“Oh, for Glaux’s sake. You guys saw her, didn’t you?” Twilight asked.
“Who?”
“That Great Gray. She was flying not fifty pytes from me. And she was trying to tell me something, or ask me something, I know she was. She was right there.” Twilight searched the sky desperately with his eyes. Despite being right beside us, he seemed lost. “Didn’t you see her? I know she was there.”
“Well, I didn’t see anything, but maybe I just wasn’t paying attention,” Gylfie said. She sensed that this was very important to Twilight. This was as pensive as she had ever seen him, and she wasn’t about to dismiss his sighting of a phantom owl as a mere optical illusion. “Let’s get back to the hollow, and we can talk about it there. Okay, Twi?”
Back in the Band’s hollow, we all settled onto perches as the sun rose. (I often joined the Band in their hollow after a night on the wing together.) Twilight continued to look uneasy.
“She was just so…I don’t know…familiar. And then she was gone.”
Soren inhaled deeply. His words came out cautiously, “Hmm. Was she all misty? What I mean is, do you think, Twilight, that maybe she was a scroom?”
Scrooms, of course, are the disembodied spirits of owls who have died. Usually, they come back into our world because they have some unfinished business. As young owls, Soren and his sister, Eglantine, had encounters with the scrooms of their parents. So Soren knew firsthand what it was like to be in their presence. Twilight, on the other hand, had never considered himself to be—well, how should I put it—scroomishly inclined.
“What did she say to you?” Soren pushed on.
“Well, it sounded like she said ‘cash us’.”
“That doesn’t make much sense,” I told him, a bit too bluntly, now that I think about it.
“Oh, you mean, like ‘cache us,’ maybe?” Gylfie piped up. “’Cache’ means ‘to store something away in hiding, especially for later use’.”
“Or, it was ‘catch.’ She was saying, ‘catch us!’” I offered. That made a lot more sense to me, but Gylfie shot me an exasperated look.
Digger, the constant theoretician, had another idea. “You can’t catch a scroom. That couldn’t be it. And who’s ‘us,’ anyway? You said there was only one scroom, right? Maybe she was saying ‘cautious.’ That you should be cautious. She was warning you about something. You recognized her, you said?”
We all offered other suggestions, but Twilight appeared overwhelmed. “Look, I’m not even saying it was a scroom.
Maybe it was a reflection or something…I’m not sure about anything anymore. Let’s just forget it happened.”
But it was clear that Twilight did not forget. For the next few nights, he seemed constantly distracted. He went about chaw practices with uncharacteristic absentmindedness, sometimes even missing his targets during aerial search drills. At mealtimes, we could hardly get more than two words out of him, despite our talk about the newest battle claws that Bubo was working on. I counted eight entire nights without a single chant or song or rhyme from our resident verse-maker. His behavior, his personality was so changed, it was as if the Twilight we knew had disappeared, dissolved like the mist of the scroom that he supposedly saw. Soren, Gylfie, and Digger were clearly worried, and so was I.
During this time, the library of the great tree made some extraordinary acquisitions. I had volunteered to help catalog these precious new finds. I thought it might help to give my gizzard a little lift. And did it ever! Among them were the latest treatises on herbal medicine, an original illuminated manuscript about the Battle of the Ice Palace, and my personal favorite—Ode: Intimations on Life and Love in the Forest, a book of contemporary poetry by a Strix nebulosa named Skye. Skye was the most notable and celebrated poet of our time; “a prodigy,” many learned owls called her. She was said to have disappeared not long ago, and her last book was feared lost. Luckily, a Glauxian Brother found it in an abandoned hollow in the forest of Ambala. The master bookmakers at the retreat made a copy, and, as a gesture of goodwill, gave the Guardians the original.
I immediately checked the book out from the library and began reading. Oh, the poems were lovely and cerebral at the same time, the finest combination, in my opinion! I liked the one called “Moonlight at Midnight” the best, that is, until I read “Elegy for Lone Pine.” And, of course, there was “Shall I Fly Into a Storm.” I was in glaumora. Needless to say, I finished the entire book in two nights. It was while I was closing the book that I found something intriguing.
Carefully tucked into the lemming leather of the back cover was another poem, written on a folded piece of parchment. I began to read…
At twilight, you came
so fragile so slight
I gave you your name
Your song I shall write
My heart you have won
from the moment you hatched
My precious new son
your worth is unmatched
Now it’s for you that I sing
my soul filled with pride
To me you can cling
till you can fly alongside
I offer you this, my melodic phrase
For you are my most beloved of Grays
I looked at the title again. My gizzard leaped. I was off at once to gather the Band.
The four of us took shallow, guarded breaths, and watched intently as Twilight read the poem for the fifth, and then sixth time. Bit by bit, it sank in.
“My mum? You mean, this was written by my mum?” He asked all of us and none of us. “This was written by my mum.” He read the title of the poem aloud one more time, “Ode to My Son Cassius at Twilight.”
“Don’t you see? The scroom you saw, it was your mum! And she was…”
“And she was calling my name,” Twilight finished the sentence for Digger. “Cassius. My mum named me Cassius.”
I couldn’t tell exactly what the Great Gray was feeling at that moment. In his eyes, I saw contentment, confusion, surprise, and a little sadness.
“This must be why I was so drawn to twilight. I think she sang this to me just as I hatched, and all I remembered was the first line. Remember, Soren, when I told you that I knew I was hatched at the edges of time? Well, I think I know now why that was my very first memory.
“It was a family of Pygmy Owls who first took me in as a tiny owlet. Bluebell and Dahlia, mother and daughter. At least, I think Bluebell was the mother, and Dahlia was the daughter. But it could have been the other way around because they only ever referred to each other as ‘Big Pyggy’ and ‘Lil Pyggy.’” Twilight let out a small churr. “They told me that I kept saying the word ‘twilight’ in my dreams, so they assumed it must have been my name. I quickly outgrew their hollow and moved on. This whole time, I thought it was that silvery border of time between day and night that gave me my name. Cassius. Son of the poet, Skye. Well, go figure.”
Twilight had always thought of himself as a plain, down-to-earth sort of owl because he had no proper upbringing. Now, an illustrious heritage was suddenly thrust upon him. Not only was Skye a preeminent poet, but she also had numerous relatives who were well-known writers and artists.
“I don’t know…I wonder what my mother would have thought of me, if she were alive, I mean. And my aunts and uncles…I bet it’s not every day they meet a graduate from the Orphan School of Tough Learning. Still, it’s as if my gizzard is more whole somehow.”
“Your mum loved you, Twi,” Digger said softly. “That much is clear.”
Twilight acknowledged this with a barely visible nod.
Gylfie finally asked the question that had been on all our minds. “So, what do you want us to call you now? I mean, are you Cassius now?”
The Great Gray who had hatched as Cassius thought for a moment. “My name is Twilight. Now that I know how I got it, it fits me even better. My mum named me Cassius, but in a way, she also named me Twilight. And I think she would be proud of what I’ve become.”
That, no one coul
d disagree with.
Twilight’s chest swelled. “I am proud to be the son of Skye, but the world is still my family. You guys are still my family.” And with that, he went to the skyport and lifted into the air with one smooth power stroke. Shaking off the malaise of the last days, he raised his voice.
We met before moonrise
And then you left, without good-byes
To my rhymes you did give rise
Your name I chanced upon
Now you are with me, though you are gone
Our verses shall fly on
“It’s good to have you back, Twilight!” Soren called out.
And indeed it was. You know, that might be my favorite rhyme of his yet.
STRIX STRUMA
No book about the Great Ga’Hoole Tree would be complete without the tale of Strix Struma. She was the venerated navigation ryb and a respected member of parliament for years. Not long ago, she gave her life in defense of the great tree in the fight against the Pure Ones when they besieged us. I fought at her side as a member of Struma’s Strikers. She was my mentor and my inspiration, and I loved her well. She shared with me this story as we prepared for battle against the Pure Ones.
The daughter of Strix Hurth, a retired instructor at the Kielian Military Academy, and Strix Otulinn, a respected weathertrix, Struma grew up in a stand of pines just north of Broken Talon Point. She came from a long line of well-bred owls who contributed greatly to the culture of the Northern Kingdoms. She was named for Strix Strumajen, an owl of great courage from the time of the legends.
Struma’s parents had high expectations for their daughter from the day she hatched. They tried to provide her with an education befitting her lineage—with lessons in classical literature, music, and etiquette. They hoped she would become a well-rounded and refined young owl and find herself a suitable mate. But Struma
was a poor student from the start. (Yes, it’s true—I could scarcely believe this myself when I heard it.)
“Glaux, was I ever lazy!” Strix Struma told me. “Slept well beyond tween time; some nights, wouldn’t even get up until it was First Black. Hardly ever lifted a talon to do anything around the hollow. Thought the sun and moon should rise and set to my liking. You see, Otulissa, I was a smart chick, started counting and reading before my First Meat-on-Bones, if you can believe it. Every grown owl who met me was so impressed…‘Oh, look what little Struma can do! Such an advanced owlet for her age, so gifted!’ So by the time I was fully fledged, I thought I had it all figured out. I wouldn’t have to do any work, I would just let my ‘natural talent’ carry me through. Nothing interested me at all, I just wanted to gleek about all night and all day. Some fledgling I was.” I still remember her shaking her head and churring abashedly as she related the story.
As Struma got older, her parents’ concern for their daughter turned into disappointment. Not only did she seem disinterested in everything, she became downright defiant. She would leave the family’s hollow for days at a time, never telling her parents where she had been. Once, she even returned home with her feathers painted like a kraal! Strix Hurth was hags-bent on setting his daughter straight. Having been an instructor in the Academy, he devised a plan.
Deep in the H’rathghar mountains, at the northern edge of Glen Hoole, was a little military camp that the owls of the Kielian League called Little Hoole. Little Hoole was considered a strategically important location in the War of the Ice Claws because it was home to the ruins of an ancient fortress built by the Others called Ghareth’s Keep, which, most owls agreed, was impenetrable in the best of conditions. Control of Little Hoole meant control over the vast mountain ranges of H’rathghar. Little Hoole was in a steep, bowl-shaped depression amid the mountains. In fair weather, it was difficult to access, requiring owls to fly over the highest peaks of the mountains. During the winter, when storms incessantly pounded the region, it was all but cut off from the world by swirling winds, snow, and never-lifting fog. With no safe and easy way to leave, owls stationed at Little Hoole would stay there all winter, essentially trapped by weather.
Strix Hurth knew Little Hoole well. The place was run by one of his oldest friends, General Kai, a Snowy from Dark Fowl Island. Strix Hurth himself had been stationed there for a full year as a young owl. It had been the most grueling year of his life. He and his mate thought that was exactly what young Struma needed. At Little Hoole, she would learn discipline and respect for authority. And even though the War of the Ice Claws hadn’t officially ended, it seemed that the Kielian League had victory within their grasp. With winter coming, Little Hoole was sure to be one of the safest places in the Northern Kingdoms.
“I nearly screeched my head off! How could they send me to such a glaux-forsaken place?” There was still a hint of outrage in Strix Struma’s voice as she continued with her story, but I thought I detected a whiff of nostalgia as well. “But I knew there was nothing I could do to change their minds. Besides, I thought it might be good to get away from my parents, in a way that wouldn’t cause them to disown me.”
And so, one evening in late autumn, Strix Hurth and Strix Otulinn delivered their delinquent daughter to Glen Hoole. A light snow was falling. It was the most difficult journey that Struma had ever flown. On more than one occasion, she thought that the wildly swirling winds and icy mist would cause her to hurtle into the sheer ice walls of the mountains. And winter hadn’t even come yet; this was still the “mild season” in these parts. When she first laid eyes on the icy peaks that she would have to traverse, Struma thought for sure that she would freeze before she reached the glen. She only made it with the guidance of her mum, who, as a weathertrix, was accustomed to this type of flying.
Struma’s outlook did not improve at the end of her journey. Little Hoole was as dismal a place as she had imagined. It seemed everything there was a murky shade of gray—including the owls, be they Great Grays, Snowies, or Spotted. She counted fifty or so owls at the camp, and they all moved about in practiced monotony—marching, sharpening ice weapons, moving supplies. Ghareth’s Keep itself was a stone monstrosity. Never had Struma seem anything so unwelcoming. But she reckoned that was intentional. This would be where she would sleep every day until spring. She wasn’t sure if her gizzard was numb from the prospect or from the cold.
When it came time to light down for the first time in her new home, Struma found that she was exhausted, but could not sleep. And every time she began to doze off, she dreamed of ice walls closing in all around her. When the drill sergeant gave the wake-up call the next evening, Struma marched out of the Keep in a daze, only to find that it wasn’t even First Lavender yet.
The night began early for owls at Little Hoole. There was not a single crow in sight in these mountains, so owls were often wakened during the late afternoon to begin their drills. There were marching drills, several types of flying drills, weapon-handling drills, combat drills…so many drills that Struma lost track. Her body ached from First Lavender to First Gray. It was all she could do to climb into her nest at twixt time.
On top of the endless drills, Struma also had to take classes in battle tactics, navigation, geology, and weather interpretation. For the first time in her life, her “natural talents” failed her. At first, she didn’t really care that she wasn’t doing well in her classes. But soon, it became abundantly clear that failure would not be tolerated. If she didn’t master the material covered in class, she was subjected to more drills, less sleep, and scathing looks from the older recruits.
It seemed impossible to make friends at Little Hoole. All the other owls, mostly new recruits, knew of Struma’s distinguished lineage and thought of her as little more than a spoiled and self-centered fledgling. Few owls spoke to her unless it was to give her an order. Struma ate alone most nights. Almost a full moon cycle had passed since her arrival. She grew more depressed with each passing day.
The only owl Struma felt at all close to was her geology instructor, an old Snowy named Sarissa. Sarissa herself was from an anc
ient line of Snowies from Stormfast Island, and saw something in young Struma that reminded her of herself. It now seemed that she had lived at Little Hoole for ages, but Sarissa remembered those first miserable days vividly. She gave the Spotted Owl encouragement along with a bit of tough love. “Get over yourself, young’un,” she told Struma frankly. “No owl is going to like you just for who your ancestors were, and they’re certainly not going to appreciate your thinking that you’re smarter than every owl in this place. Put in some effort and you might just learn a thing or two.”
Since Snowy Owls often nested on the ground in the tundra, understanding the terrain was of vital importance. Spotted Owls, on the other hand, usually lived in dense coniferous forests and had little practical use for this type of knowledge. Nevertheless, geology became Struma’s favorite and best subject. She began to look forward to her geology class every night. She found that her outlook was beginning to change. Soon, Struma began to excel in other subjects as well. She was surprised to find battle tactics fascinating. The daily drills grew easier, too, as Struma got stronger. She found that the other young owls were beginning to treat her with a little more respect. There were even a few that she could call friends. Little Hoole might be grueling, but it wasn’t such an awful place after all.
Meanwhile, winter had descended upon the H’rathghar mountains with biting ferocity. Snow fell from the sky but never seemed to reach the ground in the bowl-shaped glen. It swirled and drifted and turned the air opaque. The wind howled like wolves night and day. None of this seemed to bother the owls of Little Hoole, for they had been prepared to live in such conditions. What they had not prepared for was what happened at First Black one night.
As the owls carried on with their drills, they heard a distant rumble. Was it an avalanche? Those were not uncommon in the area, but they never happened in Glen Hoole because the slopes surrounding it were so steep that snow could not accumulate on them. But the rumble grew closer. Then, the earth shook.
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