“You won’t hear anything, Soren, until we’re actually there,” Hortense said.
“Really?”
“Yes, you see, Braithe, who is somewhat of a genius, chose this place carefully. It’s what we used to call the moss hole. There’s a deep dip in this part of the forest, and the steep sides of it are lined with the thickest moss that you’ve ever seen. It absorbs every bit of sound.”
“You said you used to call it the moss hole. What do you call it now?”
“The Brad,” Hortense replied.
“The Brad?” Soren asked.
“Braithe will explain.” Hortense paused, just a beat. “All will be revealed.”
And, indeed, word by word, all began to be revealed. As they flew, the verdant landscape below them suddenly pitched steeply into a small valley.
“Are those the crowns of heartwoods?” Digger asked, pointing to the lush, dense canopy that capped the steep dell. “They don’t seem tall enough to be heartwood trees.”
“Oh, they are,” Mist replied. Heartwood trees grew to enormous heights. Had the grove of trees not been rooted deep in the moss-lined dell, their lush crowns would have scratched the sky, towering above the surrounding trees. They were the only species that even came close to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree in size. Hortense now began a steep banking turn, and they followed her, losing altitude. As they drew closer to the trees, the dell appeared to widen. They could now see that the heartwoods were clustered in a dense grove in the bottom of a mossy bowl-like valley. As they spiraled into this bowl, the light changed. It seemed to glow with a dim shimmering amber radiance. They caught the sweet scent of mint on the light breezes that found their way into the bowl. It did seem to be a place of enchantment.
The Band swung their heads in wonder as they perched on something as puffed and cushiony as one of the velvet pillows from Trader Mags’ “interior collection,” as she called it. But it wasn’t a pillow or a cushion. It was a moss-covered rock. Hortense’s remarks about the moss were understated to say the least. Nothing could have prepared them for this thickly lined green place, so hidden, so insulated from the world around them that it might as well have been in the stars. And walking, perched, or flying in low orbits were two dozen or more owls. Words, countless words flowed from their beaks. An Elf Owl swooped by:
“‘Call me Grank. I am an old owl now as I set down these words but this story must be told, or at least begun before I pass on. Times are different now than they were when I was young. I was born into a time of chaos and everlasting wars.’”
The Band blinked and looked at one another in wonder. It was the first volume of the legends cycle, the story of the first collier.
“Amazing!” Digger said in a hushed voice. And at just that moment a burly Great Horned flew by. In a deep-throated voice that was almost a growl he recited:
“‘What were my feelings that night as I huddled with my faithful servant, Myrrthe, the Great Snowy, both of us trying to protect the egg that would be my first child if it was not seized by the hagsfiends? Though a queen, I do not think that my feelings were different from those of any other mother….’”
It did not sound the least bit odd to hear this deep male voice with a rough burr on its edges intoning The Queen’s Tale. This slim volume, the story of Queen Siv, the mother of Hoole, had been found recently, preserved intact in a niche deep in the Ice Cliff Palace where Siv had hidden for a while during the terrible wars nearly a thousand years before.
Hortense seemed to be glimmering with a new intensity. “This is the Place of Living Books. Nowhere in all the owl kingdoms do I think books are as treasured as they are here in Ambala.” She shook her head and the vaporous drops seemed to blur for an instant. “I don’t know why. Blame it on the flecks!” She churred. “But each of these owls has devoted his or her life to memorizing at least one book, word by word, and passages of others.” A Snowy Owl now swept by, and Soren gasped as he caught the first words.
“‘It befell in the days of Uther Pendragon, when he was king of all England, and so reigned, that there was a mighty duke in Cornwall and he was called the duke of Tintagel and it was at this castle of Tintagel that Arthur was born of Igraine.’”
The Snowy was reciting the legends of King Arthur. This was one of his and Pelli’s favorite of all the Others’ books, even dearer to them than the Shakes plays. Soren thought again about what he had glimpsed in the torn fabric of his dream. His dear Pelli not recognizing him. It was too much for Soren.
“Ah, there’s Braithe!” Hortense waved one of her stubby wings.
The Whiskered Screech ceased his recitation and landed on a stump beside the rock where they were perched. He looked incredibly young to the Band.
“So you’re the young’un who organized all this,” Gylfie said.
“I love to read, that’s all,” the young Screech replied.
“He’s very modest,” Hortense offered. “Explain to my friends about this place and why we now call it the Brad.”
“Well.” Braithe sighed. “When the reports of these book burnings came in, our first thoughts were to hide the books. But then I thought better. Yes, we could hide the books, but what if they were found? Then what?”
The four owls of the Band blinked at each other.
“Precisely.” Braithe continued, “But what if each owl who loved to read became a book? Memorized every word on every page.” He paused. “That’s just what we did. Think of each of us as not a collection of feathers but book covers.” He puffed up his beautiful plumage. He was a handsome tawny gray with a generous sprinkling of white in his coverts. He looked in that instant so much like Ezylryb that it almost took the Band’s breath away. But they said nothing. “The idea is not mine. Not at all. You see, I was inspired. My inspiration is, or rather was, an Other.”
“An Other?” they all gasped.
“Yes, a writer I discovered when the first volume of the Fragmentum was completed. Only scraps of his writings were found—wherever it is that they find these things.” The Band exchanged nervous looks. It was more important than ever that the whereabouts of the Palace of Mists be kept a secret.
Braithe continued, “The author’s full name is not known. We call him Ray Brad. We think it’s only scraps of his name but what is important is that he wrote about book burning. I think the Others went through a time similar to ours. To save their books, the Others began to memorize them. So that is how I got the idea. And that is why we call this place the Brad. It is the Place of Living Books, named for a dead author.”
“A dead species,” Twilight added.
Gylfie closed her eyes. “Twilight!” She was mortified. How did the Great Gray just come out with these things at such inappropriate moments?
“Extinct,” Digger said quietly.
“Well, gone is gone,” Twilight grumped.
“But you see, that’s just the point.” Braithe spoke with a new intensity. “Ray Brad isn’t gone. At least not completely. His work remains, right here!” He raised his foot and tapped his handsome head with a talon. “And here.” He tapped his talon now lightly on his belly indicating roughly the spot of his gizzard.
“So welcome to the Brad. The books shall survive!” Braithe spread his wings and flew off. The Band strained to hear the words he was reciting, but fog swirled down into the Brad, and Braithe seemed to be swallowed by its vapors.
For Soren, the entire world suddenly felt very fragile. Did Digger, Gylfie, and Twilight feel this way, too? He must get back to the great tree. Punkie Night was just a short time off. The moon was almost full again. They had been gone for nearly an entire moon cycle. And what had they accomplished with their weather experiments? Practically nothing. But what had they seen? Something that they could have never imagined—the burning of books, a violation that struck at the very gizzard of the principles of the great tree, ordered by its king!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
This Is Hagscraft!
Scroom, you say?” The Striga thrust hi
s puckered face closer to Tarn, the Burrowing Owl. “You saw those four consorting with a scroom in Ambala?”
“Yes, high in an aerie where two eagles live.”
“Did you follow them any farther?”
“No, sir. They rested there for the day. I felt I should report to you as quickly as possible. Your wisdom, your profound insights…”
But the Striga cut him off. “Don’t flatter me!” he said sharply. The Striga was an expert in matters of flattery, adept with fawning, honeyed words. But he felt a deadly squirm in his gizzard when he was on the receiving end of such blandishments and adulation. For he knew that the core of all flattery was deceit. This Tarn was smart. He would have to watch him. However, he did not know that much about him. He came from some place in the Desert of Kuneer. There had been rumors of some owls holing up there, but he had no time to think about that now. He wanted to reflect on this fresh bit of news. He could not have hoped for better. He must think very carefully on how to make the best use of it. It could be the initial move in dislodging the Band from the great tree and might lead to their ultimate downfall. Careful, careful, he admonished himself. He then turned his head and peered with his pale yellow eyes that appeared to Tarn like watered egg yolks. “Thank you. You have served well, efficiently. Your skills are valued.” Now that, he thought, is how to discreetly flatter an owl. The little speech was a model of sincerity and yet not excessive. But it would gain this owl’s trust faster than any overly sweet words. Oh, he would sweeten it up as time went on. But there was a course to these things, a pace as well. “Now, please leave me. I must think on this disturbing news.”
I will break this news to the great tree, he thought. But when the time is right. After Punkie Night! Yes, of course Punkie Night. They are all so sure it will be cancelled. They will be thrilled when Coryn says it won’t be…But then he had another thought. The Band might be back by Punkie Night. Although it was mainly a favorite among young owls, older owls donned masks as well, and it was said that Twilight loved this night more than any other. That presented a problem. But then again the masks would provide the perfect cover for the Blue Brigade. They could be at the tree, masked, in substantial numbers without arousing suspicion.
Finally, a complete plan came to him. The word must go out here on the mainland of the Band’s heinous treachery—consorting with scrooms, conjuring up the dead, dabbling in hagscraft! The news must be spread that they were no longer welcome at the tree. No—better yet: A rumor that they have gone to serve in the Northern Kingdoms, deserted the tree! Broken their Guardian oath! They can be effectively exiled, as conjurers and traitors! He could make it work, he knew it. It was less than a week to Punkie Night. When he had left the tree, some owls were already busy with the preparations. He would send back a message to Coryn that it was indeed time for a celebration. Punkie Night must go on. Madame Plonk must sing. If they were busy preparing for this stupid holiday, they would be nicely distracted. But in the meantime, he would make sure that here on the mainland the word went out. There were two ways to spread that information. He would use both. The first way was grog trees, and the second was scribes. He would send the Blue Brigade to the grog trees—without their telltale blue feathers—to talk and begin the rumors of the Band’s perfidy. The second method was scribes. The number of owls who could be hired to write for those who were still illiterate, or post public notices throughout the kingdoms had increased dramatically on the mainland in recent years. He would use them. But first, he must get word back to the tree about Punkie Night.
Just before dawn, the messenger arrived and was ushered into Coryn’s hollow. The young king was still wondering if he had so gravely offended the Striga that he would not return. Coryn had been in turmoil since the Striga’s departure. Here, the very owl to whom they owed their existence because of his valorous, selfless acts had been driven from the tree perhaps forever because of Coryn’s own stubbornness.
He dismissed the messenger so he could read the message in complete privacy.
Dear Coryn,
I have been thinking a lot about our last discussion and I understand your fears concerning the ember. But Coryn, you underestimate your own strengths. You are more than able to withstand the ember’s so-called bad influences. Everywhere I go on the mainland, I see evidence of your own powers as king. The spread of culture, practical culture, the kind that I approve of, that will add to the betterment of our world, is amazing. You are an owl of unparalleled courage and intelligence, with a natural instinct for leadership. I have heard of your ancient King Hoole, but I believe you shall far exceed him. I now think that in many ways I have been too harsh. It was an act of great sacrifice on your part to give up the Harvest Festival. Therefore, with that in mind and upon great reflection, I believe that Punkie Night should go forward. It is a harmless celebration, mostly enjoyed by the young. So, please go on with the celebration. I shall be back by Punkie Eve if not before.
Yours in faith,
Striga
Coryn was so relieved, so happy he thought he might cry. He read the letter twice over, and then went out immediately to make the announcement. Oh, there would be a Punkie Night as never before!
It had been two nights since the Band had left Ambala. They had long forgotten the weather experiments, the original reason for their trip to the mainland. They were much more interested in trying to determine how widespread the influence of the Striga and his Blue Brigade were. To do this they had to operate with some stealth. Keep a low wing, flying on the edges of the night. There was always the chance of being mobbed by crows, but in recent times, ever since Doc Finebeak, a great friend of crows, had begun to reside at the tree, the Guardians had been mostly left alone by the raucous creatures. Therefore, more and more the Band found their flights extending into the morning and even afternoon hours of the day. Unfortunately, they came across ample evidence of the Blue Brigade’s devastation. They spotted numerous smoldering fires each morning, littered with the charred remnants of ornaments obviously bought from Trader Mags: countless books, scorched jewels, singed scraps of paintings.
One evening shortly after leaving Ambala, a piece of paper flapping against a slender birch tree attracted their attention. They flew down to take a closer look.
“What the…” Gylfie reached it first and was hovering as she read it aloud.
“‘The four members of the Guardians of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, known collectively throughout the owl kingdoms as the Band, were seen consorting with scrooms and dabbling in faithless acts of hagscraft. They were doing this under the cover of a so-called scientific expedition. Further information suggests that they have renounced their Guardian oath and switched their allegiance to the Northern Kingdoms. For this reason, the parliament of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree forbids anyone to welcome them into their hollows, speak to them, or transact any manner of business with them. Warning: These owls are considered dangerous.’”
Luckily, the ground was only a foot or so beneath them because Gylfie, Digger, and Soren looked at each other, wilfed, and went yeep, falling gently to the ground.
“This is outrageous!” Soren shouted.
“We’re as good as exiled,” Digger said.
“Twilight, get over here!” Soren yelled. “You gotta look at this notice written by some scribe. Absolutely outrageous!”
Gylfie turned her head to look at Twilight, who had been investigating a still smoldering fire. The Great Gray looked like a pillar of solid ashes. He was frozen, stiff, like one of the statues in the Palace of Mists.
What could have silenced Twilight? They all rushed over to where the Great Gray stood and looked down.
There was the charred skeleton of an owl, still lashed to the stump of a burnt stake.
“This is hagscraft!” Soren said in a hoarse whisper.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Wing Prints of Bao
Far away, across a vast sea at the end of the River of Wind, a blue owl perched. Tengshu had been the sage of the
se Luminous Pearl Gates at the river’s end for years beyond counting. Perched on his branch of meditation, he looked out toward the River of Wind where the qui he flew danced in the patchwork of gusts.
Tengshu flew his qui for many reasons. Often for the sheer joy of it, and at other times to collect vital weather information about the air currents, wind speeds, and any shifts in the windkin. But he also flew them when he needed to meditate on a question, and at this moment, Tengshu was deeply disturbed and needed to meditate. He sensed that things were not as they should be in the Hoolian world. In particular, he was worried about his good friends, the four owls known as the Band. He knew that the blue owl, the one who had renamed himself “the Striga,” had never returned to the Dragon Court. He had gone missing shortly after the battle at the owlery. He had distinguished himself at this battle not so much for his courage but for the brutality with which he had killed. This went against every tenet of Danyar, the way of noble gentleness. The Hoolian owls had said that he could return with them, and Tengshu had concluded that, in fact, the former Dragon Court owl had flown to the five kingdoms of the Hoolian world.
Accompanying this certainty, another feeling had been building in him, and it was that the Band in particular, and consequently the great tree, was in some sort of peril. It was just a feeling. He had no evidence as he had for the dragon owl’s flight, but his uneasiness had been growing steadily. He had never traveled to the Hoolian kingdoms, but his mother had done so hundreds of years before. As the qui dong of the Luminous Pearl Gates, it was his job to welcome any owls who found their way across the River of Wind. Very few ever had. He led a very reclusive life, one of contemplation. He pursued his poetry and his painting and, when called upon, he could fight. But this was seldom. He realized now, however, as the sun broke over the low clouds, that he must act soon. It suddenly became clear to Tengshu that he could not meditate, equivocate a moment longer. He must go. To remain a recluse at times like these was a terrible self-indulgence. He thought of his mother, Bao. She had made this same trip for reasons he had not completely understood at the time. She had gone without a minute’s hesitation. His father had been left to care for Tenghsu and his siblings. Enough of this! he thought to himself. Without another second wasted, Tengshu spread his wings and lifted into flight. Following the qui lines to the windkins, he effortlessly soared over them and joined that spectacular and boisterous river of wind. In my mother’s wing prints, he thought. The wing prints of Bao!
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