A Guide Book to the Great Tree (9 page)

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 from 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.”