“Form up, chaw! SOFP,” Poot commanded. They all assumed the positions of their Standard Operational Flight Pattern. Soren swiveled his head to look for Martin off his starboard wing. There was a little blank space where the Northern Saw-whet usually flew. He tipped his head up to where Ruby flew and saw the rusty fluff of her underbelly. She looked down and shook her head sadly. Soren thought he saw a tear well up in her eye, but it could have been some juice from a leftover meatball.
“Roll call!” Poot now barked. “Beak off, chaw!”
“Ruby here!” snapped the rust-colored Short-eared Owl.
“Otulissa here!”
“Soren here!”
Then there was nothing—silence, or perhaps it was more like a small gulp from the position that Martin had always flown.
“Absence noted. Continue,” Poot said.
Absence noted? Continue? Was that it? Soren gasped. But before he could protest there was that piercing little voice, “Silver here.”
“Nut Beam here! But I’m feeling nauseous.”
“WHERE IS MARTIN, FOR GLAUX’S SAKE!” Soren shrieked in rage.
“Owl down,” Poot said, “Search-and-rescue commence.”
Then there was a muffled, slightly gagging sound and a terrific stench. At first, Soren thought Nut Beam had thrown up. But then out of the smoking Sea of Hoole-mere, a seagull rose and in its beak was a wet little form.
“Martin here!” gasped the little owl. He hung limply in the beak of the seagull.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Spirit Woods
I’m not sure if it was the impact on the water or the stench that got me, but I’m still feeling a bit dizzy. I have to say, however, that seagull stench is now my favorite fragrance.” Martin turned and nodded at Smatt, the seagull who had rescued him.
“Aw, it warn’t nothin’.” The seagull ducked his head modestly.
When he had first vanished, Martin had been sucked straight up, but it was a narrow funnel of warm air and almost immediately it had swirled into a bank of cold air that created a downdraft, and Martin had plunged into the sea. Smatt, who had been navigating between these funnels of warm and cold air, plunged in after him and grabbed him in his beak as he might have grabbed a fish—although Martin was considerably smaller than any fish that seagulls normally ate.
They had lighted down now on the mainland, in a wooded area on a peninsula that fingered out into the sea. It seemed, for the moment, calm. Although Soren, as he glanced around, found the forest quite strange. All the trees were white-barked and not one had a single leaf. Indeed, although it was night, this forest had a kind of luminance that made the moon pale by comparison.
“I would guess,” said Otulissa as she studied the sky, “that we are between rain bands here.” For some reason this rankled Soren. It sounded to him as if Otulissa was trying to sum up the weather situation the way Ezylryb would have, being the most knowledgeable owl of all about weather. Poot, who had succeeded him as chaw captain, really had very little knowledge in comparison, but he was a great flier. Now it seemed as if Otulissa had become the self-appointed weather expert.
Poot looked around uneasily. “That, or a spirit woods.”
A chill ran through them all. “A spirit woods?” Martin said softly. “I’ve heard of them.”
“Yeah, you’ve heard of them. You don’t necessarily want to spend the night in them,” Poot replied.
“I don’t know, Poot,” Ruby spoke in a nervous low voice, “whether we’ve got much choice. I mean that hurricane’s still going. I’ve seen the worst of it. It’s not something you want to mess with.”
“Well, folks.” Smatt began to lift his wings. A fetid smell wafted toward them. “I think I’ll be clearing out now.” The seagull looked apprehensively at Poot. In a flash he had lifted off and vanished.
“What are we gonna do, Poot?” Silver asked, a slight tremor in his voice.
“Not much choice, as Ruby said. Just hope we don’t disturb any scrooms.”
“Scrooms!” Nut Beam and Silver wailed.
“Well, I don’t believe in them,” Martin said and stomped his small talons into the moss-covered ground. Then, as if to prove it, he lifted off and began to search for a tree to light down in.
“You mind what tree you choose. You don’t want to disturb a scroom,” Poot called after him. But Soren thought that maybe after having been sucked up in a rain band, then dropped into the sea, a scroom was nothing to Martin.
Scrooms were disembodied spirits of owls who had died and had not quite made it all the way to glaumora, which was the special owl heaven where the souls of owls went. Nut Beam and Silver, however, had begun to cry uncontrollably.
“Pull yourselves together, both of you,” Otulissa exploded angrily. “There’s no such thing as scrooms. An atmospheric disturbance. False light. That’s all. Strix Emerilla has written about it in a very erudite book entitled, Spectroscopic Anomalies: Shifts in Shape and Light.”
“Yes, there are scrooms!” the two owlets hooted back shrilly.
“My grandma said so,” Nut Beam said defiantly and stomped a small talon on the moss.
“I’ve heard enough about your grandmas,” Otulissa snapped. “Poot, how long do we have to stay here?”
“Until the hurricane blows through. Can’t take these young’uns”—he nodded toward Silver and Nut Beam—“out in this. Too inexperienced.”
“You’re making us stay here—with scrooms?” Nut Beam protested. And as if on cue, Silver started to wail again.
Ruby flew up and then lighted directly in front of the two owlets. She looked almost twice her size as her rust-colored feathers had puffed up in the manner of owls who are extremely angry. In the pale eerie white of the forest, Ruby looked like a ball of red-hot embers. “I’m fed up with all your whining. I don’t give a pile of racdrops if there’re scrooms here. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I want a nice fat rat or vole. I’ll take squirrel if I have to. Then I want to go to sleep. And you two better shut your beaks because I’ll make your life more miserable than scrooms ever could!” The other owls looked at Ruby with astonishment.
“I think we need to organize a hunting party,” Otulissa said.
“Yes, yes, immediately,” Poot said. He began to flutter about the group. “Now, there’s no telling what one can find in such a woods.”
It was obvious to Soren, Ruby, and Martin that Otulissa had embarrassed Poot, who might be a terrific flier but not a natural leader. They felt the absence of Ezylryb more than ever.
But then, Poot seemed to be jarred into action. He swelled up with authority and tried his best to sound like a leader. “Soren,” Poot said, “you and Ruby can cover the northeast quadrant of this woods. You fly it hard now, young’uns. We got some hungry beaks here. Martin and Otulissa can cover the southwest one. I’ll stay here with the young’uns.”
“Ha!” Ruby gave a harsh sound and ascended through the branches. “I think Poot’s scared of scrooms. That’s why he sent us out. You scared, Soren?” They had gained some altitude now, and the strange mist that floated through the white trees below seemed to evaporate.
“Sort of,” Soren said.
“Well, at least you’re honest. But what do you mean by ‘sort of’?”
“I think the idea of a scroom is not so much scary as sad. I mean scrooms are supposed to be spirits that didn’t quite make it to glaumora. That’s kind of sad.”
“I guess so,” Ruby said.
Guess so? Soren blinked at Ruby. He thought it was terribly sad, but Ruby wasn’t the deepest owl. She was a fantastic flier and a great chaw mate and lots of fun but, although she felt things in her gizzard like all owls, she was not given to reflecting deeply. But now she surprised him. “How come they don’t make it to glaumora?”
“I’m not sure. Mrs. P. said that it was because they might have unfinished business on earth.”
“Mrs. Plithiver? How would she know? She’s a snake.”
“I sometimes think that Mrs. P
. knows more about owls than owls do.” Soren cocked his head suddenly. “Sssh.” Ruby shut her beak immediately. She, like all other owls, had great respect for the extraordinary hearing abilities of Barn Owls. “Ground squirrel below.”
There were actually three in all. And Ruby, who was incredibly fast with her talons, managed to get two in one single slicing swipe. They were more successful than Martin and Otulissa, who had only come back with two very small mice.
“Hunter’s share,” Poot said, nodding to the four of them. It was customary that the owls who did the hunting got first choice of the catch. Soren chose a thigh from his ground squirrel. It was rather scrawny, and it wasn’t the most flavorful ground squirrel he had ever eaten. Maybe a spirit wood wasn’t the best place for a ground squirrel to get plump and juicy. Then Soren had a creepy thought. Maybe they fed on scrooms or perhaps scrooms fed on them—spirit food. His gizzard hardly had to work to pack in those bones and fur.
By the time they had finished eating, the night was thinning into day. Although with the mist that seemed to wrap itself through the branches of the white-barked trees, Soren thought that it seemed like twilight in these woods.
“I think,” Poot announced, “it’s time for us to turn in. Not for a full day’s sleep, mind you. We’ll leave before First Black. No fear of crows around here.” He slid his neck about in a slow twist as if scanning the wood.
“No. Just scrooms,” Nut Beam said.
“Nut Beam, shut your beak,” Martin screeched fiercely.
“Now, now, Martin! Don’t like that tone, lad,” Poot said, trying to sound very—
Very what? wondered Soren. Like Ezylryb? Never like the Captain.
“Well, I’ve been doing some thinking,” Poot went on to say. “And I think that this being a spirit woods as some calls ’em, I think it’s best that we keep to the ground for sleeping, no perching in them trees.” He swiveled his head around in a slow sweeping movement, as if he were almost trying to push back the bone-white trees that surrounded them.
A hush fell upon the group. Soren thought he could hear the beat of their hearts quicken. This scroom stuff must really be serious, he said to himself. Even Ruby looked a little nervous. For an owl to sleep on the ground was almost unheard of, unless, of course, it was a Burrowing Owl who lived in the desert, like Digger. There were dangers on the ground. Predators—like raccoons.
“I know what you be thinking,” Poot continued nervously and seemed to avoid looking them in the eye as Ezylryb would have. “I know you’re thinking that for an owl to ground sleep ain’t natural. But these ain’t natural woods. And it’s said that these trees might really belong to the scrooms. You never know which one a scroom might light down in and it’s best to leave the trees be. I’m older than you young’uns. Got more experience. And I’d be daft not to tell you that my gizzard is giving me some mighty twinges.”
“Mine, too!” said Silver.
“Probably has a gizzard the size of a pea,” Martin whispered.
“Now don’cha go worry too much. We just got to be vigi-ful,” Poot continued.
“You mean ‘vigilant’?” Otulissa said.
“Don’t smart beak me, lassie. We’s gonna set up a watch. I’ll take the first one with Martin. Otulissa and Ruby you take the next. And Soren you take the last. You have to do it alone, but it be the shortest one, lad. So nothin’ to fear.”
Nothing to fear? Then why doesn’t he take it? Soren thought, but he knew that the one thing a chaw owl never did was question a command. All of the owls turned their heads toward Soren.
Martin stepped forward. “I’ll stay up with you, Soren.”
Soren blinked at the little Northern Saw-whet. “No, no—that’s very kind of you, Martin, but you’ll be tired. You must already be tired. I mean you’ve fallen into the sea. Don’t worry, Martin. I’ll be fine.”
“No, Soren, I mean it.”
“No, I’ll be fine,” Soren said firmly.
The truth was that during that first watch they were all too nervous to sleep and the ground was a terrible place to even try to sleep to begin with. But as the dark faded and the white of the trees melted into the lightness of the morning, they did grow sleepier and sleepier. The owls’ heads began to droop lower and lower until they were resting on their breasts or on their backs, as it was the habit of very young owls to twist their heads around and rest them just between their shoulders.
“Your watch, Soren,” Ruby said.
His eyes blinked open. He lifted his head.
“Don’t worry. There is nothing out here. Not a raccoon, not a scroom, not a scroom of a raccoon.” Otulissa churred softly, which was the sound that owls made when they laughed.
Soren walked over to the watch mound that was in a small clearing. He spread his wings and, in one brief upstroke, rose to settle on the top of the mound. The fog in the forest had thickened again. A soft breeze swirled through the woods, stirring and spinning the mist into fluffy shapes. Some of the mist clouds were long and skinny, others puffy. Soren thought of the silly jabber of the young owlets when they had been flying earlier, before encountering the hurricane. The owlets were sort of cute, he guessed, in their own annoying little way. It was hard to believe, however, that he had ever been that young. He had barely known his parents before he had been snatched, and he had never known his grandparents. There had been no time. He blinked his eyes at the mist that was now whirling into new shapes. It was strange how one could start to read this ground mist like clouds, find pictures in them—a raccoon, a deer bounding over a tree stump, a fish leaping from a river. Soren had tried sometimes to make up stories about cloud pictures when he was flying. The vapors just ahead of him had clumped together into one large shapeless mass, but now they seemed to be pulling apart again into two clumps. There was something vaguely familiar about the shapes that these clumps were becoming. What was it? A lovely downy bundle that looked so soft and warm. Something seemed to call to him and yet there was no sound. How could that be?
Soren grew very still. Something was happening. He was not frightened. No, not frightened at all. But sad, yes, deeply and terribly sad. He felt himself drawn to these two shapes. They were fluffy and their heads were cocked in such a familiar way as if they were listening to him. And they were calling to him, and they were saying things but there were no sounds. It was as if the voices were sealed inside his head. Just then, he felt himself step out of his body. He felt his wings spread. He was lifting, and yet he was still there on the mound. He could see his talons planted on the mossy top with the tangle of ivy. But, at the same time, he could see something moving out of him. It was him—but not him. It was his shape, pale and misty and swirling like the other shapes. The thing that was him but not him was lifting, rising, and spreading its wings in flight to perch in the big white tree at the edge of the clearing where the two other misty figures perched.
False light?
No, not false light, Soren.
Scrooms?
If you must.
Mum? Da?
The mist seemed to shiver and glint like moonlight scattered on water.
He floated over the mound but when he looked back he saw his own figure still standing there. He extended a talon but it was transparent! And then he lighted down on the branch. In that instant, Soren realized he felt in a strange way complete. It was as if there had been a hole in his gizzard and now it had been filled and closed. He reached out with his talon to touch his mum but it simply passed through her.
Am I dying? Am I becoming a scroom?
No, dearest. No one had called him “dearest” like that since he had been snatched.
Soren cocked his head and tried to look at his parents, but the mist was continually shifting, sliding, and recom-posing itself into their shapes. They were recognizable but yet it was not images he was seeing. It was more like a foggy shadow. Still, he knew without a doubt it was them. But why, why after all this time were they here, seeking him out?
Unfinished
business? Is that what it is?
We think so. It was the voice of his father in his head.
You don’t know?
Not exactly, dear. We’re never sure. We know something isn’t right. We have feelings, but no real answers to these feelings.
Are you trying to warn me of something?
Yes, yes. But the hard part is we don’t know what it is we should warn you about.
Soren wondered if they knew about Kludd. He wanted to tell them how Kludd had pushed him from the nest, but he couldn’t. Something stopped in his brain. Words began to tumble out of his mouth, and now he could actually hear those words. He was telling them about Kludd, but his mum and da were unmoved. They were not hearing anything of what he was saying. And there was a blank-ness now in his head. This was all very weird. When he could hear his own voice, the words in the normal way, his parents could not. Their only way of speaking to one another was this silent language that seemed to exist only in their heads. And yet Soren could not form the ideas in his head to tell them about Kludd, and they could not tell him about the danger.
Metal! Beware Metal Beak! The words exploded in Soren’s head. It was the voice of his father but it seemed to have taken all his energy to do this. His father was dissolving before his eyes. His mother as well. The mists that had been their shapes were swirling, seeping away. Soren reached out with his talons to hold them. “Don’t go! Don’t go. Don’t leave me! Come back.”
“What’s you yelling about, lad? Wake us all up, will you?” Soren was suddenly on the ground, and Poot was standing in front of him, blinking. How had he gotten on the ground? He had been in that tree a second ago but he had no memory of flying down from it. And there was no mist now. None at all.
“I’m sorry, Poot. I flew up into that tree there. I thought I saw something.” Soren nodded.
“No, you didn’t,” Poot said. “I woke a few minutes ago. You were standing right here on the mound. Perfectly alert—being a good lookout. Believe me, I would have had your tail feathers if you hadn’t been.”
The Rescue Page 3