The Capture

by Kathryn Lasky

  So that is what Soren and Gylfie thought of. It filled their minds. The power downstroke. The bunching together of the slots on the leading edge of their primaries. The upstroke, the spacing of those same feathers so the air could pass through with no drag. They had become very muscular from all their practice. They were probably the most muscular young owls in the entire academy of St. Aegolius. This alone should make them believe. Had there ever been an Elf Owl as young as Gylfie who could power flap so strongly?

  They arrived at last at the inventorium. Grimble could immediately tell that both owlets were concentrating fiercely. This was good. Now he just hoped that his ruse to get Jatt out would work. Luckily, Grimble had detected that things were not perfect between the two brothers Jutt and Jatt. Perhaps it was jealousy. It seemed as if Skench was paying more attention to Jutt than his brother, particularly on battle flights. There was always a bit of contention after a battle as to the dividing up of the battle claws left on a field from the defeated owls. Skench and Spoorn got first choice and then, when they returned to St. Aggie’s, the rest of the claws were sorted and handed out according to rank or battle performance. There was an elderly owl, Tumak, who was the director of the main battle claw repository. But now Grimble was going to tell a bold lie that he hoped would get Jatt out of the library he was guarding. He began talking quite loudly. Soren and Gylfie couldn’t imagine what he was doing, for he seemed to be speaking not to them but to some invisible owl.

  “You don’t say! My word. Trouble in the claw repository. Oh, Jatt’s not going to like that at all. I think I better tell him.” By the time Grimble, and it was only a matter of seconds, got to the guardhouse of the library, Jatt’s feathers were puffed and quivering with agitation. He seemed twice his size and was in obvious pain. If any creature could be swollen with questions it was Jatt. And that, of course, was Grimble’s advantage that he planned to work to the fullest.

  “Don’t worry, Jatt. I shall tell you everything. At least all that I know. Now calm yourself. I had heard Jutt talking with Spoorn earlier, regarding those new battle claws and how he felt Tumak was not handling them correctly. Spoorn had said that she would take it up with Skench.”

  “Oh, no!” Jatt gasped. “Jutt’s been wanting to be the director of the repository forever. And we all know what that means. He’ll be the most powerful owl around here next to Skench and Spoorn.”

  “Well, it is my understanding that they are allowing Tumak and Jutt to fight it out. There’s a duel about to begin and Jutt has his forces assembled. Go get your troops, Jatt. Quick—there’s still time. I’ll stand guard.”

  “Thank you, Grimble. Thank you. And don’t worry. When I am head of the repository, you shall get first choice for battle claws.”

  “I’m not worried, Jatt. Now, just go while there is still time.”

  As soon as Jatt turned the corner and disappeared down the long stone crack, Grimble called to Soren and Gylfie. “Come on, you two. There’s not a minute to waste.” The two owlets raced into the library. They gasped when they entered the room. It was not the books they noticed or the small array of polished battle claws hanging off one wall. It was the sky, black, chinked with stars, stars that seemed so close that an owl could have reached out with a talon and plucked one. Memories rushed back. Memories of sky and breezes—yes, indeed, they did feel a wind, even here. Oh, they were so close. Yes, they believed! Yes, they could do this and, then, just as Soren and Gylfie swung their wings up into their first stroke, Skench burst in. She was ferocious looking in full war regalia. Immense battle claws made her talons twice their size. A metallic needle extended from the tip of her beak and glimmered in the slice of the new moon that hung like a blade over the library.

  “Flap!” screeched Grimble. “Flap. You will do it! You will do it! Believe! Power stroke! Power! Two wing beats and you’re up.” But the two little owls seemed frozen in their fear. Their wings hung like stones at their sides. They were doomed.

  Soren and Gylfie watched transfixed as Skench advanced toward them, and then something very peculiar happened. Skench, moved by a power unseen, suddenly slammed into the wall, the wall that had the notches that Grimble had described in which the flecks were stored.

  “Go! This is your chance!” Grimble shouted.

  An indeed it was. Skench seemed to have been immobilized, paralyzed.

  Soren and Gylfie began to pump their wings. They felt themselves rise.

  “You can do it! You believe! Feel it in your gizzard. You are a creature of flight. Fly, my children. Fly!” And then there was a terrible shriek and the night was splattered with blood.

  “Don’t look back! Don’t look back, Soren! Believe!” But this time it was not Grimble calling. It was Gylfie. Just as they reached the stone rim, they felt a curl of warm air. And it was as if vast and gentle wings had reached out of the night, and swept them up into the sky. They did not look back. They did not see the torn owl on the library floor. They did not hear Grimble, as he lay dying, chant in the true voice of the Boreal Owl, in tones like chimes in the night, an ancient owl prayer: “I have redeemed myself by giving belief to the wings of the young. Blessed are those who believe, for indeed they shall fly.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Flying Free

  In the dark soul of that night, Soren and Gylfie only saw the stars and the moon on its silvery path into the infinite blackness of this new heaven through which they wheeled in flight. So once more the world spiraled. But this time there was a difference. It was Soren who was carving these spirals and loops. With his wings he scooped air, shaped it. There was not the desperate need for flapping and pumping now. Instinctively, he stilled his wings and rode the thermal updrafts, rising higher without even stirring a feather. He looked down at Gylfie, who was a few feet below him, catching the lower layer of the same updraft. Grimble was right. They knew exactly what to do. Instinct and belief flowed through the hollow bones of the two owls as they flew into the night.

  It had seemed that after being locked in the still air of the windless canyons and ravines of St. Aegolius, the two owls were encountering every kind of wind and draft imaginable. Soren had not known how long they had flown when he heard Gylfie call out, “Hey, Soren, any idea how we land?”

  Land? Landing had been the furthest thing from Soren’s mind. He felt as if he could fly forever. But he supposed that the little Elf Owl might be getting tired. For every one stroke of Soren’s wings, Gylfie had to make three. “No idea, Gylfie. But maybe we should look for a nice treetop and then…” He paused. “Well, I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

  And they did. Tipping slightly downward at a gentle angle, they began a long glide toward a cluster of trees. Once more, instinct took over as both owls in their descent began to inscribe tighter and tighter circles around the trees below. Each owl angled its wings slightly to increase the drag and then, as they approached the tree, they extended their talons.

  “I did it!” Soren gasped as he lighted down on a branch.

  “Aiyee!” squeaked Gylfie.

  “Gylfie, where are you? What’s wrong?”

  “Well, except for being upside down, I think I am fine.”

  “Great Glaux!” Soren exclaimed as he saw the little Elf Owl hanging by her talons with her head pointing toward the ground. “How did that happen?”

  “Well, if I knew how, it wouldn’t have happened,” Gylfie replied testily.

  “Oh, dear! What are you going to do?”

  “Well, I’m going to think about it.”

  “Can you do that hanging upside down?”

  “Of course I can. What do you think? My brains are going to fall out of my head? Really, Soren!”

  Gylfie looked a bit ridiculous hanging upside down, but Soren certainly wasn’t going to say anything. He wished he could be of more help.

  “If I were you, gal…” A voice came from another branch higher up in the tree.

  “Who’s that?” Soren was suddenly frightened.

&n
bsp; “What does it matter who I am? Been in the same spot as your friend there once or twice myself.” Soren felt the branch he was perched on shake. The most enormous owl he had ever seen alighted, then swaggered out toward the end. The owl, a silvery gray color, seemed to simply melt out of the moonlight, but he towered over Soren. His head alone, with his enormous facial disk, was almost twice the size of Gylfie. It was very difficult for Soren to imagine that this huge owl had ever been in the same situation as Gylfie.

  “Here’s what you have to do,” he called down to Gylfie in a deep voice. “You have to let go, just let go! Then quickly flap your wings up, an upstroke, hold it for a count of three. You’ll come out right side up and then just glide down. Let me demonstrate.”

  “But you’re so big and Gylfie’s so small,” Soren said.

  “I am big—right you are! But I am delicate and beautiful. I can float! I can skim.” The enormous owl had lifted off the branch and was flying through the air, performing every imaginable flourish of flight—plunges, twists, swoops, and loops.

  He began a hooting song:

  “Flutter like a hummingbird,

  Dive like an eagle,

  Ain’t no bird that’s my equal.”

  “Good Glaux!” Soren muttered. “What a show-off.”

  “Hey, when you got it you show it. When you don’t, you usually don’t know it.” The huge owl lit down, obviously pleased with his wit and flying.

  “All right,” Gylfie said.

  “Letting go is the hardest part, but you got to believe it will work.”

  Belief again, thought Soren. That seemed to be the word that struck Gylfie as well, because in just that instant Gylfie let go. There was a little blur in the night—like a small leaf caught in a sudden gust—and then Gylfie was flying right side up.

  “Beautiful!” exclaimed Soren. In another second, Gylfie had alighted on the branch next to Soren.

  “See? Nothing to it,” said the huge silvery owl. “‘Course I didn’t have anyone to coach me. Had to figure it out on my own.”

  Soren studied the big owl. He seemed young despite his size. He didn’t want to be rude but he was genuinely curious about this owl. “Are you from these parts?” Soren asked.

  “Here, there, everywhere,” the owl replied. “You name it, I’ve been there.” He had a rough manner of speaking that was slightly intimidating.

  Gylfie hopped out toward the end of the branch. “I want to thank you for your kindness in advising me on my predicament.” Soren blinked. He had never heard Gylfie speak this way. She sounded so much older than she was, and extremely courteous. “We don’t mean to be rude but we have never seen an owl of your size. May we be so bold as to inquire as to your species?”

  Species! Soren thought. Where in the name of Glaux did Gylfie come up with these words?

  “Species? What the Glaux is that? Very fancy word for a Great Gray Owl like myself.”

  “Oh, so you are a Great Gray. I’ve heard of them, though there were none in Kuneer,” Gylfie said.

  “Ah, Kuneer! Been there. No, not a good place for Great Grays. As a matter of fact, I can’t really tell you where I’m from. See, I was orphaned at a very young age. Plucked up by a St. Aggie’s patrol but managed to drop right into an abandoned nest.”

  “You escaped from a St. Aggie’s patrol?”

  “You bet. There was no way those idiots were going to take me. Not alive. I bided my time, then bit my snatcher’s second talon clean off. He dropped me like a hot coal. They never messed with me again. Word went out, I s’pose.” He swaggered a bit, then strutted toward the end of the branch.

  Now even Gylfie was speechless. Finally, Soren spoke. “We were snatched as well and only now escaped. I, myself, am from the Kingdom of Tyto, and both Gylfie and I want to find our families again. But we have no idea where we are right now. I mean, that is why I asked who you were. I’ve never seen your kind in Tyto, but here we are, perched in a Ga’Hoole tree, which are Tyto trees.”

  “Not necessarily. Ga’Hoole trees follow the River Hoole and the River Hoole runs through many kingdoms.”

  “Not Kuneer,” Gylfie said.

  “No, there’s not a drop of water in Kuneer, let alone a river.”

  “Oh, there’s water if you know where to look,” Gylfie said.

  “Hmm.” The owl blinked.

  Soren could tell right away that this owl was not pleased when someone knew something that he might not.

  “So are we in Tyto or not?” Soren asked.

  “You’re on a border here between Tyto and the Kingdom of Ambala.”

  “Ambala!” Soren and Gylfie both gasped. Hortense!

  “To my way of thinking, it’s a second-rate kingdom.”

  “Second rate!” Soren and Gylfie both said at once.

  “Not if you knew Hortense.” Soren said.

  “Who in the name of Glaux is Hortense?”

  “Was,” said Gylfie softly.

  “A very fine owl,” Soren spoke in a tight voice. “A very fine owl indeed.”

  The huge owl blinked in wonder at these young owls. They seemed to know nothing. And yet…He let the thought trail off. Certainly their survival skills must be pretty good if they got out of St. Aggie’s. Still, there was no education like the one he had received. The education of an orphan. The orphan school of tough learning. He had to learn it all himself. How to fly, where to hunt, what creatures to stalk and which to avoid at all costs. No, nothing could compare to figuring out on one’s own the hard rules and schemes of a forest world—a world with uncountable riches and endless perils. It took a tough owl to figure it all out. And that was exactly how Twilight thought of himself. Tough.

  Gylfie seemed to have recovered. “Well, permit us to introduce ourselves. I am Gylfie, Elf Owl, more formally know as Micrathene whitneyi, common to desert regions, migratory, cavity nester.”

  “I know, I know. Spent some time in a hollowed-out cactus with some of you fellows. Hunting skills…uh, how should I put it? Well, if all you eat is snake, let’s just say desert smarts are different from forest smarts.”

  “We eat more than snake. My goodness. We eat voles and mice, but not rats—they’re a bit large for us.”

  “Well, never mind.” The big owl turned and blinked at Soren. “So what’s your story, kid?” Soren had the feeling he should be briefer than Gylfie and not go into so much detail.

  “Soren of Tyto, Barn Owl.” Soren sensed that going into the rareness of their breed, Tyto alba, would not interest this owl. As a matter of fact, not much impressed this owl. “Lived in an old fir tree with my parents until…” His voice dwindled off.

  “Until that horrible day.” The big owl blinked and tapped Soren lightly with his beak in a gentle preening gesture. This small movement more than anything surprised Soren and Gylfie. The two owls had not seen nor felt the soothing preening gestures since they had fallen from their nests. But preening had been a large part of their lives. Gently prinking with their beaks, the parents would pick out bits and plump up the feathers of their mates and their children as well, or whatever patchy down a baby owl might have sprouted. It was so soothing and lovely. Preening and being preened by one’s family and closest of kin and friends was the essence of being a true owl. Soren was overcome by the kindness of the gesture. The big owl turned to Gylfie and spoke. “You, too, little one with the big words, come over here. Bet it’s been a while since anyone prinked your down.” And so Gylfie hopped over closer to the owl, and while he preened one and then the other in turn, the Great Gray began to tell some of his story.

  “My name is Twilight. I don’t know how I got the name. It’s just my name.”

  “It fits you,” Soren said softly. “Because you are all silvery and gray.”

  “Yes, not black or white. It fits, and blast my gizzard if I didn’t hatch on the edges of time, for that is one of my first memories. Twilight! That silvery border of time between day and night. Most owls have pride in their night vision. We see things
that other birds cannot see from high up in the pitch of the night—a mouse, a vole, a tiny squirrel scuttling through the forest. I can see all that, too, but I can also see at a harder time—twilight—when the boundaries become dim and the shapes begin to melt away. I live on the edges and I like it.”

  “What are you doing here near the edge of Tyto?”

  “I have heard that there is a place and that the best way to find it is by following the River Hoole. This stream that flows beneath this Ga’Hoole tree I figure must flow into the River Hoole, or else why would a Ga’Hoole tree grow here?”

  Soren and Gylfie both nodded. This seemed to them to be a sensible conclusion. “Is this place,” Gylfie asked, “on the edge of something?”

  “Actually, it is, I think, more like the middle of something. But I am interested.”

  “Middle of what?” Soren asked.

  “The River Hoole flows into a huge lake. Some call it a sea, Hoolemere, and in the middle of it there is an island. And on the island is a tree. A great tree. It is called the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. It is the greatest of all the Ga’Hoole trees. The most enormous tree that ever grew, some say, and it is the center of a Kingdom called Ga’Hoole.”

  Soren felt his breath catch in his throat. His eyes widened. He felt Gylfie grow still.

  “You mean it’s real?” Soren asked.

  “It’s not just a legend?” Gylfie said, her voice soft with wonder.

  “Well, I believe in legends,” Twilight said simply. And for the first time all the boastfulness left his voice.

  “And what is there, in this great tree that grows on an island in the middle of a sea called Hoolemere?” asked Soren.