Guardians of Ga'Hoole

by Kathryn Huang

  Sir Lucien thought it peculiar that the Tropical Screech would change the subject so abruptly. Why, he was just telling him about the slim vines that cascaded down from the branches of the great tree, and how they were about to turn a pretty shade of silver any day now. But Honeyvox was a strange little owl, and he was happy to bring this awkward little get-together to an end. So he, too, raised his glass. “To music.”

  The next few seconds felt like days to Honeyvox. First, the Snowy held that cup aloft in his talon for far too long in his toasting gesture. As he lowered it, he swirled the cup deliberately, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. Then, he examined the liquid with his yellow eyes for what seemed like an entire moon cycle.

  Does he suspect?

  “I’ve always found bingle juice to have the most lovely color.”

  Oh, stop looking at it, just drink it! “Of course, lovely color, of course.”

  Finally, Sir Lucien raised the cup to his beak and took a small sip. As the Snowy swallowed the concoction, Honeyvox’s gizzard nearly sprang out of his body.

  I’ve done it! I’ve actually done it!

  But had he?

  Having drunk the toast, Sir Lucien excused himself. Something about it being time for “Night Is Done.” Honeyvox hardly noticed the other owl’s exit. He was overwhelmed by elation, a sense of his own power, and just a touch of guilt. He was practically bouncing from wall to wall in the guest hollow. He needed to settle himself down. Some bingle juice should do the trick. Honeyvox picked up the nut cup next to him and swigged its contents in one gulp.

  That morning, Honeyvox lighted down in his nest with a sense of accomplishment. Tomorrow, the owls of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree would find Sir Lucien Plonk mute, never to sing again. Soon, they would need a new singer. And conveniently, he, the world-renowned Honeyvox, would be there.

  As Honeyvox went to the dining hollow for tweener the next night, he noticed a commotion. Several of the rybs of the tree, along with numerous other owls, were huddled around the center of the room. As he got closer, he realized that Sir Lucien was at the center of the crowd. This, he expected. But what came next, he did not expect.

  Sir Lucien spoke.

  “Oh, there you are, Honeyvox. Strangest thing. My voice seems to have grown awfully hoarse after our drink last night. Say, what sort of bingle juice was it?” Sir Lucien rasped. “Oh, I sound downright dreadful.”

  Honeyvox froze. Perhaps his plan had failed. Perhaps the bloodroot hadn’t worked after all. But it was all right; Sir Lucien was in no condition to sing, and no one suspected him of foul play.

  There was nothing wrong with that bingle juice, old friend. I haven’t the faintest idea what could have happened. A nasty cold perhaps?

  Honeyvox meant to say those words, but they did not come out of his beak. In fact, no sound came out at all, no matter how hard he tried. He stood with his beak gaping. The events of the previous night flashed before him. And then, the world flipped on its side.

  Over the next few nights, the Guardians pieced together what had happened. They discovered what was left of the stolen bloodroot in the guest hollow. Traces of the juice could still be found in the nut cup. Sir Lucien’s voice steadily improved. Within a week, he was singing again. He told the other owls of Honeyvox’s offer to buy the harp, and his invitation for the two owls to have a drink. It appeared that the small amount of bloodroot ingested by Sir Lucien was not enough to cause permanent damage. He, being a large Snowy Owl, recovered within a few days. Honeyvox, in his jubilation, had inadvertently drunk out of Sir Lucien’s cup. Being a much smaller owl, the toxic effects of the bloodroot hit him most brutally. He would never sing or speak again. It was the realization of his most terrible mistake that had caused him to faint in the dining hollow.

  Honeyvox was asked to leave the tree. The Guardians were far from unsympathetic, however. Instead of banishing him to the wild, they escorted him to the Glauxian Brothers’ retreat in the Northern Kingdoms. Silence is a way of life there, and Honeyvox would be able to live out the rest of his life in meditation and repentance.

  Little more was written about the World-renowned Honeyvox. But the annals note that, as one of his last acts, Sir Lucien Plonk invited a dying Glauxian Brother, a silent Tropical Screech Owl, to hear him sing at the great tree. It is said that this owl died contentedly while listening to the music of the great grass harp.

  THEO

  Theo, the first blacksmith of the owl world, is known as the “father of metals.” His contributions to the development of our culture and our civilization have been monumental. He made the first battle claws, the first tools of the forge, and many things that have since become a part of our lives at the tree. You have heard much of his story, through the words of Grank, the first collier, and from the rest of the legends. But I have discovered many more historical twists and turns in the tale of this humble Great Horned. This additional information comes to me from the recent discovery of what are called the “Theo Papers,” which were found in the Sixth Kingdom.

  As you already know, Theo was a gizzard-resister, an owl who doesn’t believe in war or fighting. He believed that there was always a better way to settle disputes. (This is a subject about which I, to this day, have mixed feelings.) However, in a time of hagsfiends and nachtmagen, when the heir to the throne, young Hoole, was in danger, Theo had little choice but to fashion the most devastating weapon that owlkind has ever known. How he hated being in that position. How any of us would hate to be in that position—not knowing if you would achieve the greatest good by following or defying your most gizzardly instincts.

  Theo began to think of himself as a facilitator of violence. Other owls of the tree, Hoole and Grank included, believed the blacksmith to be a hero. But it was impossible to convince Theo of this. Battle claws, and the Rogue blacksmiths who made them, were beginning to spring up everywhere in the world of owls. The weapon that once was used to defeat the most treacherous of enemies became commonplace even in minor skirmishes. It seemed that Grank was right, everyone wanted a pair. The deadly weapon had begun to spread as virulently as any disease. There was a plague of battle claws!

  Never was Theo more tortured than upon the return of Ivar from a routine mission. A boisterous knight, and a nephew of Lord Rathnik’s, Ivar and two other owls were dispatched to help quell a kraal uprising near the Bay of Fangs. Ivar came back to the tree during a full moon, earlier than anyone had expected.

  The owl flying wildly toward our tree was not the same strapping young Spotted Owl who had left half a moon cycle before. There was a collective gasp from the tree as the owls saw the bizarre track of his flight. It was Theo who first realized what had happened when he spotted Ivar’s starboard foot hanging limply beneath his body. As he angled his wings to land, Ivar began to shout, “Move aside! MOVE! I don’t think I can—” With that, he crashed onto a branch, knocking over two perched owls in the process, and slid into the trunk with a thud.

  Then, all the owls saw. Ivar’s right foot had been severely mutilated. It was covered in dried blood and looked as if it was almost completely severed from his leg. These owls had been hardened by battle, and were no strangers to the sight of blood. Even still, Lord Rathnik gave a lurch and looked away.

  “The mission was going well,” Ivar spoke between gasps of pain. “We were dispersing the kraals that had settled in the area, and we thought we were nearly finished. In fact, most of the pirates were quite reasonable, agreeing to leave without any threat of violence. Then, their provisional leader, a young hot-talon—I think Sitka was her name—started to inquire about our battle claws, and how she might be able to get her talons into a pair of her own. We told her that it was a rather complex new technology involving fire and rare metals. She then tried to barter for them. Well, there was no way any of us were willing to give up our battle claws.” Crude battle claws were being made all over the Northern and Southern kingdoms. But battle claws of this quality—fiendishly sharp and precisely balanced—only came fr
om the forge of Theo. Ivar continued, “Two days later, dozens of them ambushed us while we slept.” Ivar’s voice began to trail off. “They killed Johan and Lar.”

  Johan and Lar were the two owls who had accompanied Ivar on this mission. They were battle-seasoned veterans and well-loved by their fellow members of the Ice Regiment of H’rath.

  Theo listened in horror, then wilfed. He was a quivering shadow of his former self.

  “I only escaped with my life because I was sleeping in a different hollow. I heard what was happening and flew out. I fought off six or seven of them, but they backed me into an ice notch and I was overcome. They wanted my battle claws. The left set slipped off quite easily, but the right…Well, I guess they wanted it badly enough that they didn’t care if my foot came off with it. When they got the battle claws, they scattered. I didn’t even know which one of them to pursue. Kraal cowards! But I was in no shape for anything by that time except a homebound flight. Luckily, a robust following breeze began to blow. I doubt if I could have made it without it. So, I flew all the way back without stopping. I knew that if I had tried to land, I might not have been able to take off again.” Ivar paused, and then babbled incoherently before falling into unconsciousness.

  The outlook for Ivar was grim. You see, during the time of the legends, owlkind’s understanding of medicine and the healing arts was still in its rudimentary stage. Injuries such as Ivar’s almost always meant death. Often, the flesh would fester, and the injured owl would die slowly, in a terrible fevered state. Even if he survived a successful amputation, walking and standing on a perch would be impossible. And as for flying, well, it is true, we owls have wings. But, without feet to connect us back to the earth, we cannot really fly.

  Vreta, the healer at the great tree, did all she could for Ivar that night. The sickly sweet smell that she detected could only mean that the flesh was beginning to rot. The mangled right foot could not be saved. Even with the numbing herbs the pain must have been excruciating when Vreta amputated the foot, but Ivar survived.

  As the sun rose, Theo sat with the broken knight as he drifted in and out of consciousness. A devastating wave of regret and sorrow swept over the Great Horned Owl. I am the cause of this. By Glaux, how far I have strayed from my path…Theo looked at his own talons and thought back to the day when Grank agreed to take him on as an apprentice. He never thought it would lead to this. I wanted to make good things, useful things…

  Day turned into night, and there was no change in Ivar’s condition. That was good news, Theo supposed. Realizing that he could do no more for Ivar, Theo returned to his forge near the roots of the tree. He wanted to be alone, to think about the events that had come to pass. The Glauxian Brothers have always placed great importance on silent meditation. Yes, meditation was what Theo needed more than anything else at the moment.

  In the forge, the fires burned steadily. Theo thought back to the time before he met Grank. Fire was a wild, fierce thing, feared by owls. And there it was now, tamed—tamed and ready to do his bidding. Several hammers of different sizes hung on the wall of the cave. Theo’s blacksmithing skills had improved since he came to the tree. Beyond battle claws and coal buckets, he had made all sorts of new things: a shallow pan that caught rainwater for drinking, a gridiron for charring meat over an open flame, and his newest invention which he called a “smaka”—a device that could squeeze the juice from milkberries to make large quantities of the tea that all the owls had come to love. Theo surveyed his creations. I have made good things, he thought. And I can still make more good things! Was it not possible that he could create something that would help Ivar the knight feel whole again? He was heartened by this thought.

  Theo cloistered himself in his forge and toiled night and day. Not once did he emerge to hunt, eat, or even speak. Grank was concerned about his former apprentice, but knew that the stubborn blacksmith would not be dissuaded from his endeavor. Realizing his protests would fall on deaf ear slits, Grank chose to help instead, by leaving freshly killed prey and milkberry tea outside the forge every night. And every night, he heard the ting ting ting of Theo’s hammer and the hiss of steam as white-hot metal met cold water.

  As the moon began its newing, Theo emerged from his forge, thin, tired, and covered in soot. What he had created was an iron foot. In shape, the iron foot looked astoundingly like a real owl’s foot, only without feathers. You see, an owl’s foot has four toes. In flight, we keep three toes facing forward, and one backward. When perched, or otherwise clutching something—a quill, an ice weapon, or freshly caught prey, the outer front toe on each foot pivots so that two toes face forward and two backward. Those of us who have studied owl anatomy can tell you that this is possible due to a flexible joint unique to owls. Theo was able to mimic this joint in iron with remarkable accuracy. Owls, like other birds of prey, have the ability to lock their toes around a perch. For the iron foot, Theo built a small latch that performed this function. It was easily activated with a tap of the beak. The top of the iron foot was fashioned into a narrow cup. Theo lined it first with lemming leather and then with soft down from his own chest. Attached to the cup were straps made from the sinews of prey. These would allow the iron foot to be fastened to Ivar’s newly healed stump.

  Theo set out to find Ivar at once.

  Ivar had scarcely left his hollow since he was released by the healer. Many of Ivar’s friends had tried to shake him out of his melancholy, but none had been successful. Lord Rathnik had all but given up on the young knight. Vreta had encouraged him to try to fly again, but he made only a half-gizzarded attempt at flapping his wings. He roosted day and night, turning away visitors. Despite his youth, his feathers had turned an ashen shade, his once-lustrous spots fading into the dull gray background. The owl that Theo set his eyes upon seemed to have aged years in the brief moon cycle since his encounter with the kraals.

  “What’s the use, Theo?” Ivar said drily. “I will never be a knight again. I wish you’d all stop fussing over me, and just leave me be.”

  “You’ll always be recognized as a knight here. You don’t have to fight to be a real owl. There are plenty of other things you can do.” Theo pushed the iron foot toward Ivar. “This will help.”

  “Help? Help me look like a fool, perhaps.”

  This was not the reaction Theo had hoped for. “It will allow you to do more than this.” He reminded himself to soften his tone. “You will be able to perch normally. And, in time, walk and—”

  “What do you take me for? A ground animal? What good does walking do me? I will never be anything but a broken owl. I would have been better off dying with my comrades.”

  Theo could not hold back his anger. “I just thought that, maybe, you’d want to try to live your life again. That maybe you’d like to do the things that we owls do, to perch, to fly, and maybe even to hunt, or to—”

  Ivar’s yellow eyes brightened for the first time since his return to the tree. “Might I truly be able to…to fly?” The word “fly” came out of his beak in a bare whisper, as if saying it too loudly would quash the possibility.

  Theo’s gizzard quickened. “Yes, yes, I think so.”

  “Let’s have a better look at this iron foot of yours, then.”

  Ivar would learn to fly a second time. And for the next moon cycle, he became a chick again—first learning to stand firmly on his new foot, learning to balance on a perch, and then to walk. The iron leg was heavy, and, despite Theo’s crafty design, hard to control. Ivar had to regain his strength before he was capable of even attempting to branch. But with Theo as his tutor, Ivar grew closer to flight each night.

  “It’s an issue of balance. Remember when you first learned to fly with battle claws? It’s like that, but just…well, more so. Let’s begin with a simple glide.” Theo and Ivar stood on a branch of the great tree. For the first time since his return, Ivar was about to take to the air.

  “It is like a battle claw, isn’t it? I’m ready.”

  Theo gave him a reass
uring nod, and the Spotted Owl lifted off.

  “Woah! Wooooah!” Ivar was in the air for no more than a few seconds before he started to stagger. Theo remembered how Grank had given him a little bit of a wing prop when he first learned to fly with battle claws. He did the same for Ivar by quickly flying under him and pumping his own wings to send up a few supportive puffs of air.

  “Pump harder with your starboard wing! A little more. That’s it, lift! Lift! Easy on the port side!”

  “I’m doing it! I’m flying! Aiyee, I feel like an owlet again!” Although he was a bit unsteady, he was airborne. Ivar was ecstatic.

  Theo was even more ecstatic. He’s flying! He is almost his old self again! he thought. Somehow, seeing the once-broken knight in flight eased the regrets he had about making battle claws. His smithing had done something good for owlkind. His smithing had restored a young owl. Theo had been teaching many of the owls at the tree his art. Now, finally, he was sure that he was doing the right thing by passing his craft to the next generation.

  Theo and Ivar became mentor and protégé. The two owls would practice together every night when the weather was clear and the winds not too blustery. Ivar’s flight grew more and more stable. He was able to bank and dive with some training. He found landing to be surprisingly easy, as the weight of the iron foot actually made for a steadier approach. He began to work on catching prey—that took more coordination than he imagined. The one aspect of flight that eluded Ivar was endurance. Despite all his hard work, he could only fly for a few minutes at a time, usually circling the Island of Hoole. Never was he able to leave the air mass above the island for fear of losing altitude over water. That is, until Ivar made a curious finding.

  Being a Spotted Owl, Ivar was particularly sensitive to changes in atmospheric pressure. Every night, as he circled the island with Theo, he noticed a slightly buoyant pocket of warm air as he passed over the southwestern coast. Whenever he was over this pocket, the iron foot’s weight disappeared and he felt as though he had never lost it. He began to explore this pocket on his own. Sure enough, when he found its edges, he discovered that, if he stayed within them, he could fly for hours. It was as if he was back in his old fighting form again. One discovery led to another. As the months passed, Ivar explored farther and farther, finding more atmospheric anomalies around the island. With his iron foot, to which he was now fully accustomed, he drew diagrams of all of them. These charts were the first ever to be drawn in such detail.