The Keepers of the Keys

by Kathryn Lasky

  “All right.”

  Rags flew low, just above the forest floor, scanning the ground for the telltale swells of the mole’s underground tunnel. It took her a bit of time to pick up the mole’s trail. As she flew, she was bemoaning the fact that, unlike other owlets, she had had no one to teach her how to track. She had come to love the bears dearly, and she in fact owed her newly acquired flight skills to them, for she had learned to fly by first hopping off the tops of their heads from one to another. It wasn’t that different from the branching that owlets did under their parents’ supervision when they would hop from limb to limb in a tree getting ready for their first real flights. When Rags would begin to plummet, it was always a soft landing into the bears’ plush fur. A nice soft crash. But she knew she had to learn kill spirals and power dives to become a real hunter. And the bears weren’t much use for that.

  Suddenly, she spied the swollen track of a mole tunnel. Now, how to lure the creature out? At the very same moment, a furry little ball emerged from a mound at the end of the track. That’s it! A thousand thoughts rushed through Rags’s head. I’m flying too low for the kill spiral … too low for any kind of power dive. The creature turned toward her and began quivering. It’s blind. It can’t see me, but it knows I’m here. Don’t think—just DO!!! Rags accelerated and flew straight toward the creature. She extended her talons and sank them into the mole’s back. Blood spurted. The creature struggled. She sank her talons in deeper. Together they rolled across the top of the mole’s tunnel. With her beak, she began to tear through the fur. More blood, and then the mole went limp. It’s dead. I killed it!

  This was her first real kill. Until now, she had to be satisfied with worms and grubs and fish the bears caught in the creeks. I should be having my first kill ceremony. And what happened to her first flight ceremony? That was what owl families always did. She knew from hearing owls that had dwelled in nearby tree hollows talk about it. All those creatures, however, left by the time Rags’s mum, Edith, had left. Rags had never thought about it before, but she wondered now why they had all left. All those parents had taken their owlets with them. Only she had been left behind—alone. Orphaned, that was the word Rabbit had used. It meant left, in Rags’s mind. Left behind. Never to catch up. It meant unloved! And now here she was in the woods, staring down at her first real kill. I’ll have to do these ceremonies all by myself … What would the bears know about it? She began to cry into the bloody little mess on the ground in front of her. She sighed. She recalled the words of the song she had heard coming from another hollow of a whiskered screech when their owlets had their first fur-on-meat-with-bones ceremony. She hadn’t heard the song for the kill ceremony, but this one would do, wouldn’t it?

  “Well, here goes,” she muttered, and began to sing.

  The fur will tickle

  The blood will trickle

  And the tail we’ll pickle

  Just for you

  Oh, little owl

  Let us all hoot

  And give a fine salute

  For your first fur on meat

  A most delicious treat!

  There was more to the song, but Rags couldn’t remember it and somehow singing it all alone in this woods made her even sadder. She would tell the bears about it when she returned. But she had promised, sworn on her gizzard, that she would not wake them until dawn. Of course, then she would be sleepy and curl up on one of their heads, or in the thick fur on the backs of their necks and snooze while they made their way to the Brad at the very center of Ambala.

  Third, sleeping on a broad cushion of moss, was lost in a dream. It was a dream of strange colors and odd scents. But he couldn’t attach these smells and hues to anything that he knew. Yet there was a peculiar familiarity. There was also an indefinable sense of dread. Dread and darkness, as if a shadow was stalking him; not just him, but all of them. Now he felt something shaking him.

  “Get up. It’s dawn, and Rags has some exciting news to tell us. She is almost bursting.”

  Third roused himself. Blinked several times. Through the trees, he could glimpse fragments of the horizon quivering with dusty pinks and oranges.

  “I have an announcement to make,” Rags said, swooping back and forth in dizzying loops in front of the bleary eyes of the bears.

  “Yes?” Stellan tried to muster some enthusiasm, although he could have slept a bit longer. It was barely dawn.

  Rags settled on a stump. “I have killed a mole.”

  “So you found it?” Third said, now fully awake. “I thought you would.”

  “Yes, but you know what that means?”

  “A milestone of sorts, I guess,” Third said.

  “Uh, we call them flight marks I think, actually kind of two flight marks. I never had a first fur-on-bones ceremony and now a first kill.”

  “Ceremonies?” Froya said.

  Rags felt something beginning to cave inside her. They didn’t understand. She began to quiver a bit. Stellan immediately sensed her despair. This was a most significant flight mark for owls. Yes, he was sure, and they were completely ignorant.

  “Yes, there are ceremonies, and I did the ceremony all by myself in the woods where I found the mole and … sang the song … and …” Rags was trembling.

  Stellan thought his own heart would break.

  “Well, Rags, you must sing it again for us, right now, right here where we stand.” The other bears were ashamed of their own ignorance. They should have known after their time at the tree how important ceremonies were in the lives of owls.

  “Yes, do sing it!” Jytte said.

  Froya and Third clapped their paws. “Sing. Sing!”

  “All right,” Rags said, and flying up to a higher branch in the tree that hung out just over where the bears stood, she began to sing the song once more. When she had finished, she flew back to the stump and dipped as if taking a bow.

  “And,” Stellan said, “I bet, I just bet, there is a first flight ceremony and a song to go with that.”

  Rags twisted her head a bit and buried her beak shyly in her shoulder feathers. “Well, actually, yes, there is.”

  “Would you sing that one?” Jytte asked.

  “Please! Please!” Froya and Third both begged.

  “All right. But I must sing it while flying. I mean, usually the parents of the owlet sing it to them while flying but … well, you know.”

  “Believe me, Rags,” Stellan said, “if we could fly alongside you, we would.”

  “Thank you,” Rags said softly. “You’re the best!” And with that, she swooped into the air.

  I never stop to bid the earth good-bye

  As I escape to the sky

  The stars are mine to embrace

  The dark of night is mine to taste

  The air is for my wings to bite

  On this, my very first ever flight

  At times a cloud does appear

  At times the air is scraped with sleet

  But I carve the wind

  My wings do beat

  I carve the rain

  And come back again,

  My first flight is not my last

  My shadow against the moon is cast

  Third listened to the last line of the song. It was as if a shadow slid across his own mind. He could not shake the shards of that dream that dug into him sharp as hyivqik ice. It was the smell that troubled him like no scent he had ever encountered, or could even imagine. How could dreams have a scent to smell?

  They had been walking for several hours when they realized that they had taken a wrong turn and were now backtracking. Third stopped suddenly, so suddenly that his sister, Froya, bumped into him.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “That smell.” Froya lifted he muzzle and sniffed the air. “Do you smell it, Froya?”

  “I do smell something, but it’s … it’s …”

  “Not like anything you ever smelled. Right?”

  She nodded. Then Stellan turned. “I smell something very
strange.”

  “Me too,” said Jytte. At that moment, a dark bear emerged from a thicket of brambles. Then a second and a third followed. Our first grizzlies! thought Jytte. They were larger than she had expected, for she recalled the bears of the Beyond were supposed to be smaller than those of the Nunquivik. It was difficult for Jytte to read the expressions in their faces. This was like looking into a night fog, or nacht nieblen, a condition that occured in the Nunquivik when the sea ice began to smoke.

  Jytte’s right, Stellan thought. They are larger than we thought … but … well, he was the frynmater, the diplomat. So he stepped forward on all fours and scraped his muzzle to the ground, which was the common etiquette to both the bears of the Nunquivik and those of the Beyond, then spoke.

  “Grizzlies, I assume from the kingdom known as Beyond the Beyond?” Why are they still standing up straight? he wondered, but persisted. “We know about you. Yes, we studied you. We share many of your same customs of greeting, or so I thought.” His muzzle was still touching the ground. The bears said nothing but merely nodded. It was as if Stellan were reciting his essay from the final test they took before they had left the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. Third was stiff with fear. He extended a paw to caution Stellan. Something was not right here. Why were these bears so silent? And the smell! Suddenly, he knew what it was. It was their fur. Their fur had been dyed. There was only one place where these bears could have obtained such dyes. The kraals! Kraal was the old Krakish word for the pirate owls of the Northern Kingdoms! They had a long history in the Hrathlands. Svern had told them about the kraals but said that most of them had vanished after the last big owl war, the War of the Ember. Their dye basins, however, had been left behind. The basins were shallow spots near a region pocked with smee holes, or steam vents. It was the steam that kept the basins percolating with their colorful liquids. Svern, of course, would know all about this being a spy, for Yinquis used old dried-out steam holes for listening. The sound transmission was perfect for their listening activities and tapping out coded messages. Like hireclaws, the kraals fought for no particular kingdom.

  These bears who stood before them had obviously soaked themselves in the pots to change the color of their fur and to camouflage themselves as grizzlies of the Beyond. But beneath those dyes they were as white as Third.

  Stellan was staring at Third, riddling his thoughts. Was it possible these brown-furred bears were actually Roguers from the Nunquivik? That they were already here in the Southern Kingdoms of Ga’Hoole? There was a second gesture of greeting that friendly bears used when approaching each other. They signaled their friendliness by turning their paws inward so their claws did not face out and bumped their paws softly against each other. He would try. Stellan began to do just this to the closest bear. The bear shrank back and accidentally bumped against Jytte’s arm.

  “What’s this?” She looked at the dark stain. Trying to comprehend what she sensed but at the same time trying to resist the truth. These bears were white. White as any bear from the Nunquivik—but not any bear. Roguer bears, all of them! The truth seared across her brain like a blazing comet in the night sky during a Blood Moon.

  The largest bear roared, opening his mouth. His fangs were like no fangs they had ever seen but jagged like the teeth of an escapement wheel of a timepiece. The teeth on which so many cubs had died. The bear lunged forward.

  The jagged fangs flashed in the moonlight. Roaring shook the forest as this bear swung at Froya. Jytte leaped onto another one’s back and began to furiously bite its ear. The bear yowled. Rags flew to a high branch out of the reach of the tallest bear and watched the fight in horror. The dark bears were outnumbered, but they were bigger and fierce. And they all had those fangs. The yosses, however, were light on their feet and quicker.

  “Watch your back, Froya. Your back!” Rags shrieked. Froya wheeled about quickly and then somersaulted out of the path of the advancing bear. The bear looked stunned. He tipped his head up toward the branch where Rags perched. The little spotted owl realized that this indeed was her chance. Kill spiral! It was an instantaneous power dive. Her spots blurred as she whistled down. Extending her talons, she aimed for the bear’s eyes.

  The bear was bellowing in pain, but all three now began running. One of the bears roared back. “The key for this bear! Where is the key?”

  What was the bear talking about? They all wondered. How did these bears know about the key?

  Then Froya shrieked as the meaning became clear.

  “They got Third. They got my brother!” She froze as she imagined those fangs devouring him. Stellan was almost paralyzed, caught between his own horror and the vivid images in Third being devoured. They’ve taken Third hostage for the key!

  Jytte broke the spell. “After them!” Her scream split the air.

  The three yosses tore through the night. Their fear melted away in the hot flash of their anger. Stellan felt a fury in his chest that burned like fire.

  But Roguer bears were fast. And they seemed to know where they were going. It began to sleet and then soon was raining heavily. Within a few leagues, the yosses had lost their track and the sharp scent of the dyes had disappeared. They tried to continue, but by the time the moon slipped away, they realized they had been going in circles.

  “We’ve lost them,” Froya sobbed, and came to an abrupt stop.

  “I’m not stopping,” Rags said. “I’ll have more chance of finding them than you.”

  “But it’s dark,” Froya cried.

  “I’m an owl, for Glaux’s sake. I am born for the black of the night—any night. I can cover more distance flying than you ever could walking.”

  “All right!” Stellan said. “Jytte, you head this way.” He pointed to the north. “Froya, you head that way. And I’ll go ahead. We’ll meet back here when …”

  “When the moon passes Grank’s Anvil,” Froya said, pointing up at the constellation of the legends.

  But Rags paid them no heed. They were land creatures bound to earth. She could fly to Grank’s Anvil three times and back before the moon passed. So instead, the tiny owl, who had only taken wing in the last few days, flew through the rest of the night, into the dawn, and greeted Joss, the morning star, before she returned and was utterly exhausted.

  “Nothing,” the spotted owl said, and collapsed. Night was falling again, and now she was too tired to do anything.

  “You tried,” Froya sobbed, and patted Rags’s head. “You tried.”

  Svenna was heading south by southwest, cutting across the ice of the vast Nunqua Sea. It seemed like Great Ursus had blessed this journey of escape, as the wind was at her back. Her plan was to go to the Northern Kingdoms of Ga’Hoole. She was sure Svern was there. She had overheard that a renowned Yinqui had escaped from one of the Roguer torture cells. And if it was Svern, he would have headed to the Northern Kingdoms. Of this she was certain. Perhaps the cubs had somehow found their way to him. Second, now Jytte, according the Jameson the seal, had always been so curious about their father. Much more so than First, now Stellan. Jytte asked endless questions about where he might be. Why did father bears never stay with their young? She was so determined and at the same time so impulsive she could imagine Jytte talking Stellan into finding their da. So perhaps that was where she should head—to the Firth of Grundensphyrr, where they had first met in the Northern Kingdoms, or perhaps to Stormfast Island, where Svern had come from.

  She recalled now Jameson’s words as he lay dying. They were well … and they have names … Jytte and Stellan. She treasured those ten words. They were as precious as any jewels.

  With that favorable wind came the heavy blizzards of the jumble moon, quickly erasing her tracks. A blessing in itself, but of course the stars were also wiped away. Although she was not an ice gazer like her daughter, Jytte, she did possess certain sensibilities about snow. She could tell that there was more moisture in the air as she traveled south. Did she feel slight vibrations beneath the snow? She took one of her broad paws and b
egan to scrape. It was deep and she had to scrape for a while, but finally the ice was clear of snow. Crouching down, she pressed her port ear to the exposed ice sheet and heard it—the rustling waters of the N’yrthghar Straits.

  “I’m coming home!” she whispered to herself in wonder. “I’m coming home!”

  By first light, which was just a squeak of pink on the horizon, she turned into the straits, which were not completely frozen. “My, my,” she said softly. “Things have certainly been rearranged here.” She looked about and realized a large portion of the Hrath’ghar Glacier must have torn loose in an avalanche. The familiar contours of the coastline had been completely rejiggered. New bays cut out, old bays filled with the ice sopple, the trash from a glacier on the move—chunks of rock, trees, whatever was in its path. She studied this new landscape for a while and then swam on.

  Within a few hours, she would find the Bay of Fangs. She made her way up toward the Firth of Grundensphyrr, then turned west. She was tired by now, and straight ahead she saw the old dye pots of the kraals. It had been years since the kraals had lived here, but a few of their pots were still simmering, fed by the underground steam vents. She wandered through. She had passed a bright yellow one, and nearby a green one. Farther away, she spied the signs of an old steam vent. She wondered if a Yinqui had ever used it or perhaps was now using it as a listening station. She slowed her pace. As she came closer, she saw splatters of blue and orange dyes. There was one basin where it looked as if the two colors had been combined, for around the edges were splashes of very dark blue and orange. But in the basin itself was a pool of brown dye. There were footprints around the pool—bear footprints. Then, just ahead, she spotted splashes of red dye.

  Svenna scratched her head in confusion. What happened here? she wondered. She felt her heartbeat quicken. Something was not right. A peculiar odor cut through the splatters of the dye. Horrified, she realized that the red was not dye at all but blood. Ahead she saw a huge mound. Cautiously she approached. It was a bear, a dead bear. A murdered bear. There were bear claw marks all over him. His blood had congealed in the snow. There were also smears of brown, the brown dye she had just passed by in the basin. Svenna could tell that he had been dead for some time—perhaps half a moon. In addition to the bear claw marks, there was the unmistakable evidence of vultures. With their beaks and talons, the scavenger birds had torn at the wounds. She walked around, slowly examining the bear tracks, the splashes of dye and blood on the ground. The kraals might be gone, but something worse had arrived. Then it dawned on Svenna. This victim was most likely a Yinqui. Had he been dragged from his listening post at one of the dried-out smee holes? The region must be pocked with smee holes. Many had probably dried out. Hadn’t Svern once mentioned how prolific smee holes were in this region? That it was perfect for Yinquis? She had to find the smee hole from which this bear had transmitted. In that moment, she felt a welter of emotions boil up inside of her. She clamped her eyes shut and thought of Svern. Was he alive? Dead? Or, she prayed, perhaps he was in one of his Yinqui dens, somewhere, someplace?