“What?” They all gasped.
“You saw your parents’ scrooms?” Gylfie asked and there seemed to be an ache embedded deep in her voice. For although she knew that Soren had returned much saddened by his encounter with his parents’ scrooms, there was something in Gylfie, just as there had been in Eglantine, that longed for one last glimpse.
“Yes,” replied Primrose. “I saw them that night as we were flying through the colors of the Aurora Glaucora.”
“Did they have unfinished business here on earth?” Soren asked, wondering to himself just how much unfinished scroom business they could manage on one mission.
“Not really.” She paused. “Well, I suppose you could say that I was their last piece of unfinished business. They wanted me to know that during the forest fire, they knew that I had tried my best to save the eggs. They just said that there was nothing to forgive. They were proud of me. That was their unfinished business—to let me know that they were proud of me.” There was a deep silence in the night as Primrose started to explain. “You see, Soren, my encounter was not at all like yours. I didn’t really get to talk with my parents in that strange wordless way that you described to Eglantine.”
Soren looked sharply at his sister. Why had she gone and told Primrose all this?
“It was much different.”
“How?” Soren said, genuinely perplexed.
“You see, my parents were in glaumora.”
“What?” Soren said in disbelief. “How do you know that?”
“I saw them there. They saw me. They were happy. They knew I had done my best for the eggs that never hatched. They weren’t angry. They knew that I was in a good place. A place they had never quite believed in, but they now know is real. And I suddenly became so happy. It was like a river of happiness and peace flowing between us out there, in the Aurora Glaucora.” Primrose’s voice was barely a whisper now.
“A river of happiness,” Soren said softly. No words about Metal Beak—no words at all, just happiness. He tried to imagine his parents and a river of happiness flowing between them and himself and Eglantine. Then he jerked himself back from such reveries. What he had to say next was going to be very difficult. He was going to have to refuse to have Primrose and Eglantine on this mission.
“Primrose, there will be a time when we will need you and Eglantine.” He paused.
“What?” Eglantine was stunned. “You’re not taking me? You promised,” she whined.
“Eglantine, you are not ready. You proved this tonight by blabbing to Primrose.” He then spun his head toward Primrose. “Primrose, you are certainly ready but it was our decision that the fewer the better on this mission. The less chance that we’ll be missed if it is just us.”
“I understand, Soren. Don’t apologize.”
“But what about me?” Eglantine whined again. “I’m your sister.”
“Yes, and someday you will be stronger, stronger in wing and stronger in gizzard. And we shall need you, and you shall be included.”
Eglantine’s wings drooped by her side. Her black eyes seemed to swim with the reflected light of stars.
“We must prepare to go now,” Soren said.
“Good luck,” Primrose said in a full strong voice. “Be careful.”
“Yes, be careful, Soren,” Eglantine said softly.
“Eglantine, don’t be mad. A promise is a promise. When you’re ready we’ll both know it.”
“I could never be mad at you, Soren. Never.”
“I know,” he replied softly.
Soren now looked to the south. The wake of the comet was still visible. But it made for a strange light in the sky, a light that could be deceiving. He would have Twilight, whose vision for marginal conditions like these was renowned, fly in the point position. “Ready for takeoff! Twilight, fly point, Gylfie, port side. I’ll fly starboard, Digger, fly tail.”
They lifted off into the strangely colored night. Why was the night stained red? When he had first seen the comet a few weeks before, it had appeared red because it was dawn and the sun was just rising, but now it was night and there was no rising sun. It gave Soren the shivers to think about it and the more he did, the more the sky looked not simply rusty, but like blood. And there was another curious phenomenon. The wind was a light head wind and should have slowed them down. But, indeed, it was the reverse. It seemed as if the comet had cleared a path, created a vacuum through which they passed easily. It was as if they were being pulled instead. He was supposed to be the leader of this band. But where was he leading them, and what were they being pulled toward? Suddenly, the night seemed ominous to Soren. He felt something cold and quivering deep in his gizzard.
CHAPTER NINE
The Rogue Smith of Silverveil
Dawn was breaking. They had been flying over Silver-veil for what seemed like hours, scouring the landscape below for any sign of smoke. It was the smoke that had led them to the cave of the dying Barred Owl so many months before.
“Do you think we’ll ever find him?” Soren called across from his starboard position.
“Her,” Gylfie said. “It’s a her.”
“Oh, sorry, I just can’t get used to a female as a blacksmith.”
“Well, get used to it,” Gylfie said somewhat testily.
“Rotate positions,” Soren called out. “Let’s look for a rest spot. Crows will be up soon. We don’t want a mobbing.” Soren, Gylfie, Twilight, and Digger had been mobbed once before on their way to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. It was not an experience they wished to repeat. Digger had been seriously injured. Owls flying in the daytime are not safe, except perhaps over water. Crows have a system for alerting other crows to the owls’ presence and can come upon them in a swarm, often pecking out their eyes, stabbing them from beneath, and making their wings collapse. In the night, it is quite the reverse. Then it is the owls who can mob the crows. Just as Soren was about to take over the point position, Twilight spotted a big fir tree below, perfect for fetching up for a day’s sleep.
“Fir tree below!”
Soren’s gizzard gave a small twitch. It was a fir tree just like the one in which he and Eglantine had been hatched and had spent a brief childhood with their parents. There were countless little ceremonies, rites of passage, that marked the development of a young owl. And because of his snatching and whatever it was that had happened to Eglantine when she had fallen from the nest or perhaps been pushed by Kludd, the two young owls had missed many of these. Whenever Soren mentioned this in front of the others, they all seemed quite sympathetic, except for Twilight. Twilight had been orphaned at such a young age that he had no nest memories and prided himself on having actually skipped such folderol ceremonies, as he referred to them. Not the most modest of owls, he bragged about having learned it all on his own in what he called the Orphan School of Tough Learning, which, frankly, became quite a bore to the others.
The fragrance of the fir needles filled Soren with a great sense of longing. He yearned for his parents, not the scrooms, but his real, live parents.
Soren could not let himself give in to these feelings. “Before we take a snooze, we have to plan.” Action, Soren always felt, was the best remedy for sad feelings. “I’ve been thinking that when we met the Barred Owl, he was not just on a border, he was really on a point where the corners of four borders touched, those of Kuneer, Ambala, The Beaks, and Tyto.”
“A convergence point,” Gylfie offered.
“Yes, I think we should look for such a point of convergence. Gylfie, you’re the navigator. You’ve studied the map. Which way should we head?”
“Well, for a convergence we need to head toward the point where Silverveil, the Shadow Forest, and The Barrens meet,” Gylfie said. “Tonight, when the constellation of the Great Glaux rises, we have to fly two degrees off its westerly wing, just between that and the claw of the Little Raccoon.”
“All right, everyone get a good rest. We’ll leave at First Black,” Soren said.
Three hours after
First Black they had still seen nothing. They had been in the region of the convergence for two hours. Soren told himself he could not get discouraged. He was the leader of this band. If the owls sensed he was discouraged, then their spirits, too, would begin to fall. They could not fail. Too much was at stake.
Digger flew up to Soren. “Permission for low-level surveillance, Soren.”
“What for?”
“Tracking, Soren. I’m used to low-level flight for finding downed owls and anything else on the ground. Look at me. We blend in with everything, desert sand and fallen leaves in autumn. And I can fly slow, really slow, noisy but slow. And,” he paused, “I can walk!”
“All right, but I expect you back within the quarter hour.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Captain! He wanted to cry out, Don’t call me Captain. Only Ezylryb can be called Captain.
Soren watched as Digger went into a plunging dive.
As he neared the ground, Digger began a slow survey, first for any sign of caves, or scattered coals that might indicate the presence of a rogue smith. When he found no caves, he wondered if a blacksmith would ever build a fire in a clearing. Possibly. Then, of course, there was the fact that this blacksmith was a Snowy Owl. Pure white. She should certainly show up on a night like this. With the moon far from full and still just newing, the night was very black. Perfect for seeing white.
The quarter of an hour was running out. Digger became more determined than ever, more intense in his search. Scanning by rotating his head as he had been taught to do in tracking, he dodged bushes, tree trunks, rocks, and other ground obstacles just in the nick of time. He sensed them almost before he got to them. But he hadn’t sensed the large black mound ahead. Neither rock nor shrub nor trunk, the mound suddenly sprung to life.
“Watch where you’re going, idiot!”
Digger’s gizzard froze.
“Racdrops!” Another scream from the mound. Digger felt something soft and then there was a small blizzard of sooty particles. He tumbled head over talons and this smothering cloud seemed to follow him. They were rolling down a small incline.
“Glaux almighty! You splat-brained idiot!” A scathing rant rang out. Digger had never heard such a stream of swears. The vilest curses scalded the night air and rained down on his ears. Bubo was no match. “Great stinkin’ Glaux, I might have known—a Burrowing Owl with most likely a small burrow where your brain should be. What happened? Did it fall out?”
“I beg your racdrop pardon! You wretched piece of wet poop.” Digger drew himself up to his full height. He surprised himself with his own swearing.
“Wet poop! I’ll splat you.”
This isn’t working, Digger suddenly thought. He could not stand here trading insults with this sooty black thing. “Truce,” he said. The creature stopped and stood still. “Who are you? What are you?” Digger asked.
“A bird, you darned fool.”
“A bird?”
“An owl. A Snowy at that.”
“Snowy!” Digger gasped and nearly laughed out loud. “You are the blackest Snowy I have ever seen.”
“What did you expect? I’m a blacksmith, idiot!”
It was music to Digger’s ears. “A blacksmith,” he said, his voice drenched in awe and relief. “The rogue smith of Silverveil?” Digger asked softly.
“What business is that of yours? You want battle claws? I rarely make them for Burrowing Owls. They’re lousy fliers. It’s a waste.”
Digger swallowed his anger at this insult. “No, no, Bubo told us about you.”
“Bubo!” the owl suddenly exploded. “You’re from Ga’Hoole? Bubo sent you here?”
“Not exactly,”
“What does that mean?” The Snowy narrowed her eyes until they were two yellow slits.
“Uh…I better go get my friends,” Digger stammered and quickly took off.
CHAPTER TEN
The Story of the Rogue Smith
Soren blinked as he and the three other owls lighted down. Digger had not been kidding when he had said that this was the blackest Snowy he had ever seen.
“So what brings you here, young’uns? I take it that you’re not here on a sanctioned visit.”
Gylfie was the only one who knew what the word “sanctioned” meant. So she answered, “No, this is not an official visit. As a matter of fact—”
The black Snowy finished her thought. “Sneaked away, didya? A little escapade, I imagine? Dreams of glory? Huh?”
Soren fluffed up his feathers in a bristle of annoyance. “It is not an escapade. It is a mission, and we do not dream of glory. We hope for peace, for we have been warned.”
“Warned of what?” the smith said with a slight note of disdain.
This owl frinks me off! Soren took a deep breath. “Metal Beak.”
A tremor went through the black Snowy and little puffs of coal dust sifted down from her feathers. “What’-cha doin’ messin’ with that creep for? He ain’t around these parts. And I’ll have you know, I don’t sell to him. Not on your life. Not on my life. Course that’s a risk in itself, not selling to him.”
“What do you know about him?” Gylfie asked.
“Very little. I steer clear of him and his gang. And I advise you to as well.”
“Gang?” Soren said.
“Yeah, gang. Don’t know how many.”
“Is he part of St. Aggie’s?” Gylfie asked.
“You only wish,” the black Snowy said. And with these words, Soren, Twilight, Gylfie, and Digger froze in terror. For, in fact, these were the very same words spoken by the dying Barred Owl, his last words when Gylfie had asked him if it was St. Aggie’s that had mortally wounded him. For these four owls to imagine anything worse than St. Aggie’s was terrifying. Now, however, it seemed that the “you only wish” could be tied to Metal Beak. And there was not just one of them but possibly many.
“Did you know about the murder of the Barred Owl of The Beaks?” Twilight asked.
“I heard a thing or two about it. I don’t go poking into things that ain’t my business. Not my way.” Soren remembered what Bubo had said about rogue smiths never attaching themselves to any kingdom.
“Where’s your forge?” Gylfie asked looking around.
“Not here.”
This is one tough owl, thought Soren. Almost like she’s not used to talking. But then Digger had said she could swear like nobody’s business. Used words that he had never even heard Bubo use. That was something—an owl who could out-curse Bubo. Although the owl hadn’t said that much, there was something oddly familiar in her tone. Soren couldn’t place it, however.
“Well, may I be so bold as to ask where your forge is?” Gylfie persisted. Good for you, Gylf. This was one of the advantages of being small, Soren thought. No one ever expected you to be bold or aggressive.
“Yonder!” The smith turned her head and indicated somewhere behind her shoulder.
“Might we see it?” Gylfie took a tiny step forward. The black Snowy towered over her, looked down and blinked.
“Why?”
“Because we’re interested. We’ve never seen a rogue smith’s forge before.”
The Snowy paused as if to consider if this was an adequate reason. “It ain’t fancy like Bubo’s.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Twilight said. “Do we look fancy?” Twilight puffed himself up. The inverted curves of white feathers that swept from his brow framed his eyes and beak and made his fierce glare even fiercer. He looked anything but fancy.
The black Snowy turned to Gylfie. “You’re small to be out here with this bunch of hooligans.”
“We’re not hooligans, ma’am,” Gylfie replied.
“Why’d you call me that?” The smith glared at Gylfie but the Elf Owl stood her ground firmly and met the blazing yellow gaze.
Uh-oh, thought Soren. This bird does not like being called ma’am. Soren remembered what Bubo had said about the rogue smiths being loners. How had Bubo put it? They likes living wild. Bein
g called ma’am—or sir, for that matter, if it were a male—would prick their gizzards.
“We aren’t hooligans. We are a band. Soren here is like a brother to me. We escaped from St. Aggie’s together. Shortly after we escaped, we met up with Twilight and Digger. Soon we shall have our Guardian ceremony and become true Guardians of Ga’Hoole.” Gylfie turned and swept her wing toward the three other owls who seemed almost spellbound by her words. “And I called you ‘ma’am’ because underneath all that coal dust, I know there is a beautiful Snowy. As beautiful as the most beautiful Snowy of the great tree, Madame Plonk.”
At that, the smith seemed to choke and then tears began to leak from her eyes. That’s it! That’s who the smith reminded Soren of. The tone of her voice, it was the same melodic sound, the same pling that he heard in Madame Plonk’s voice each night when she sang the “Night Is Done” song.
“How did you guess I was Brunwella’s sister?”
“You mean Madame Plonk? Is that her name?” Soren asked.
“Yes. Come, follow me to the forge, young’uns. I’ll tell you the story. I have some fresh voles. Mind you, I don’t roast them here like you do in the Great Tree.”
“Don’t worry,” Soren said. “I fly weather and colliering with Ezylryb—or did—and we always have to take our meat raw.”
“Oh, yes. I heard about Ezylryb. No sign of him yet?”
“No,” said Soren sadly as they flew the short distance to the forge.
“Dear old fellow. We go back, way back.”
Soren wondered what the Snowy meant by that? Well, perhaps they would soon find out.
“What is this?” Digger asked as the band lighted down in the stone ruins. There were two-and-a-half walls of ancient stone that had been neatly stacked upon one another. Old vines crawled over them and in the center was the pit where the smith had her fire. On one of the walls, a new set of battle claws and a helm hung. Soren could see that the work was very fine, every bit as good as Bubo’s.
“It used to be a walled garden. At least, that’s what I think. Maybe part of a castle.”
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