversink Page 4
