Lucy took Ruby back inside and showed her Lockley’s feathers. She told her about the raven’s visit, and then explained that Egbert was gone, too. “You’re all I have left, little one.”
“Lucy, Lockley’s not dead!” said Ruby. Just to be sure, she took a closer look at the feathers, and darted her tongue out at a white splotch of goo. “Marsh-mallow! These are from the decoy!”
“Decoy?”
“Sure! Let’s see, there was the escape, then the tunnels, the badger, the mole who was a mole, the moors, the Teeth of the Moors, the decoy, the highlands, the eagle, and then the second escape!”
“Ruby, slow down!” said Lucy, but in truth, her heart was beating like the hummingbird’s wings. “Tell me what happened?”
“I just did,” said Ruby. “Do you want the long version?”
Lucy smiled. “Come in, I’ll boil you some sugar water, and you can tell me everything.” Which Ruby did, up to the point where Feathertop chased Lockley off Murre Mountain.
“And I know Featherbrain didn’t catch him,” said Ruby, “because if he had, he wouldn’t have had to use those decoy feathers to prove Lockley was dead. He’s just trying to cover his tail feathers with Rozbell!” But when Ruby tried to explain why Lockley hadn’t come straight back, why he felt he had to venture to Ocean’s End first, Lucy became worried again.
“He’s still in danger,” she said quietly as Ruby inhaled more sugar water. Then she remembered there was something she’d forgotten to tell Ruby. She led the hummingbird to the bedroom and showed her the new egg.
“Wow, it’s bigger than me!” said Ruby, alighting on top of it.
Lucy also told Ruby the horrible news about Rozbell’s plan to take their eggs. “Egbert was helping me hide it before they sent him away,” she said, her voice rigid with anger. “Ruby, we have to think of something to do until Lockley returns. Or…in case he doesn’t.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Ruby assured her. “And if we have time, maybe we can even figure out a way to get Egbert back?” she asked, trying to sound as if she didn’t care one way or the other.
Lucy took her to the kitchen and fed her sugar water until Ruby couldn’t drink any more. Yes, they had to think of something. The solidarity the colony had just showed would not last for long. They were all on the verge of starving. And she knew Rozbell would be back, if not for their eggs, then for something even worse. This was far from over.
IN THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE
Lockley had never been so cold in his life. Egbert, on the other hand, burned with shame as they crossed the barren ice. Lockley was thoroughly disoriented by the featureless landscape. In all directions, the land spread out like frosted glass, apparently deserted. But appearances are deceiving in the Arctic.
The Arctic may appear to be a white wasteland, but Egbert knew very well there was more to fear than the sting of the cold and the bite of the wind. Food was always a problem. The “land” around the North Pole was just frozen ice. Unless they were at the water’s edge, seals and walruses had to carve holes in the ice in order to fish. Going in was no problem. But sometimes, waiting for them when they came out was the beast feared by all—the bear known by his prey as the White Death. And if the bear became impatient, he had no qualms about tracking down a walrus clan or a seal pod.
Lockley was aware of these dangers, too, for Egbert had told him, numerous times, when telling him tales of his ancestral home. His primary concern, though, was freezing to death. He fluffed up his underfeathers against the cold and told himself that if he kept moving, he might at least warm up some.
“Egbert, why are the Scholars so far from the clan? Do you even know where we’re going?”
“They aren’t part of my clan,” said Egbert. “Or any clan. They are remote both in body and spirit. By distancing themselves from the base needs of warring and mating, they can concentrate on the higher arts of learning.”
“They don’t mate?” said Lockley. “Do they live forever?”
“I’m sure they’ve studied the possibility,” said Egbert, his enormous body spraying cold, crystalline chips in Lockley’s face as he slid across the ice. “But no, they are replaced by candidates, chosen by the Scholars themselves.”
“And you were a candidate?”
“I was,” said Egbert, his voice heavy and wistful. “Even the clan kings have no authority over the Scholars. They sit above all.”
Well that explains a lot, thought Lockley. He could easily imagine how well Egbert would have fit in, lording his intellect over his more brutish kin. No wonder he was forever being surprised by the auks’ capacity to ignore him! Lockley’s wandering thoughts at least had the benefit of taking his mind off the cold. But he was completely caught off guard when Egbert finally said, “We’re here.”
Lockley looked up. Nothing Egbert had ever told him about the library prepared him for what he saw. In what should have been the middle of nowhere was a strange, almost surreal temple of ice, where learning itself assumed the form of architecture. Great slabs of ice were carved by tusk with the writings of the Scholars and their pupils. They formed a pathway into a large courtyard with more carved ice sheets serving as both wall and sculpture, and still others formed more pathways that led off to other ice chambers. Sunlight refracting through the colossal ice texts made them sparkle like engraved crystal, and both Egbert and Lockley stood awed by the prisms of light—the radiance of accumulated wisdom.
Emotions flooded Egbert as he wandered through the library of the Scholars for the first time since his Shunning. He made his way through the courtyard to what he remembered was the main reading room, and again he had to catch his breath. Shimmering amid the ice was an exquisite ivory building, made from walrus tusk. Two enormous doors, leather hides stretched over a frame of bones, stood open to a dark entryway. On the inside of each door was mounted a long, saber-like walrus tusk, the pair of which could be folded into an ivory X to lock the doors. Egbert peered into the darkness and said, “In here.”
Lockley followed Egbert into the cavernous entryway, which led to an even larger central room hung with tapestries made of hide. Light filtered through a translucent roof of ice to an ivory table the length of a whale, it seemed to Lockley. And sitting around the table were nine of the largest walruses Lockley had ever seen, each poring over ice texts, seemingly lost in thought and oblivious to their visitors.
Egbert stood there, watching them work. Some were reading, others writing, using ivory tusks to carve lines and symbols into sheets of pure ice, frosted white from cold. The writers would occasionally stop to brush away the frozen residue that built up along the narrow grooves like salt crystals. One by one the Scholars noticed Egbert. And Lockley.
“Well, well, well,” said one. “Egbert, have you moved to the South Pole?”
Lockley, who had been frozen with awe, suddenly thawed with irritation. “For the love…of…fish! Even the most educated animals on the planet confuse me with a penguin? I’m a puffin, for crying out loud! We live just off the edge of the Arctic. If you ever bothered to leave your blooming library once in a while, you might have met one of us!”
The Scholars just stared at this strange eruption of both color and emotion. Even Egbert was shocked by Lockley’s outburst. “If all puffins are as volatile as you,” said one, “then I’m glad I haven’t met one before now.” The others nodded vigorously in agreement.
A different Scholar spoke up. “I’m sure I am not alone among my learned friends in wondering what you are doing here, Egbert. With a puffin.”
“My learned friend makes an excellent point,” said a third. “I believe you were Shunned.” The Scholars mumbled reverently at the mere mention of the word.
Egbert bowed his head, either out of reverence or humiliation; Lockley was unsure which. He had never seen Egbert struggle so to speak.
“I assure you I would not have presumed to return unless it was a matter of great urgency,” said Egbert. “Lives are at stake.”
“Ours?” said a Scholar.
“No, the lives of all the innocent creatures of Neversink,” said Lockley, stepping forward. When they heard this, the Scholars immediately lost interest.
“Such concerns are quite literally beneath us,” one Scholar explained. When Lockley began to protest, Egbert motioned for him to be quiet, and moved forward.
“Naturally you shouldn’t concern yourselves with the plight of an insignificant bird sanctuary far south of here,” said Egbert. “Which is why we would never ask for your help in researching the knowledge we need. We simply beg the privilege of access to the library for ourselves. Only for today.”
“We don’t give out guest passes.”
“My learned friend is quite right. This is a place of scholarship, for those who have devoted their lives to scholarship.”
“Oh, but I have!” said Egbert. “I know you considered it heresy at the time, but perhaps now that I’ve made some headway…” He proceeded to explain to them his invention of the book, with all its benefits and improvements. “Imagine,” he added, “texts that can survive the melting that occurs every ten thousand years or so…vast amounts of wisdom and entertainment have been lost!”
“Enough!” said a Scholar, slamming his fin into the table. “This book…it lacks the beauty of the ice texts. And their humility.”
“My learned friend is quite right. Trying to make your work outlast an ice age is the height of arrogance. Besides, the materials and labor you describe to produce one of these…books…quite impractical for Ocean’s End.”
“But Ocean’s End doesn’t have to be the only place of learning!” said Egbert.
A collective gasp echoed through the ivory chamber. “We’ve been through this before,” said another. “Our vagabond pupil here would have us teaching the snails to read and write.”
“They could slime their words across the page.”
The Scholars let out a great collective laugh—the kind of haughty, sneering laugh that only the most overeducated animals are capable of. Egbert could see what he was up against.
“Forgive our rudeness,” said one, addressing Lockley. “We should have properly introduced ourselves. We are the heads of the Nine Departments of Wisdom.”
On cue, the Scholars of Philosophy, Religion, Law, Marine Biology, Ancient History, Ancient Literature, Less-Ancient Literature, Literature of the Middle Ages, and Contemporary Literature each bowed in turn as their names were pronounced.
“If you have Scholars of ancient literature and literature of the Middle Ages, why do you need a Scholar of less-ancient literature?” asked Lockley.
The Scholar of Less-Ancient Literature let out a shriek.
“Nine is a perfect number,” said one. “It allows us to have a tiebreaking vote at faculty meetings.”
“But you’ve never discussed adding a new area of scholarship over the years?”
“What department of wisdom have we failed to account for?”
“Nonmarine biology?” said Lockley.
“Too dull.”
“World culture?”
“Too broad.”
“Gender politics in northern epic poetry?”
“Too specialized.”
“Really, Mr. Puffin,” said another Scholar, “this is bordering on impudence.”
The others agreed. Egbert, meanwhile, had used the diversion to think of a new line of persuasion: “You see how ignorant my lowly puffin friend is,” he said.
“Hey!” said Lockley, but his protest was drowned out by sighs of agreement from the Scholars.
“Think of how impressed—awestruck—he would be,” Egbert continued, “if he were allowed to gaze upon the wonderment of your achievements. I dare say he will be recounting this glorious moment among his own kind for the rest of his miserable, unwalruslike days!”
This gave the Scholars pause. The idea of having their greatness talked about beyond Ocean’s End, even by lesser creatures, seemed to appeal to them. One pulled another aside and whispered something to him, and he in turn passed the message to another, and so on down the line. The last Scholar nodded, then spoke.
“An interesting point, Egbert. However, you were Shunned, and we have no policy in place for Unshunning you, even temporarily.”
“Couldn’t you vote on one now?” Lockley wondered.
“That would take years of contemplation,” said the Scholar. “Therefore, your request is denied. We ask that you leave the library as soon as possible.”
Ushered rudely outside, Lockley and Egbert had the doors shut in their faces and heard the tusk-handles on the other side clack together as the doors were locked. Lockley thought he’d never met a more unreasonable group of creatures in his life. “What do we do now, Egbert?”
Egbert slowly shook his head. “We leave.”
“That’s it?” He was appalled that Egbert would give up so easily after coming so far.
“That’s it. We have to go.”
Still in disbelief that their trip had come to nothing, Lockley took one last look at the towering temple of ice and followed Egbert back toward the empty exile of the Arctic.
“What do I do now, Lockley? I’ve been banned from the only two places I’ve ever called home.”
Lockley had never seen Egbert so deflated. He gave his rough hide a gentle pat. “I know how you feel, old boy. I may not have a home to go home to either.”
“I’m sorry,” said Egbert. “I’m thinking only of myself, as usual. That was the whole point of this journey—to help you.”
“Psst.”
“Did you say something?”
“Not me,” said Lockley. “Maybe it was the wind.” Indeed, it seemed to howl all about them, filling up the vast empty spaces. But then Lockley heard it again. “Egbert, I think the wind just called your name.”
“Over here.”
They both turned and saw what appeared to be a walrus peeking his head out from behind the library. He motioned to them. When they got nearer, Lockley saw that it was Barold, the Scholar of Less-Ancient Literature. He wondered if the Scholar was still nursing a grudge for the way Lockley had insulted him.
“There’s a structure behind the main library,” Barold said to Egbert, “built since you left. The Scholars needed more space. They decided anything not deemed pure walrus literature would be restricted to this building. I’m guessing whatever you need that pertains to your friend’s home would be in there.”
“And you can let us in?” said Egbert. “Won’t we be seen?”
“The other Scholars rarely go there, concentrating as they do on the pure literature. I doubt anyone will take much note of a couple of walruses shuffling about there.”
“Why are you doing this?” said Lockley. “Couldn’t you be Shunned, too?”
To answer, Barold looked squarely at Egbert. “I may not agree with all our former candidate’s ideas. But I do think the Scholars should be looking outward, not inward. Here is a clear case where knowledge might do some practical good, and we don’t want to share it.”
It was Lockley’s turn to look at Egbert. “I’m sure the Great Auk would say that sharing doesn’t do much good if the pupils aren’t listening.”
“If you’re referring to my lack of success on Neversink,” said Egbert, “no one is to blame but me. I just assume that what’s important to me should be important to everyone.”
“All right, all right,” said Barold. “We can all beat ourselves up later. Right now we need to get to those shelves.”
The three quietly made their way to a structure Egbert had never seen before. It was far less magnificent than the main library, built of raw tusk and hide. Inside, it was barren but for a single long study table, made of ice, and shelves stacked floor to ceiling with ice sheets.
Barold and Egbert moved from shelf to shelf, running their fins along the spines of ice, which were organized according to a cataloging system that remained a mystery to Lockley. Finally Egbert stopped and pulled forth one of the great f
rozen tablets, laying it carefully on the table. “Here it is,” he said solemnly. “‘The Tricking of Sedna.’”
The title was completely unreadable to Lockley, of course. But he was surprised to find himself admiring the rhythmic beauty of the angled marks and abstract symbols, tracing the etched grooves with his wing tips, wondering if there was something to the written word.
“How did the walruses come up with this?” he wondered aloud.
Egbert looked at Barold, who stretched himself out along the floor and rolled onto his side, so that his massive hide was like a scroll of gray parchment, and his hide scars like ancient runes or cave drawings. Lockley thought back to the hide tapestries in the main reading room and realized they were not decorated—they were actual hides of past walruses, scarred with history.
“Our hides have long told stories about us,” Barold explained. “The wars we’ve fought, the battles for our mates…even the kings we served, for in olden days our king would brand all the males in his clan.”
“These are amazing!” said Lockley, admiring the ice texts. A proud Egbert pulled forth sagas of long-gone walrus kings and warriors with names like Tusker, Brymley, and Harald. Sagas of heroes and villains, intruders and outlaws. Then Lockley remembered he was admiring the work of those haughty walruses from the library, which lessened his enthusiasm.
Egbert also seemed to shrink a bit when he remembered the purpose of this new reading room. “There will probably be a story about me in here someday,” he said ruefully. “Shelved among the notorious and the Shunned.”
Barold reminded them what they were there for, and Egbert turned back to the story of Sedna. “Egbert, old boy,” said Lockley, “if this works, I’ll take back every bad thing I ever said about book learning.”
Egbert just snorted and began scanning the text silently while Lockley grew impatient. But Egbert ignored him until he had finished reading the familiar tale, most of which he had heard from the Great Auk. The written version had the same ending as the Great Auk’s, with Sedna becoming a vengeful goddess. Egbert had been hoping the scholarly text would include additional notes. As Lockley looked on anxiously, Egbert’s whiskers began to twitch. “Ah, here it is—the spirit journey!”
Neversink Page 16
