The Outcast

by Kathryn Lasky

  “She is a very ssssssspecial owl.”

  “Oh, she is an owl?”

  “Mosssst definitely,” Stingyll answered.

  “She often ssssends us on misssssions. The lassst time, I came to save a Barn Owl by the name of Ssssssssoren.”

  “Soren!” Nyroc couldn’t believe his ear slits. “You helped save Soren?”

  “Yesssss, that was some years back. He had been badly wounded. His wound became ‘gamby,’ as we ssssay. My venom ssssaved him.”

  “Your venom saved him? I thought your venom killed.”

  “It does that, too.” And both snakes now laughed, making a strange, slurred hissing sound.

  “So who exactly is this Mist?”

  “You shall sssssee. She lives with the eagles. Sssssome call her Hortensssse.”

  “Wait a minute! Wait just one little minute. I have already met one Hortense, that Great Gray, very young and very rude. I didn’t like him a bit.”

  “There are many named Hortensssse in the foresssst of Ambala. It is an honor to be named Hortensssse, no matter if you are born female or male. But Missst is the original Hortenssse, a hero beyond compare. They ssssay a hero is known by only one name in Ambala—Hortensssse. But there is truly only one Hortensssse, and she now calls herself Misssst and she lives apart from the other owls. She lives with the eagles.”

  “With eagles?”

  Once more they nodded, but Slynella and Stingyll must have gotten tired, for this time they did only half a figure eight.

  “And she really wants to meet me?”

  “She does. She does, indeed.”

  “Does she know who I am?”

  But by this time the snakes were slithering out of the hollow and casting themselves onto the breeze that stirred with the new day. Nyroc hesitated not out of fear, but astonishment. Flying snakes! Incredible. But I am seeing them, he thought.

  “Follow usssss,” Stingyll said, twisting his head around. “Follow usss!” Both snakes flattened themselves into ribbons that rippled in slow, undulating motions over the waves and billows of windy air.

  Higher and higher they flew until they were far above the forest. Soon Nyroc spied a rocky promontory. Scraped by wind and scoured by endless winter storms, the rock had been worn to a smooth finish, and atop the promontory was the most enormous nest Nyroc had ever seen. Its circumference was at least the size of the crown of a very large tree. He had heard about eagles’ nests but he had never seen one. No mere twigs were used in its construction. The nest was built from long, sturdy branches woven together in a seemingly haphazard fashion. And perched on its edge were two immense eagles. Between them was a figure that Nyroc could not quite make out. He was flying into a rising sun, which was difficult enough, and his day vision could not compare to his night vision. He was not quite sure exactly what he was seeing. But it seemed to him that a patch of speckled fog hovered between the two eagles. Or perhaps not fog, but Mist!

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Eagles’ Nest

  They had just alighted on the rim of the nest. The smaller eagle, the male, nodded at Nyroc and spoke. “Welcome to our aerie. My name is Streak and this is my mate, Zan.” Zan made a series of nodding movements with her head. “I must explain,” said Streak. “My dear mate, Zan, had her tongue torn out in battle with Skench and Spoorn, the old leaders of St. Aggie’s. She is mute, but she can communicate with a language of gesture that Mist and I can understand.”

  Nyroc had not been able to take his eyes off the strange patch that hovered between the two eagles. The patch was now assuming a more definite form and appeared to be an elderly and somewhat shrunken Spotted Owl. He could resist no longer. He had to speak to this creature.

  “Are you a scroom?” Nyroc asked.

  There was a gentle churring, the sound owls make when they laugh. “No. I am known as Mist or Hortense, and I am alive, very much so.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Nyroc said. “But why do you look the way you do?”

  “Well, it’s a long story but I’ll try to make it brief. In Ambala, where I was hatched, the streams and brooks and lakes—even the ground itself—are rich in a magnetic material called flecks. It was both a blessing and a curse. Some owls were hatched with unusual powers because of the flecks. My father, for instance, could see through rock.”

  “See through rock?” Nyroc repeated.

  “Yes. Quite amazing, isn’t it? But sadly his own mother went yoicks, lost her wits and every gizzardly instinct she ever had.”

  “How awful.” Nyroc could not think of anything worse than losing his gizzardly senses—except maybe losing his wings.

  “For others,” Mist, also known as Hortense, continued, “it disrupted their navigational abilities. But for me, I just suffered from being quite small. It took forever for my flight feathers to come in, and I was never a very strong flier.”

  “But were you always so…so…”

  “So faded?” she said. “No, that has come on with age. My feathers whitened, and some became transparent.” She paused a moment, then stuck her beak into her breast feathers and plucked one. “Here, take a look.” She held out a small feather to Nyroc but he could not see it well enough to reach for it with his talon.

  “By Glaux, I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “Few have, obviously. Because I’m so transparent.” She churred as did the eagle. Even Zan managed a sort of hic-cuppy laugh. And the snakes, who had woven their bodies like bright green filaments through the branches of the nest, also laughed. “However,” she went on, “being transparent has its advantages.”

  “That’s how you were watching me, wasn’t it? I’ve felt your presence since I first arrived.”

  Mist nodded. The air around her seemed to shimmer whenever she moved or churred.

  “But now I have some questions for you. We have introduced ourselves, but you have not introduced yourself.”

  “I…I…” Nyroc felt his gizzard clinching. He might as well get it out. “I have no name. I have no family. I have no home.”

  “No…no…no…” Mist repeated and turned her head each time. The air once again shimmered. “How curious. Because I could have sworn—couldn’t you, Streak and Zan?—that he bears a great resemblance to…”

  Nyroc could hardly stand to hear it. He instinctively closed his ear slits. They’re going to say it! I know they’re going to say it! It’s the scar.

  “To Soren,” Mist said.

  The two syllables of the name seeped through despite his closed ear slits.

  “What?” Nyroc nearly shrieked.

  “Oh, definitely,” Streak said.

  “But look at my face.”

  “I am,” Mist replied calmly.

  “Look at my scar!”

  “Oh, yes. That’s plain to see,” she said.

  “But…but…” Nyroc stammered.

  “You see, my dear, I look at an owl’s eyes. That is where character resides. Deep within the glistening black of your eyes is a flicker of light, just as in Soren’s eyes. Your father’s eyes never had it. Nor do your mother’s. Her eyes are as black as river stones, polished as river stones, but dead, with not a flicker of that incredible dark light of Soren’s.”

  Nyroc’s gizzard was absolutely twitching. His brain was spinning. “So…so…so you knew all the time who I was, and where I came from?”

  “Oh yes, my dear. I did.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I guess I wanted to hear it from you. You see, I saw you last evening by the lake when you—how should I put it?—formally renounced your birthright, your parents, your home, and finally your name. And by the way, you are right. You are more. Much more!”

  The thoughts that had streamed through his mind last evening came back to him now: I am of the same blood as my parents but not of the same gizzard, brain, or heart. The egg that held me came from the body of my mother, but I am not my mother’s son, nor my father’s. I am more. I know that with all my heart and
with all my gizzard. I reject all that they were. I have no parents. I have no home. I am what I am but I shall never call myself Nyroc again. I have no name.

  “But how could you know all that? I didn’t speak that out loud by the lake. They were just my thoughts.”

  “That is another odd thing that I suspect was caused by the flecks. I have discovered, but only in my old age, that I can, on some occasions, read an owl’s mind. Rather like my grandfather who could see through rock, no offense intended. You hardly have rocks in your head. As I said, you are much more, much more than you ever could believe, Ny—” She started to say his name but then stopped. “By the way, you must find a new name for yourself. We must call you something.”

  “Yes, I suppose so…but are you suggesting that I stay here for a while?”

  “For a while, my dear. Yes.”

  That is all, just a while. Will I ever have a home? Nyroc thought.

  Mist knew what he was thinking but she also knew that she had been intrusive enough. There were boundaries that must be respected, the privacy of the mind and the gizzard.

  “Do you think I could ever go to my uncle Soren and live with him at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree?”

  “Perhaps, but not yet. Remember you said you knew in your heart that you were more than what your parents were.”

  Nyroc nodded.

  “I agree. You are much more, my dear. And there are tasks that you must first complete.”

  “I have to prove myself, I know. But did Soren have to prove himself before he went to the great tree?”

  “Yes, but it is hard to explain.” How indeed would she explain? Gwyndor had told her, after leaving the canyonlands for the last time, that Nyroc had fire sight. And he was certain that Nyroc had seen the Ember of Hoole. If this was so, it was essential that Nyroc make the long journey to Beyond the Beyond. He must retrieve the ember, or die trying. But if he succeeded, then truly…oh, it was almost too wonderful to think about. For what it could mean for owlkind was huge!

  “But what?” Nyroc asked.

  “Yes, Soren had to prove himself, but you have much more to prove.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair. Just because my parents were horrid tyrants. I mean, I didn’t ask to be born to them.”

  “Life isn’t always fair. But it is not a question of fairness or your parents.”

  Nyroc blinked. “This has to do with the…the…” Nyroc could not bring himself to say the words.

  “The thing you have tried not to think about. Yes, the journey to Beyond the Beyond.”

  Nyroc felt his gizzard quake. Everyone he met—from the scroom in the spirit wood to the Great Gray Owls and now Mist—kept telling him in one way or another that he had to go there.

  “It’s a place for outcasts,” Nyroc said. “That’s why I must go there, isn’t it? It’s the only place for an owl like me.”

  “No! Not at all!” Mist spoke severely and the air around her began to scintillate and glimmer. The sun flashed through her transparent feathers. “You must never think that. And secondly, there is no ‘must’ to it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have free will, my dear. The only thing you must do is choose: either to go there or not to go there.”

  “And if I choose to go there, then what?”

  “You will discover what might be your extraordinary destiny.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “That is why you should stay here for a while. You need time to think.”

  “Yes, yes, I do.”

  “Now, about your name.”

  “Yes?”

  “That is yours to choose, too. Do you know how to read at all?” Nyroc shook his head. “Do you know any letters?”

  “Two,” Nyroc replied.

  “Two? Which two?”

  “P and H.”

  Mist was slightly perplexed. These weren’t letters that occurred in this young owl’s name.

  “Why, may I ask, P and H?”

  “They were letters in the name of my best friend, Phillip. He was going to teach me all the letters and how to read, but we only got to these two…” Nyroc gulped, “before my mother killed him.” He had tried not to think about Phillip and the horror of that day, his mother’s beak ripping the Sooty Owl’s heart from his chest.

  Mist, too, could see that bloody day in Nyroc’s mind. What a despicable creature Nyra was! The young’un needed to stay here for a while. He must be nurtured with love and stories of noble owls. Yes, she would tell him about the great tree and about the owls who, every night with sublime hearts and valiant gizzards, rose in the blackness to perform noble deeds; the owls of Ga’Hoole who spoke no words but true ones, whose only purpose was to right all wrongs, to make strong the weak, mend the broken, and make powerless those who abused the frail.

  Furthermore, Mist would tell Nyroc how Soren and Gylfie had successfully resisted moon blinking with whispered recitations of the legends of Ga’Hoole, how every time they recited or even thought about these legends their brains would clear and they once more felt their gizzards begin to quicken.

  That is what Mist would do. She would feed him with legends of Ga’Hoole. The young owl would be safe here in the eagles’ nest. There were many rumors of Nyra and the Pure Ones regrouping, finding hireclaws and Rogue smiths. But no one would know that Nyroc was here with them, for few dared to come to the aerie with its two huge eagles and venomous flying snakes.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sky Writing

  That’s an S, that’s easy! Come on, Slynella, give me a harder letter,” Nyroc called out to the snakes that were flying above the nest.

  This was how Nyroc had been learning his letters. The two snakes would fly overhead and inscribe the sky with the letters of the alphabet. Nyroc had proven himself a quick learner.

  “You want a hard one?” Slynella said.

  “Yes!” Nyroc replied.

  The green snake began knotting herself overhead into a complicated design, but before she had even finished, Nyroc called out, “B. It’s a B.”

  “Okay, now for some words,” Mist said. Stingyll slipped in beside Slynella in flight. There was a great writhing in the darkness of the night as the two green ribbons twined and intertwined, lacing themselves together. The first word was a name.

  “Streak!” Nyroc shouted out.

  “I think you are really ready to decide on a name,” Mist said, looking up from her knitting. Knitting bored her, but she had learned from Gylfie who had learned from one of the nest-maid snakes at the great tree. She was doing it now only because she was trying to expose Nyroc to as many of the arts of the great tree as she could. She knew only a few, of course, but she had told him about the famous Madame Plonk who was said to sing like the hengleens of glaumora.

  Nyroc knew that he must think of a name. It was not only that he was tired of being called “Hey You” or “My Dear” or “Little One,” which was even worse. Besides, he wasn’t so little anymore. He had grown a lot. But as much as he hated his own name, it had been with him for quite a while. He had no intention of keeping it, but he often wondered if somewhere in that name there was something good, or even something he might miss. It was rather like chopping off a wing or maybe a talon. It had been his for a long time now.

  “My dear, I do not mean to intrude, but would it not help if perhaps just this once you might try to spell your original name?” She paused. “If only to say good-bye to it.”

  Nyroc blinked. Yes, she is right, if only to say good-bye.

  Nyroc flew up and hovered near the two snakes. “All right,” he said and began trying to sound out the name. “Nnnnn—N.” The two snakes slid tail-first into each other and gracefully made the N. Between the two of them there was plenty of snake left for the next four letters.

  “Mist,” he called down, “is this one of those times where it could be an I or a Y?”

  “Yes, dear, I’ll help you here. It’s a toughie. Go with Y.”

  Nyroc sounded
out the rest of the letters for the snakes. Finally, it was there, with not a lot of snake left over. Nyroc.

  He had spelled his own name, the name he had vowed never to use. He flew around the script in the sky. He liked the letters. He liked the way the R swooped and dipped. He especially loved the Y. It seemed lively and perky as if it were having a really good time being a Y. He didn’t want to say good-bye to these letters forever. He flew over the name several times. Slynella and Stingyll were infinitely patient with him.

  He flew upside down and backward, left to right, and right to left. Hey, try that one again, he thought. That’s it. I’ll keep the letters but just reverse them. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Nyroc cried.

  “My name is Coryn!”

  And in that instant the two snakes reversed themselves. There was a brief tangle of green ribbon in the sky and then out of the darkness in the most beautiful script imaginable blazed the name:

  CORYN

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Decision Is Made

  Coryn would always look upon the night of his naming as one of the happiest nights of his life. He had certainly never been happy for as long as the time he had spent with the snakes, the eagles, and Mist. He had been in the aerie for almost thirty nights. He had come at the time of full shine, passed through the dwenking of the moon until it was just a thread, a whisper of light in the sky, and watched as it had grown fatter through the newing, and now it was almost full shine again. Summer had almost ended and autumn would soon be upon them. The time of the Copper-Rose Rain, as he now knew the Guardians of Ga’Hoole called this time of year.

  In these thirty nights, he had learned so much about the tree and the Guardians and the legends—although, for some reason, Mist was rather sketchy on the details of the Fire Cycle, which he was anxious to hear. But he could not fault Mist. She had taught him so much.

  And it was odd but she had somehow become less transparent to him. Perhaps it was just his imagination that filled in the vaporous form with color and shape. He could see her eyes now. They were a lovely tawny yellow. And if he looked deeper he could see the question in her eyes: What would Coryn choose? Yes, the time had come for him to make a decision. He must go to Beyond the Beyond or elsewhere. He could not live here in this nest forever. There was meaning to his life and he must go out into the world to find it. He was glad for his new name but, in truth, it was not the name that had made him feel different and new; it was what he had learned. He had learned to read and to write like the owls of the great tree. He had learned about the constellations in the sky and how to use them to navigate. And he had learned of his parents’ bloody history. All of this made him a very different owl.