“Sure. Why not?” Soren replied.
Mrs. P. slithered into the hollow and coiled up directly beneath Soren’s perch and then thought better. “Might I join you on your perch, dear?”
“Sure.”
Mrs. Plithiver did not say anything for a minute or two after she had looped herself around the perch and given Soren’s talons a little pat with her head.
“I know how you must feel,” she said.
“No, you don’t. And I really don’t want to talk about it, Mrs. P.” All of the blind nest-maid snakes were known for their highly developed sensibilities. Mrs. Plithiver’s sensibilities, however, were refined beyond even those of her species. She was like some sort of reptilian tuning fork and could pick up on every single vibration of feeling or emotion another creature had, especially Soren, since she had known him since his hatching. So now Mrs. P. let the silence settle around them, saying nothing to the somewhat rude remarks of Soren. One, two, three, four, she counted silently to herself. She knew it would take Soren four beats before he burst out, and so it did.
“You can never understand!” Soren was seething mad, and he did want to talk about it.
“I can never understand in the way that you can understand,” she said. “But here is what I do know. You came into the dining hollow this evening and saw the very owls who were responsible for your snatching, for your imprisonment, for all the abuse and horror that followed until your escape. I understand that you are shocked beyond reason. That this is an affront beyond compare.”
“And, Mrs. P., to see Ezylryb there with them!”
“You did notice that he was absolutely glaring and stone silent throughout the meal—oh, I forgot. You left early. But he was.”
“So what? He was still there, wasn’t he? I just don’t understand it.”
“Well, tough times make for strange hollowmates.”
“That’s the understatement of the year, maybe of the century,” Soren muttered. “Look, Mrs. Plithiver,” Soren said, bending his head down toward the blind snake, “this is an unholy alliance if there ever was one.”
“I know, dear, but what choice do we have?”
Soren knew that Mrs. P. was right. He had heard just a few hours before that the Pure Ones had gathered new forces. They had gone into the territory called Beyond the Beyond where there were hireclaws who would join for a shiny set of battle claws, a bag of flints, or knap for their very crude spears. They would even join up for a steady meal, for game could be scarce in Beyond the Beyond.
“I tell you again, Mrs. P., it’s an unholy alliance.”
“Right you are.” Otulissa had suddenly flown into the hollow followed by Digger and Twilight. “And guess what?”
“I don’t think I want to know,” Soren said in a low voice.
“Well, you’re going to find out sooner or later,” Otulissa said in an almost perky tone that really irritated Soren.
“Maybe, maybe…” Mrs. P. hissed almost desperately, “Digger should tell us.”
“Digger?” Otulissa said, not disguising the surprise in her voice. “Digger isn’t part of the Strix Struma Strikers.”
“Well, he certainly flies with the Flame Squadron, when they are short, that is,” Mrs. P. said in a voice edging toward testy.
“The Bonk Brigade is part of this?” Twilight asked.
“Part of what?” Soren was beginning to have a dreadful feeling in his gizzard.
The Flame Squadron, often called the Bonk Brigade, was essentially made up of the Chaw of Chaw members who had distinguished themselves in the fiery rescue of Ezylryb when he had been placed in a Devil’s Triangle of flecks set up by the Pure Ones.
Digger lofted himself onto the perch next to Soren, then, realizing it was Gylfie’s, quickly apologized. “Oh, dear, how thoughtless of me, Soren.” He raised his wings as if to settle elsewhere.
“It’s all right. Don’t worry about it. What were you going to tell me, Digger?”
“It seems, Soren, that we have been called upon to teach Skench and Spoorn and the other St. Aggie’s owls with them how to fight with fire.”
Soren’s beak dropped open in amazement, and he nearly fell from his perch. “You have got to be kidding. Has the whole parliament gone yoicks? It was bad enough that those St. Aggie’s owls had the largest supply of flecks—even if they were so stupid they didn’t realize their full power. But fire is another thing. There is nothing subtle about fire. We are putting fire in the hands of owls who are not only idiots but evil ones at that. They’re maniacs!”
Soren’s reaction was so strong that the owls merely looked at one another. No one knew how to respond. “I refuse to do it. I absolutely refuse to do it. Before I’d teach those monsters, I’ll fly back to the Northern Kingdoms and join the Glauxian Brothers, and hunt for Gylfie. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll become a brother and meditate and create beautiful manuscripts and…and…stuff. Maybe I’ll even study medicine like that Spotted Owl you had a crush on, Otulissa.”
“I did not have a crush on him. And one Cleve in this world is enough.”
“Well, there is no way in hagsmire or glaumora or Glaux’s green forests that I am going to teach Skench or Spoorn how to fight with fire. It would break my gizzard. And that is final!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Deadly Glitter
Gylfie had returned to the cave stunned. Too stunned to think. Wolves, teeth, ground predators—everything a young owlet not able to fly would dread if it had fallen from a nest. Now here she was unable to fly and facing the prospect of being devoured by wolves. And what could an owl of Gylfie’s diminutive proportions offer a wolf? She wasn’t even a mouthful. Although she tried not to think too much about the size of a wolf’s mouth, or jaws, or teeth.
Breaking through her frantic thoughts came the nearly hysterical chatter of the two guard owls. What in Glaux’s name are they carrying on about? she wondered.
“Look! Look!” said one guard owl.
“It’s coming this way. By my talons, it can’t be!” said the other.
The owls’ voices were filled with awe. They were almost gasping for breath. Gylfie was still tethered but she could get partway down a corridor to the opening of the lair. She peered out. The day was clear. The sky flawless. Not a cloud in sight. But what was that thing of dazzling radiance flying toward the pirates’ lair?
“It’s a…it’s a…” one of the guards was stuttering.
“It’s a golden owl.”
“It’s more than that, Vlink. It’s Glaux!”
“Oh, Phlinx, we have been chosen! I just know it. We are the chosen owls. The Golden Glaux has come to visit us. You know they say that he only comes once in a century.”
“What’s a century?”
“I’m not sure but when he comes he will lead us to the basin of the golden sedge berries. We shall be his anointed ones.”
“What’s anointed?”
“I’m not sure. I think it means blessed, Phlinx. Yes, blessed, that’s what me mum told me.”
“But we be pirates. Pirates ain’t ever blessed, are they? What’s the point of being a pirate if you be so good you git yourself blessed?”
Gylfie wasn’t sure which was more astounding, the conversation between Vlink and Phlinx, which, even in their weird Krakish dialect she was understanding, or the gold-feathered thing that was slowly flying toward them like a great glittering orb with wings.
As the bird began a banking turn to land, Gylfie saw the two owls crouch down with their beaks touching the tundra in a very un-owl-like posture of reverence. Owls don’t crouch. Owls don’t kneel, thought Gylfie. What in Glaux’s name is going on here? Then it dawned on her. They really do think this owl is Glaux! She nearly laughed out loud. Then she blinked and looked closer. The golden owl certainly wasn’t Glaux but it did look slightly familiar. Gylfie then had a sudden flash of recognition. Beneath all that gold was Ifghar’s attendant, Twilla! What in the world was going on? Had the Short-eared Owl come in search
of Ifghar? And why had she done this to her feathers?
Twilla looked at the two guards and blinked. She had not expected this. The Elf Owl, still tethered, had come out from the lair, and Twilla heard her mutter a few words in Hoolian. “They think you are G-L-A-U-X.” Gylfie spelled out the last word.
Twilla blinked and nearly blurted out, “What?” but suppressed the impulse. This must be one of their peculiar beliefs all caught up in the silliness about gold. Well, if they think I am some sort of god, I’d better start behaving like one. Now, what would a god say?
Then the little Elf Owl spoke in Hoolian again. “They think you have come to anoint them but they don’t know the meaning of the word ‘anoint.’”
This time Twilla had to suppress a giggle. Gods don’t giggle. Shape up, you fool, she admonished herself. She had a sudden inspiration.
“Welcome, my children,” she spoke now in Krakish.
The two guards stole a look. The one called Vlink dared speak in a timid voice that was tinged with awe. “Why have you come, Golden One?”
“To anoint you. You are my chosen ones,” Twilla said.
“Chosen?” said Phlinx. “Chosen for what?”
“Chosen to lead the pirates. I shall tell you where the golden sedge berries grow, and you shall go there and dip your beaks into the berries where the juices flow and come back with the stain of Glaux and be recognized as the true leaders.”
Brilliant, thought Gylfie. Hadn’t she heard these two owls complaining bitterly just hours before that they were always left with the dirty work, guarding a prisoner and never allowed to go out on raids?
Twilla was describing to them in some detail where these golden sedge berries grew. “Follow the dry creek bed until it turns east, and the shield rock breaks from the tundra…”
“But who will guard the prisoner?” asked Phlinx.
“I shall, of course,” Twilla answered.
Both owls sputtered their gratitude. But Twilla interrupted them. “Now fly along. You need to be back before your subjects return!”
“Subjects? What are subjects?”
“Oh, never mind,” Twilla muttered in a most un-godlike exasperation.
As the two guards lifted into the air, Twilla turned to Gylfie. “I thought we’d never get rid of them.”
“You’re going to get me out of here?”
“Of course.”
“But aren’t you…aren’t you…you know, with Ifghar?”
“No! Look, we don’t have time to talk. I’ve got to get you loose. Do you know where they keep the ice daggers buried around here?”
“No.”
“I’ll have a look. In the meantime, start wiggling your talon in that tether to loosen it up.”
Twilla was back in a very short time with an ice dagger. But the ice dagger proved too large to work on the tether binding the skinny little leg of an Elf Owl. One false move, and she would have cut Gylfie’s leg off entirely. So she left and came back with an ice splinter with which she could work far more delicately. And as she worked, she explained in Hoolian sprinkled with some Krakish words the plan for flying out. “You are not to worry about the katabats.”
“But they’re so fierce, and I’m so small.”
“Be quiet and listen. We are going to fly into a layer of air above them.”
“How?”
“We follow the steam vents.”
“Steam vents?” Gylfie had never heard of such things…or maybe she had.
“Yes, smee holes we call them. They are scattered throughout the Northern Kingdoms. If we take the land route and don’t strike out over the sea, there are many more. It’s longer, but we’ll avoid the katabats, and it will take you as far as the Ice Narrows. You see, the steam vents cause strong updrafts that can boost you over the crests of the katabats.”
It was all coming back to Gylfie now. She had remembered Otulissa blabbing on and on about the smee holes she had read about in a book by Strix Emerilla. Oh, Glaux! If she had only listened more carefully.
“There, it’s off,” Twilla said. Gylfie blinked and shook her leg loose of the shreds of the tether that had bound her. But her newfound joy in freedom was short-lived. Suddenly, in one of the ice mirrors propped against the rocks, she saw streaks of color. She looked up and saw the sky smeared with lurid colors as if a rainbow had run amok.
“They’re coming back!” she shouted.
“Who—the guards?”
“No! The whole frinking lot of them—the pirates! And there’s way more more than before.”
Gylfie blinked at the mirror reflecting them. How typical of these vain birds. They had set a mirror out so they could admire themselves as they flew in from the west. But now the sun was just beginning to creep down toward the horizon. Suppose…Gylfie thought, and the thought was as dazzling as the setting sun itself.
“Quick, Twilla, tilt that mirror up and catch the sun in it. The one next to it as well.”
Twilla blinked as it dawned on her what Gylfie was thinking. This was some smart little owl!
“Dagmar! Watch where you’re flying, idiot bird!”
“What’s happening?” screeched another pirate owl. “I can’t see! I can’t see!”
Havoc reigned in the sky, as dazzling shards of light sliced the clear air above the tundra. Blinded by the reflected light of the sun, owls were crashing into one another. The constantly bouncing blades of light came in intense bursts, destroying the owls’ orientation. Their invisible eyelids were no help against the fragments of light that exploded before them. Were they flying east or west? Up or down? The air, the very sky, suddenly seemed brittle. The tundra world of the pirate owls was being smashed to smithereens by light, light in its own peculiar way as sharp and deadly as any ice sword. The pirates were now falling out of the sky, and as they fell two others rose in flight, heading east by southeast to catch the warm drafts from the first smee hole.
And suddenly, Gylfie remembered the other quotation from the book by Violet Strangetalon that spoke so directly to the vanity of some birds. Violet had a philosophical turn of mind and she often contemplated the souls or scroomsaws of witless birds. Those words came back to Gylfie as she heard the soft thuds of the pirates falling on the tundra. Vanity, thief of flight, source of all that is yeep, prison of the scroomsaw.
How true it is, thought Gylfie. How true it is!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gizzardly Matters
He’s a what?” Twilight asked. “A gizzard resister,” Digger replied quietly.
“Explain,” Twilight said.
“Yes, please, do,” Otulissa spoke now, her voice reeking with contempt.
Digger pressed his beak shut, closed his eyes, and tried to count to three…well, better make it five, he thought as he tried to quell his rage over Otulissa’s tone. Finally, he spoke. “Soren is what Ezylryb calls a gizzard resister. It means that If something truly violates your conscience, your sense of what is right and what is wrong in matters of warfare, if it becomes too great a strain on your gizzard, then you are a gizzard resister and can choose to serve in another way.”
“Never heard such a bunch of racdrops in all my life!” Otulissa spat the words out. Digger and Twilight blinked. Otulissa saying a swear word, “racdrops”—as in the droppings of a raccoon—was shocking. Otulissa might be fierce, and she had certainly grown fiercer since the death of her beloved leader, Strix Struma, but she was still as prim and proper as ever. “It’s almost treasonous.”
That did it for Digger. He flew up in a rage in the tight confines of the hollow and was about to pounce upon the Spotted Owl, but Twilight intervened.
“Hey! Hey! Cut it out, the both of you. Cool down Digger. And, Otulissa, take it back.”
“Take what back?”
“What you said about Soren,” Twilight said. “It is not true. Not one bit. Shame on you!” He shook a talon at her. The Great Gray had puffed up to twice his size. The hollow seemed so full of him that there was hardly room to breathe.
“Take it back right now, or I’ll smack you from here to hagsmire.”
“All right,” Otulissa said truculently. “I take it back. Soren’s not treasonous, but he sure is strange about not wanting to teach Skench and Spoorn and the other St. Aggie’s owls to fight with fire.”
“Strange is fine,” Twilight said. “We can live with strange. Now, Digger,” Twilight said, turning to the Burrowing Owl. “Do you have anything to say about this strange predicament? Do you have any idea what service Soren might be thinking about instead?” Both Digger and Otulissa blinked at Twilight. This was so unlike him. He seemed to enjoy this new role of the diplomat. Next thing he’s going to be doing is asking us to share our feelings, Digger thought. “Share” was a popular word among the rybs when they were teaching younger owls.
“No. I have no idea.” Digger shook his head. “He’s with Ezylryb and Boron and Barran right now. I think Bubo is there, too.”
“In the parliament hollow?” Otulissa asked with a gleam in her eye.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Digger replied.
“Well, then, what are we waiting for?” Otulissa said excitedly. “To the roots.”
“Great idea,” Twilight said.
But Digger was not so sure if this was a great idea.
Nor was Soren sure that he should be meeting with Bubo, Boron, Barran, and Ezylryb in the parliament hollow. These elder owls of the parliament perched themselves on the white branch of a birch that had been bent into a half circle. There were ordinarily twelve parliamentary members. But seeing that now there were only four, Soren surmised that what he was about to be told was top secret.
How many times had he and the band and Otulissa eavesdropped on the parliament? How many times had they sneaked down to the strange space beneath this hollow where deep within the roots the tree transmitted the sounds of any discussion that was going on above? But Soren could hardly suggest to the parliament that they should have this top secret discussion elsewhere because it could be heard in the chamber below. That would reveal him as an eavesdropper. Twilight, Digger, and the rest were already upset enough with him for being a gizzard resister. He had to think of something and think of it fast. He knew a little of what his alternative service might require. It had something to do with the passive combatant use of fire. He wasn’t really sure what that meant except that he didn’t have to teach thugs like Skench and Spoorn how to fight with it. Soren thought, If this has to do with fire, why not convene in Bubo’s forge where the Great Horned blacksmith owl could demonstrate? Bubo loved to do demonstrations with coal and embers.
The Burning Page 9