“She came with me, ma’am. She’s my family’s old nest-maid snake.”
“Oh, and you were saying that she wants to be in the harp guild?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Soren thought he sounded so stupid. Who cares? he thought. He was here for Mrs. P. She wanted this so much. Then it was as if Madame Plonk nearly took his next thought directly out of his head.
“But wanting is one thing. One cannot merely want.”
“Yes, yes, just because you want something doesn’t mean it should always happen.”
Madame Plonk blinked and nodded. “Very wise, young’un. But tell me now—why do you think she, this Mrs. P. as you call her, wants it?”
An idea suddenly popped into Soren’s head. “You know,” he began thoughtfully, “some snakes might want it just because it is thought of as the most important guild, one for snakes who have served in nests of very old, distinguished families. But I don’t think that is why Mrs. P. wants it.”
“No?” Madame Plonk seemed surprised.
Soren had a dreadful feeling that he had said something wrong. He took a deep breath. There was no backing out of it now. “No, I don’t think she gives two pellets about that kind of thing.”
Madame Plonk blinked.
She’s laughing at me, Soren thought. But he continued. “I think she wants to be a member of this guild not because it is the most important but because it is the most artistic.”
Madame Plonk gave a little gasp. “That’s very interesting. Now what do you mean by artistic, young’un?”
Oh, dear, Soren thought. It was as if his gizzard had just dropped out of him. He had no idea what he meant by artistic. But he knew that what he had said was right in some way.
Madame Plonk waited.
Soren continued. “When Mrs. P. spoke about music she said how when she visited the great harp, she tried to weave the notes not just through the strings of the harp but into your voice. So that together the sound of the harp and the sound of your voice made something that she called splendid and grand. Well, I think that is what it means to be an artist.”
There was silence in the apartments. And then Madame Plonk sighed deeply and reached for a hankie made by the lacemakers’ guild. She blew her beak and dabbed her eyes. “You are most unusual for a Barn Owl.” Soren did not know if that was good or bad. “Now I think you must go. It is almost time for Evensong. So, go along. I hear you’re doing quite well in weather chaw.” Soren was about to ask how she knew about weather chaw but then remembered that Octavia took care of both Madame Plonk’s and Ezylryb’s nests. “Now fly along.”
“Yes, yes, thank you for your time, Madame Plonk,” Soren said, backing out of the hollow.
“Octavia!” Madame Plonk called as soon as Soren had left. “Octavia, come in here immediately.”
The fat old nest snake slithered in from a branch where she had hung herself just outside the apartment.
“Did you hear that, Octavia?”
“Yes, ma’am. I think we got ourselves a G-flat!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Fire!
Ezylryb perched on a limb at the very top of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree and squinted into the blueness of the early summer day. He had been perched here for the last two days almost continuously with Poot by his side. They were studying the cloud behavior on the far side of Hoole-mere.
“Bring the chaw up,” he ordered tersely. “There’s enough for them to observe.”
“What! What!” Soren yawned sleepily as Poot shook him awake. “It’s the middle of the day, Poot. We’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“Not now, young’un. Important lesson, top of the tree. Cap wants you there now. Quick-o!”
What could it be? Soren thought. Poot only called Ezylryb “Cap” when they were on a flight mission. But there wasn’t any bad weather. It was a calm, perfectly clear day. It was the time of the golden rain, when the strands of Ga’Hoole berries that hung from the limbs turned a rich yellow.
By the time Soren got to the top limb, the others had assembled—albeit sleepily. Martin was yawning into the morning sun, but Otulissa was alert and full of questions and already peppering the air with her observations of cloud formations. Ruby yarped her morning pellet and looked to Soren as if she was so sleepy she might pitch forward off the limb. Just at that moment, Bubo and Elvan arrived. This was the first time Soren had seen Bubo for a while. Presumably, he had been on the reconnaissance mission to The Beaks, and, thankfully, returned safely, as had the others.
“Put a mouse in it, Otulissa,” Bubo growled and delivered a field mouse headfirst into the talkative owl’s beak.
“Thank you, Bubo,” Ezylryb said in a low growl and blinked.
“Now, anyone know why we are here?” Ezylryb turned to the owls of the weather chaw. Otulissa’s talon immediately shot up even though she could not yet talk with her beak stuffed full of mouse. Soren looked around. This was the first time the three rybs, although Bubo was not officially a ryb, had ever been together with the weather chaw. It was obvious: The days of practicing with Bubo’s coals from the forge were over. They were now going into a forest fire. A silence fell upon the young owls. They pulled in their feathers tight to their sides. The only sound was Otulissa gulping the last of the mouse. Then, in barely a whisper, her voice shaking with fear, she said, “But I just ate. How shall I ever fly on such a full stomach?”
“Don’t worry,” Ezylryb said. “We’re not flying yet. Not until later. But I want you up here today because you’re going to see how fire changes things—the wind, the clouds. You can see these changes even from here. You see, young’uns, there is a fire burning over there across Hoole-mere. A great fire.” He bobbed out on the branch toward the water. “So later, we shall cross Hoolemere. Then we’ll fetch up on some high cliffs on the other side that are perfect for a closer look. We shall camp there for a day or two and then we shall fly in.”
For the rest of the morning, they observed the unique behavior of the clouds on the far side of Hoolemere. The young owls of the weather chaw were used to odd words such as baggywrinkles and scuppers and gutters. But now there were even stranger words as the rybs discussed “pressure differential,” “thermal inversions,” and “convective columns.”
By mid-afternoon, they were dismissed to take a short nap. They would be awakened at tween time, that time between the last drop of sun and the first shadows of twilight, and then take off across Hoolemere.
“Are you nervous, Ruby?” Soren said as they made their way back from the top limbs for their naps.
“I’d be a fool not to be,” replied the rusty-feathered owl.
“But you fly so well.”
“Not to mention,” Martin added, “that both of you are about twice as big as me.”
“What are you most scared of?” Soren asked.
“That thing they call crowning,” Ruby said quickly. “When the fire leaps from treetop to treetop. I can’t imagine what it does to the air. I mean, flying through it must be almost impossible. You could never even half guess where the dead falls might be.”
“Technically, the fire does that”—Otulissa had caught up with them—“because the fire climbs what is called, according to the literature, a fuel ladder.”
“Yes, and think of me,” Martin now spoke. “I am on the ground, supposedly looking for the smallest embers. One of these crowning things happens, and at my weight I get sucked straight up the fuel ladder.”
“We all have to spend time on the ground, not just you,” Soren said. “It could happen to any of us. You don’t have to be little.” Martin cocked his head and blinked. He did not look convinced.
Although they had yet to be in an actual forest fire, each member of the chaw had a type of coal or ember they were in charge of gathering. Ruby, being the best flier, would seek airborne embers that were dispersed to the highest parts of the thermal draft columns. Soren and Otulissa were assigned a midpoint position on various sides of the convection column and little Martin was
on the ground. But, indeed, they would all have to do a certain amount of groundwork.
Soren could not help but think about how different this flight across Hoolemere was from the time he had crossed the sea to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree nearly six months before. He remembered how the blizzard had raged, how the entire world had turned a swirling white, and the sky and water had melted into one indistinguishable mass. Today, the air was clear, the sea below calm with barely a white cap to ruffle the blueness. Seagulls dipped in the last rays of the setting sun. The silvery glint of a fish leaping to escape a larger fish sometimes flashed above the water’s surface. Yet as they drew closer to the opposite shore, the air did seem different. And although Soren, like other owls, did not have the keenest sense of smell, the air seemed tinged with an acrid odor.
They landed on the ridge of some high cliffs. Ezylryb was already pointing with his three-taloned foot to some clouds just beyond the ridge. “We call them Ga’Hoole clouds. You know why?”
Otulissa’s talon shot up. “Because they are the shape of the seeds found in the Ga’Hoole fruits.”
“Right-o, missy,” Ezylryb said.
Martin gave a little sigh. “She never stops, does she?”
It was clear that Martin was very nervous. More nervous than the others. Soren felt bad for him. He was the smallest owl in the chaw. It had to be scary. “Don’t worry, Martin. You’re going to be all right.”
“Soren, that’s kind of you, but do you realize that I am the first Saw-whet to ever be in the colliering chaw?”
“They must think you’re special, Martin,” Soren said.
“But what if I’m not?” Martin said, a squeak of desperation creeping into his voice.
Ezylryb continued speaking about the Ga’Hoole clouds. “The reason their tops are curved like that is because—well, you tell me.”
Once again, Otulissa’s talon shot up. “It’s simple weather physics. I was reading about it in Emerilla’s, the renowned weathertrix’s book—she’s a Spotted Owl, I might add.” Otulissa cast her eyes downward in what Soren thought was an outrageously phony show of modesty.
“Just get to the point, darlin’,” Ezylryb barked.
“Oh, yes, of course. It is because the winds atop the cloud are blowing much faster than the winds below.”
Soren felt Martin begin to tremble. “I might become one of those burning airborne embers that Ruby grabs on the fly,” he said in a voice drenched with fear.
“All right now, we camp here and we wait. We wait until the fire is safe for penetration and retrieval. Elvan and Bubo shall take over the mission at that point, directing you to the richest coal and ember beds. I shall remain here and watch the weather and fly in for periodic reports. You do as you’re told and no one will get hurt. Ruby and Poot fly top layer. Elvan with Otulissa will be mid-layer. Below them is Soren, who covers Martin on the ground. Bubo and I will be ready if anyone needs help. You are to keep your eye out for your mate.”
It was close to midnight when Ezylryb announced that they would be taking off for the next ridge. He had already flown several reconnaissance flights with Poot. He now arrived back on the ridge.
“There’s a possible temperature inversion at the east end of the valley. We’re not sending any owl down there. Temperature inversions trap smoke, and then do you know what can happen when the smoke starts to rise?” Soren thought that it must mean that the temperature might change, but again, and most annoyingly, Otulissa’s talon shot up. “Shut your beak, Otulissa,” Ezylryb snapped. “I feel that Soren might have the answer despite not being as deeply familiar as you are with Strix Emerilla.”
How does he feel that I have the answer? Is this like being marked—Ezylryb seeing things in me that others can’t ? But Soren did feel that he knew the answer. So he proceeded tentatively. “I think that it means that when the smoke rises there could be a change in the air.” Ezylryb looked straight at him. The light from his yellow eyes did not burn now but seemed to illuminate Soren’s entire brain. Soren felt surer, more confident, but mostlyhe could easily envision the invisible air. “The air would rise and turn and circulate upward and when this happens, I think the fire will burn harder, more fiercely.”
“Exactly!” boomed Ezylryb. “And how do you know this, lad?”
“I see it in my mind. I can imagine it. I feel something, I think in my gizzard, about the movement of air and heat and…”
“Yes, thank you, lad.” Ezylryb turned to the other owls of the chaw. “There are many ways to learn—through books, through practice, and through gizzuition. They are all good ways, but few of us have gizzuition.”
“But what is gizzuition?” Otulissa asked warily.
Ezylryb began to speak but kept his gaze on Soren. “It is a kind of thinking beyond the normal reasoning processes by which one immediately apprehends the truth, perceives and understands reality. It cannot really be taught, but it can be developed by being extremely attentive and sensitive to the natural world.”
Soren blinked. I AM something in this old owl’s eyes. I am almost as smart as Otulissa, and Ezylryb believes in me!
It was now time to move to a ridge closer to the fire. The chaw lifted into the air, each owl flying close to its buddy. They were not halfway to the next ridge when they saw the thick smoke, almost white in the night, rolling up, and then the tongues of flame dancing against the night. Ezylryb began a steeply banking turn. The others followed. Bubo and Poot arrived shortly with fresh voles and mice in their talons, some still squirming.
“Eat light, eat all the hair!” Ezylryb barked.
“I wonder why he always calls it hair?” Martin said quietly.
“They say he comes from a distant place called the land of the Great North Waters and they have odd ways of speaking,” Ruby said.
“But hair? What’s hair?” Martin persisted.
“Well, there’s fur and there’s feathers—I think it’s something in between,” Ruby said. “Do you want me to ask Otulissa?”
“No!” Soren and Martin both groaned.
Less than an hour had passed when Bubo flew down from his higher perch. “Prepare to fly.”
The owls stood on the thin granite lip of the ridge, their talons hooked over the edge. They spread their wings, and Bubo gave the command. “FIRE!” They lifted off—first Bubo and Elvan, then Ruby and Poot, next Otulissa, Soren, and Martin, and last, as a rear guard, Ezyl-ryb.
They had not flown very far before they felt the heat on their faces. They had anticipated the heat but not the noise. A monster roar raged in their ears. Soren had never heard anything like it. Bubo and Elvan had prepared them for everything but this noise. They knew about the heat. They knew about the violent updrafts, the so-called cool spots, and the dead falls. They even knew about the most dreaded trick fire could pull—fire blinking. This happened when the fire, raging with all its deadly beauty, actually transfixed an owl so that it could not fly. It went yeep and, with its wings locking, the owl lost its instincts to fly and suddenly plummeted to the ground. Or if the owl was already on the ground and the fire began to spread rapidly toward it, the owl simply could not lift off, for its wings hung still and motionless like dead things by its side. But no one had told him about the noise.
“You’ll get used to it.” Elvan had flown up just over Soren and Martin. “It’s always a shock at first. There is no way to describe it.” He had to shout over the roar of the fire. Below, a sheet of flame lay flat against a hillside. The thermal drafts came up like slabs of rock. Martin and Soren were sucked up at least twenty feet but as they passed the hill they felt a terrific coolness and they dropped another thirty feet. Soren realized that it was only cool compared to the heat they had just flown through. Bubo now circled back. He had been flying far out in front. “Good ember beds ahead. Perfect for all of you.”
So this was it, Soren thought. This was when they became true colliers. Just then, like a shooting star, something red whizzed by.
“Beautiful catch, R
uby,” shouted Poot.
“What a natural that Short-eared Owl is!” Elvan gasped in amazement.
Ruby began to wing off toward the coal buckets that Bubo had set up on the ridge. The small buckets made in his forge, with bits of kindling in the bottom already lit, would keep the coals hot.
“All right, Martin going in!” Elvan called out the command. The little owl began a tight spiraling plunge to earth. “Cover him, Soren.”
Soren would fly cover until Martin returned with a beakful of cinders. Elvan actually carried the very small cinder pot in his talons. Martin was supposed to not only collect cinders but report back on the larger coals that Soren and Otulissa were to retrieve.
Soren hovered above with a careful eye on the little owl. He was getting used to the noise. Indeed, not only was he getting used to it but within the thunderous roar he could seek out smaller sounds, like the sound of Martin’s beating heart, which grew more rapid as he plunged. As Martin’s heartbeat quickened, Soren hoped with all his heart, gizzard, and soul that the little Saw-whet Owl would be all right. He could see now that Martin was on the ground.
“Play your position, Otulissa,” Elvan rasped. Ruby had just caught another sparking coal.
“But all the good ones go up there. We never get a chance.”
“Shut your beak. You want to be sent back to the ridge? You’ll have your chance.”
But Soren was not paying any attention to them. He must keep his focus on Martin, who was now just a little smudge on the ground. A cloud of smoke temporarily obscured him and Soren flew lower.
There he was! There he was! Good heavens, he was coming up fast!
“He’s coming in loaded!” Bubo slid in next to Elvan.
And then he was there. Cinders poured from his small beak. His face was sooty and smudged but his eyes danced with a light as bright as the fire. “I did it! I did it!”
“You certainly did, young’un.” Bubo flew up and tousled Martin’s head feathers with his talon.
The Journey Page 13