Rozbell had turned the auks’ seasons upside down. He had exploited fears of a plague on his own island to seize control of Parliament and poach the auks’ food supply. His greediness had then led indirectly to the disappearance of their food supply entirely. And now his fiendish new plan to feed himself with the auks’ eggs threatened to jeopardize the colony’s future by wiping out an entire breeding season. A new kind of darkness had set in—a premature winter. So perhaps you will understand why, despite the sun shining coldly above them, many auks began to say, “The stars are shining on Neversink.”
The king followed up his announcement by sending Edmund and his crew of burrowing owls to Neversink to invade the auks’ dug-out nests and seize their eggs. The wails of guillemot, murre, razorbill, and puffin families filled the air. A squadron of white pelicans came daily to collect the eggs, their enormous, slow-beating, black-tipped wings becoming objects of foreboding against the concrete sky.
What Rozbell didn’t count on was the fact that you can, believe it or not, push a puffin too far. At least, you can push a new mother and abandoned wife too far.
“You want to do what?” said an astonished Algard, when Lucy came to his door.
“I want to kick the burrowing owls out of our burrows! Most of us are bigger than they are, or at least on even terms. And there are way more of us. We don’t have to stand for this!”
“I see insanity runs in Lockley’s family,” said Algard.
“Algard, you know the old saying. Act like a doormat, expect to end up in front of a door.” (This made more sense back then.)
“You’re forgetting something,” said Algard. “The burrowing owls are just hired beaks. We stand up to them, Rozbell just sends over more owls. Bigger owls. Owls we won’t be able to stand up to.”
“What difference does that make?” Lucy shot back. “If we just roll over and let him take our eggs, we may as well all be dead anyway.”
Algard looked at her, wondering where this streak of defiance came from. And why his family had chosen to nest next to the one pair of puffins with some backbone.
“Lucy, I—that is to say—I’ll think about it. Okay? In the meantime, just try and make the best of it.” Which could have been yet another auk motto.
Algard wasn’t the only one to watch Lucy storm off (for she did in fact storm off, as best a puffin can storm, anyway). Astra took note as well. She wondered if there were any owls on Tytonia willing to defy Rozbell half as much.
In the desolate mists of Slog’s Hollow, Rozbell was in his owlery, enjoying the trappings of royalty. He wasn’t so much perched as he was sprawled among the branches. House sparrows were polishing his new crown while Alf buffed his talons. Rozbell had hoarded the last of the smidgens for himself. From looks of the auk eggs piled up in his owlery, Alf wondered if he was planning to share those, either.
“Your Majesty,” said Alf cautiously, “as superb a plan as it was to steal the auks’ eggs, their couples produce but one egg each for the breeding system. Even the entire supply would feed us all only temporarily.”
Rozbell stood up and shooed away the house sparrows. “Feed us all? Don’t be ridiculous. The eggs are for me. I need sustenance to lead us out of this crisis.”
“Your Majesty,” stammered the elderly owl, still crouched at Rozbell’s feet. “If I may…others have reported that the number of unexplained deaths seem to be fewer that expected…compared to the last time, that is. Some are talking of hunting again—with your permission, of course. Perhaps the Sickness did not return as feared?”
Rozbell kicked him to the ground almost before he could finish speaking. “You’re questioning my judgment? The Great Gray Owl wanted to sit there and let everyone perish. I work to save us all, and this is what’s being said? This is the gratitude?”
“No…”
“So it’s just you then?”
The old owl threw himself facedown at Rozbell’s feet. He was searching for anything to say that could save himself when a long-eared owl from the Great Northern Forest arrived, holding something in his mouth.
“Just put me down here, good sir,” said the mole. The owl complied.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Mole,” said Rozbell. “Do you have any intelligence for me?”
The mole looked around, tapping his forepaws. “You mean, he’s not here?”
Rozbell looked around. “Who? Who?”
“The puffin. I led him and his hummingbird friend to the moors, where the puffin fell into a bog. I reported this fact to the wood owls.”
Both the mole and Rozbell looked at the long-eared owl for an explanation. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” said the owl. “There was a mix-up. There were reports of any number of exotic birds—harlequin ducks, toucans, macaws, parrots, penguins, common loons….”
Rozbell’s eyelids began to twitch. “I thought owls were smart!” he screeched. “In the name of the gods, doesn’t anyone here know what a puffin is? I mean, they live right over there!
“You knew it was the puffin,” said Rozbell, turning on the mole. “Why didn’t you come to me directly?”
The mole was quavering. “It would have taken quite some time to tunnel back from the moors. I thought telling an owl would be the quickest way to dispatch the puffin.” He nodded his head in the direction of the long-eared owl, as if to say, Blame him. “I think you’ll agree, I did my part,” said the mole.
Rozbell just stared at him. “Yes, you did your part. And now it’s done.” And with that he jumped down, plucked up the terrified mole, and swallowed him whole. It did not escape the others’ notice that Rozbell seemed unconcerned that the mole might be contaminated.
As Rozbell let out a small belch, Feathertop swooped into the owlery, clutching black feathers in his mouth. Right behind him, a large raven glided in on swept-back wings.
“What are those?” said Rozbell. “And who are you?”
“Your Majesty,” croaked the raven, his voice hollow and metallic, “I am Klink. I lead a conspiracy of ravens in the north. And those are puffin feathers.”
“The escaped puffin?” said Rozbell, looking to Feathertop. “You caught him?”
As Feathertop had a mouthful of feathers, Klink spoke for him. “The eagle did catch him. With a bit of assistance from us, if I may humbly say so.”
Klink and Feathertop exchanged a wordless glance. Ravens, being scavengers, were forever trying to curry favor with birds of prey, who would leave juicy food remains for them. When Feathertop failed to capture Lockley, Klink was only too happy to show him the feathers from Lockley’s decoy and suggest a plan for convincing Rozbell the puffin was dead.
Rozbell motioned for one of the house sparrows to bring him the feathers. “Where’s the rest of him?” he said, flicking his tail in agitation. “I wanted to see the body myself. I wanted to punt it around like a vole, take it into the woods and let owlets poke it with sticks, and then drop it in the middle of the colonists to let those fish-eaters and that tooth-walker see what happens when you defy authority.”
Klink waited for Feathertop to explain, but thinking on his feet was not the eagle’s strong suit.
“I apologize, Your Majesty,” Klink croaked. “I’m afraid I let my ravens scavenge a bit, to reward them.”
“But poking it with sticks!” said Rozbell.
“That would have been delightful, Your Majesty. Still, as far as showing the auks what can happen if they defy authority, may I make a suggestion? Permit me to take the feathers publicly to the dead puffin’s wife. I assure you it will have the same effect.”
Rozbell, still holding the feathers, fluttered up to a branch near Klink. A wicked grin broke across his face, and he handed the feathers back to the raven. “I’ve always said you could trust a raven!” he chirped. He then hopped over to a branch near Feathertop. “I didn’t bring you all the way here to get help from the locals. What have you done for me lately? You’re supposed to help me hunt, and I’m the one coming up with all the ways to keep us fed.
And your appetite is ten times as big!”
Feathertop was stunned by his master’s sudden rebuke. He glanced around the owlery, all too aware that he was being taken down a branch in public. The other birds pretended not to notice.
And so Rozbell sent the raven Klink to Lucy’s burrow, further enhancing that bird’s reputation as a foreteller of doom. The blackish bird coasted the length of Auk’s Landing, a grim sight for all to see, including Lucy, who had stepped outside for a breath of air.
Algard and other nearby auks looked on with pity as the raven dropped to the ground and handed her Lockley’s feathers. In true puffin fashion, Lucy bore her grief inwardly, refusing to make a spectacle of her loss before quietly slipping back inside.
Algard had promised Lucy he would think about her plan to rebuff the burrowing owls. And he did. He thought about how foolish it would be to do such a thing. Suicidal, even. And he thought about how nice it would be to live on the other end of Auk’s Landing, far away from the troublesome puffins.
But then he was outside when he saw one of the burrowing owls finally come to Lucy’s door, despite all the efforts of Egbert to hide her egg by girth or games. And he saw with his own eyes Lucy answer the door holding one of her smidgen pans, he saw her raise the pan above her head, and he saw her bring the pan down with deliberate force on the stunned owl’s head, crushing the small hat that sat upon it. He saw the owl stumble away from her door, his eyes glazed over, until he fell backward over a rock, no doubt adding a bump on the back of his head to go with the one on the top. And finally, he saw the owl stand back up on his tall legs, which were shaking either from wooziness or fear, and wobble away from Lucy Puffin’s burrow.
Algard, his eyes still wide with disbelief, walked slowly back to his own burrow, alarming his wife with his far-off stare. “What’s wrong, Algard?” she asked.
“She brained him,” said Algard, half to himself. “Wham,” he added, miming the movement with his own wings.
“What are you holding?” his wife asked, and Algard looked into his empty wings.
“Nothing.” He had come back from the sea that morning with a completely empty bill. The waters now, for all practical purposes, were dry. What am I afraid of losing at this point? thought Algard.
The next morning, sitting on her perch above the colony, Astra was struck by the spectacle of small, stilt-legged burrowing owls being bounced from doorsteps by larger murres, guillemots, and razorbills. Even the less physically imposing puffins found the courage to look the little owls in their amber eyes and clack their bills until the burrowing owls backed off. Astra knew she shouldn’t be enjoying this, but the sight of Edmund running back and forth, trying to figure out who to scream at—his cowardly crew or the defiant auks—made her laugh quietly.
“Make them comply!” cried Edmund, who had finally given up trying to solve the problem himself. “It’s your job.”
“Suddenly you respect my authority,” said Astra coldly.
Edmund seethed. “Tell Rozbell, or I will!”
Astra spun her head toward the aggrieved owl. “Don’t tell me my duties,” she said sharply. “For now, stay out of the auks’ burrows.”
Edmund’s crew didn’t mind being given an excuse to avoid getting hit, spat at, or generally injured all over again. But Edmund didn’t trust Astra. He had always been unnerved by the cool disposition of snowy owls—remote both in personality and in their habitats, preferring much colder climates than most owls. He thought Rozbell should know what was going on, and he wasn’t sure Astra would tell him. So when the next squadron of pelicans came, to collect what few eggs the burrowing owls had captured before the revolt, Edmund sent word of what happened.
Rozbell nearly exploded in a vapor of rage. “Stupid, miserable, fish-eating, duck-walking, clown-faced, orange-legged, dough-bellied, flat-footed, funny-flying, ridiculous, silly, pretentious birds!” he screeched, kicking his servant owl in the shins and sending the house sparrows fluttering away like moths. “For the love of fish, why did the gods invent the puffin! Gewh, gewh, gewh!”
Rozbell was once again seized by a fit of spastic blinking, as his rage must have sucked the moisture right out of his eyes. Every creature present thought this might be the meltdown so many of them had been waiting for. Finally, Rozbell’s blinking subsided and he seemed to calm himself without any outward displays of violence. He remained quiet for several minutes before turning to Feathertop. “Perhaps a personal visit to this…puffin”—almost choking on the word—“will serve to remind her who her king is.”
Feathertop let Rozbell climb aboard, and the pair flew to Neversink, stopping first to speak with Astra, sitting stoically as usual, staring seaward. “Did you not see this happening?” said Rozbell, struggling to keep his composure. “Why didn’t you do something?”
“I thought the burrowing owls were just trying to shirk their duties,” said Astra.
Rozbell wasn’t satisfied by this explanation, but he had more important business. “Show me to this agitator’s burrow.”
Astra held her ground for a few seconds before pointing in Lucy’s direction. “Follow me.”
So it was that, as the day dimmed on Neversink, Lucy Puffin’s doorstep was darkened by two shadows—one very long, and the other very short. As Lucy went to the door to face Rozbell and Feathertop, Astra perched herself on a rock behind them, watching intently.
“Aren’t you going to invite us in?” said Rozbell as he walked right past Lucy into her burrow. Feathertop, though, nearly had to double over just to fit his head in the doorway. Noticing this, Rozbell snapped, “I guess you’ll have to wait there.”
Of course, Rozbell didn’t know for sure that Lucy had an egg of her own. He had come to confront her about the owl she hit over the head, and her unfortunate decision to rally the auks against the home invasions. But Lucy could see the gears of his mind working as he prowled around the living room, seeming to take an interest in everything.
“On the way here,” said Rozbell, “I wondered why you, of all the colonists, would take such drastic measures to keep burrowing owls out of your home. The whole point of letting you know your husband was dead was to remind you that no good comes from making trouble. And with your mate dead, what, really, do you have to live for? But rather than going back to minding your own business, you cause even more trouble—assaulting one of my soldiers…inspiring the others to do the same.”
The mention of Lockley was like an icicle in her heart, but as soon as it registered, Lucy felt a wave of nausea hit her. Rozbell walked slowly out of her living room, toward the bedroom. She fled after him, and got there in time to see Rozbell staring at her egg, his face a horrifying, twisted mask of sinister glee. She stood by, paralyzed, as Rozbell rolled the egg from her bedroom toward the front door. He nodded to Feathertop, who extended one of his huge wings and captured the egg, rolling it to the threshold. Lucy regained her senses and ran forward, but with his other wing the eagle batted her against the wall. He rolled the egg all the way outside the burrow, where he clutched it with one of his talons, the razor-sharp tips dimpling the egg’s leathery surface.
Lucy felt her breath catch in her throat. Before she could cry out, a small dark object bolted past her, past Feathertop and Rozbell.
“What was that?” said Rozbell. Lucy could only gasp, and when Rozbell looked at Feathertop, he merely shrugged. He was more interested in crushing the egg. “I was going to kill you, or at least torture you,” said Rozbell, “but I see now that this will be far more painful.”
Lucy’s breathing came in spurts as she watched Feathertop carelessly clasping her dear egg. Lockley wouldn’t want her to give in, but he wouldn’t want this, either. She was about to beg Rozbell for mercy when the unthinkable happened.
Behind Rozbell and Feathertop, a chorus of hoarse arrrs and shrill, hissing peeeees swelled like some immense, out-of-tune symphony. A startled Feathertop released the egg, which began to roll down the grassy slope. While he and Rozbell turned t
o see what was causing the ruckus, Lucy slipped by them and grabbed the egg before it could roll down against the rocks.
Once she had saved her egg, Lucy turned her attention to all the noise, and she was as shocked as Feathertop and Rozbell to discover that they were surrounded by an army of auks, stamping their feet, snapping their bills, and protesting at the top of their lungs. And at the head of the black-and-white force was Algard Guillemot, and hovering next to him was Ruby, a blur of angry energy.
Algard stepped forward to speak. “Unless you are here to offer your condolences for Lockley’s death,” he said, “you have no business with Lucy Puffin.”
“That goes double for you, Featherbrain!” said Ruby, and the sound of her tiny voice filled Lucy with joy.
Rozbell’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Then the spastic blinking started again. The pygmy owl tried to turn his head away, but there were auks everywhere he looked. Humiliated and angry, Rozbell wanted to order Feathertop to attack. Let the fearsome eagle take out two or three, the rest would scatter like cowards. But his blinking—his physical defect on display for all to see—plus the recent evidence with the burrowing owls that the auks might actually stand up for themselves…all this planted a seed of doubt in Rozbell’s mind. His insecurity got the better of him.
With Feathertop waiting for his orders, and Algard waiting for a reaction, Rozbell half turned to Lucy, partially hiding his face, and said, “If you think this is over, you’re dreadfully mistaken.” He and Feathertop then flew off, leaving the colony to wonder what would come next.
“Ruby…oh, Ruby!” said Lucy. “And Algard, thank you! All of you!” Most of the auks merely grunted and shuffled off.
“You showed a great amount of courage, standing up to the owls,” said Algard, “and we are sorry for your loss.”
He left Lucy alone with Ruby, who perched right on top of her bill, forcing her to cross her eyes to see the hummingbird.
“Lucy, what are condolences? What loss was Algard talking about?”
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