(GoG Book 07) The Hatchling (3 page)

But Kludd had been killed in a cave battle. His body, of which only the bones now remained, had been guarded night and day until a Rogue smith could be found to perform the Marking. Nyroc had never before been to the cave. He was apprehensive. He was to see for the first time the bones of his father; his father, in whose powerful wing thrusts he was to follow; his father, the greatest leader the
Tytonic Union had ever known; his father, whose fierceness in battle caused every owl’s gizzard to quiver. His father, killed by his own dreadful brother, Soren, in a battle of fire and ice with the Guardians of Ga’Hoole. Yes, Nyroc was very nervous and perhaps for this reason his mother had allowed Dustytuft to fly so close to him. Even now as they entered the huge cave and the shadows seemed to reach out for them, Nyra made sure that there was a space for Dustytuft near Nyroc.

Things sure have changed,
Dustytuft thought.
I used to be just some no-account owl.
But now he was favored!

They flew toward the rear of the cave and took their places on a ledge. Some white sticks had been arranged on the cave floor. And propped against a rock was the metal mask that his father had always worn to cover his warmutilated face. His mum had said that his father’s other name was Metal Beak. It was one of the first goodlight stories she had told him when he was a very young hatchling. She liked to tell stories of his father’s great bravery and feats in battle. But he found this one frightening. He didn’t like thinking that his father had a face he would have never seen. “But, Mum,” he once asked, “would he have had to talk to me through that metal beak?”

“Of course. It gave his voice a lovely resonance.” Nyroc didn’t know what resonance was and he didn’t ask.

His mum patted him along now with her outstretched wing. “Follow me, Nyroc,” she said. “We must nod pule to your father.”

“Nod pule, what’s that?” Nyroc asked.

“Pay your respects, give homage.”

“You mean, say good-bye?” Nyroc asked.

“Yes!” his mum snapped. “Now stop asking so many questions.”

Oh, goodness,
Nyroc thought,
this is not the time to frink her off. I better shut up.
But he couldn’t help but ask one more question. “Can Dustytuft come, too?”

“Of course, darling. Dustytuft can always come.” Dustytuft blinked at this.
Downright miracle,
he thought. The Sooty Owl puffed up his chest a bit.

“Thanks, Mum.”

Nyroc’s next question—if he had dared to ask—would have been “What do we say good-bye to?”

He soon found out. The white things on the cave floor that he thought were sticks were actually his father’s bones. A large shaggy Masked Owl stood by them. Near the Masked Owl’s talons was a small metal bucket. Nyroc knew from Dustytuft that this was the bucket in which all Rogue smiths carried their live coals or embers. Nyroc stole a glance into it and saw the bright orange glow. A shiver ran through his gizzard like nothing he had ever felt
before. But suddenly, there was a sharp peck on his back and Nyra hissed, “Pay attention! These are your father’s bones.” And then she added, “Do you see the one in the middle?”

“Yes,” Nyroc replied.

“You see how it is broken in two?”

“Yes,” he said again.

“That was his spine. Soren, your father’s brother—your uncle—dealt the deathblow that split his spine. I want you to remember that. Never, ever forget.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Promise!” she said fiercely.

“I promise, Mum. I promise. I’ll never forget.”

Dustytuft knew what bones were. Dustytuft knew about dying and death and owls killed in battle. But what preoccupied Dustytuft right now was why he was a guest at this sacred ceremony. It was an honor far beyond the strange favoritism Nyra had granted him since Nyroc’s hatching. After all, Nyra had been furious with him and all the Sooty Owls after the Pure Ones had lost the Battle of The Burning to the Guardians of Ga’Hoole. There was a Lesser Sooty in prison right now for supposed cowardice. One might have thought that these Sooty Owls were the reason the Pure Ones had lost. In truth, the Sooties
were such lowly owls they had hardly been given any responsibilities. It was as if she was so angered by the defeat that she simply had to blame someone. Nyra’s anger could be immense.

But two days after the battle, when Nyroc had hatched, Nyra had invited Dustytuft into the nest in the cleft of the rock to chick-sit while she went off hunting. This was a great honor. Dustytuft had liked Nyroc right from the start. Their friendship began to grow, and Nyra encouraged it. Dustytuft felt so close to Nyroc that he confessed to him one of his innermost secrets, which was that he hated the name the Pure Ones had chosen for him. Once, he told Nyroc, he had had a real name. He thought it had been something rather noble-sounding, like Edgar or Phillip. And Nyroc had asked him which name he liked the best. No one had ever asked him such a personal question. He thought for a minute and said, “Phillip—definitely Phillip.” So when no one was about, Nyroc called Dustytuft Phillip. It was the one thing that Nyroc did that was less than perfect, in the Pure-One sense of the word. It was odd that this one flaw in Nyroc’s otherwise perfect behavior was what Dustytuft most admired him for, and what, unlike Nyra’s strange favoritism, made Dustytuft feel truly honored. He had said to Nyroc many times that it was
too much of a risk. But Nyroc had simply shrugged it off and told him not to worry. “I’ll call you Phillip and make up for it by being extra good in everything else.” And he had.

Now the Sooty Owl stood beside Nyroc and looked down at the bones of the owl that had been Kludd, High Tyto of the Pure Ones. He could see that Nyroc was, even after his mum’s reprimand, still stealing looks at the Rogue smith and his bucketful of embers, which seemed to interest the hatchling more than his father’s bones. Perhaps, mused Dustytuft, Nyroc was even less perfect than he knew. He had never seen Nyroc disobey his mother like this. Luckily, she wasn’t watching. Her attention was riveted on the bones.

“And now the time has come to honor our fallen leader in the manner befitting a great soldier,” Uglamore intoned. Nyra motioned Nyroc to step back toward the wall of the cave. Uglamore kept talking, as Gwyndor, the Rogue smith, came up to the place where the bones of Kludd lay and spread some dry twigs and bark over them. He took an ember from his bucket and set it on the twigs. Flames sprang up from the bones. The darkness of the cave began to flash and sparkle. Suddenly, shadows began leaping and sliding through the cave. Nyroc blinked. Never had he seen such shadows. They were huge. The flickering light of the fire made them jigger and jump in an odd dance
across the stone walls of the cave. A bright realization flooded Nyroc’s mind.
It is light that makes shadows. Look to the light. Look to the flames.
Then he looked into the flames. His gizzard lurched.
I am supposed to be seeing the bones of my father burning,
he thought.
But I am seeing something else.

Nyroc saw a landscape he did not recognize. And across this land, creatures with four legs and peculiarly colored eyes loped. The fire was crackling loudly now but beneath its hisses and snapping Nyroc thought he heard low growls. Darker shapes like gray mist floated through the air above the four-legged creatures. Then he saw something else. His gizzard gave a deep strange quiver, and he felt a pull deep within himself. He peered harder into the fire. It seemed at first like one of the fire’s flames. It was orange and at its center there was a lick of deep blue like the sky on a clear day. As he looked closer, Nyroc saw yet another color around the edge of the blue. It was the same color as the creatures’ eyes. Was this green? Was this a leaf? Was this the color Dustytuft had tried to describe when he spoke of trees? Something about the tricolor shape still hovering in the dancing flames entranced Nyroc and he could not look away. He felt himself being pulled to this flame. He imagined himself plunging into it, diving right into its center.

Nyra was chanting a song for fallen warriors and the
other owls were watching her, all except for Gwyndor, the Rogue smith. He was watching Nyroc.

The young’un was seeing something. The old Rogue smith could tell by the way Nyroc’s eyes stared, unblinking, into the gizzard of this fire. Gwyndor studied the reflection of the flames in Nyroc’s eyes. He felt his own gizzard give a twang. Was it the Ember of Hoole he saw reflected in those young eyes? Gwyndor, like all blacksmiths, looked upon fires as living creatures with an anatomy not entirely different from that of an owl. Just as owls had gizzards in which they felt their deepest emotions, fires had gizzards, too. There were some owls who had the gift to look right into the flames of a fire and find that gizzard, and with this came a special kind of vision. Few had it. Gwyndor did not. Even Bubo, the blacksmith of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, did not possess it. Orf, who crafted the finest battle claws in the world on the remote island of Dark Fowl, was said to have it. Long ago, there had been a very few colliers who were said to be able to see a fire’s gizzard. Still, none of these had ever been able to find the legendary Ember of Hoole. There had been many stories about the Ember and the powers it held within its deepest blue. It was a blue like the color of the bonk embers that the smiths favored for their hottest fires. But the Ember of Hoole was more than just a bonk ember. Much more.

Gwyndor had never seen an owl stare so deeply into the flames. And such a young owl at that! What was he seeing in that fire? The Rogue smith had not wanted to come to the canyonlands. He had no desire to have any dealings with the Pure Ones. Since the last battle, The Burning, he had wanted to fly clear of this very odd group of owls who had such strange beliefs about the pureness of Barn Owls. He had been quite surprised that the little Sooty was permitted to stand so close to the son of the great fallen leader, Kludd. There wasn’t a Rogue smith around when Kludd lived who had not been called upon to fashion a mask or claws for him or his followers.

Gwyndor now wondered why he had come here—all the way from Ambala. He remembered the night that he decided to go. Earlier in the evening he had visited the strange little Spotted Owl called Mist where she lived with the eagles. It had been rumored for years that Mist was actually the legendary Hortense, hero of Ambala, because of the undaunted courage she had shown when she had worked as a slipgizzle, years ago at St. Aggie’s. The heroism of Hortense was so much a part of the lore and history of Ambala that almost every other owl you met there, male or female, had been named after her. Gwyndor was not sure if Mist was or was not the real Hortense. All he knew was that he enjoyed her company when he went
to visit the eagles. She was so elderly now and so faded that she did in fact seem more mist than owl. Gwyndor had noticed that after visiting with her he would often have strange dreams, dreams that he could never entirely remember.

And that had been the case on the night after his last visit to Mist. Uglamore and Wortmore, two lieutenants of the Pure Ones, had already asked him, and a half dozen other Rogue smiths, if they would come to do the Marking for the Final ceremony for Kludd. He had at first refused, as had the others. But on the night after that visit with Mist, he had woken up at tween time after having had another strange dream and decided—for no apparent reason—that he should go to the canyonlands and do this small service for the Pure Ones, even if he did not like Nyra or the rest of the group. In some way that dream he could no longer remember had instilled deep in his gizzard an urge to go.

Now he wondered if this little owlet, the one they called the hatchling, who was staring so intently into the fire, was the reason he had been summoned here. Yes, summoned. That was the word. He had felt there was something beyond the Marking duties that he would need to do here.
This isn’t about dead bones at all,
he suddenly realized. He regarded Nyroc, whose unusually large white
face, so similar to his mother’s, hung like a moon in the glimmering orange shadows of the cave.
This is about him. But what am I supposed to do?

“Time will tell,”
a voice seemed to whisper as if from a dimly remembered dream.
“Time will tell.”

N
yroc could not get the flames out of his mind. He had never seen anything quite like it. It seemed to him that the flames in some way told a story, or at least part of a story. Where was this land? What were those loping creatures? And was that color around the core of that tricolor flame really green? There was something else that he had glimpsed in the fire but not clearly. It was frightening. He almost did not want to see it. He felt it had something to do with his terrible uncle Soren. But he could not be sure.

“Nyroc!” his mum screeched. “Pay attention. I’m letting you navigate while we track this chipmunk, and you’re not listening at all. What’s happened to you lately? Very inattentive! Won’t do, Nyroc. Won’t do at all. If you can’t even follow a chipmunk, how are you ever going to track a mouse, which is much smaller? You must start using those lovely Glaux-given ear slits.”

To demonstrate, Nyra tipped her head one way then another.

“You’re right, General Mam, as always. I have been distracted.” Nyroc was replying mechanically in just the tone his mum expected after a reprimand. It signaled total obedience. “I offer no excuses except that I was deeply moved by my great father’s Marking ceremony.”

He blinked three times. His mother’s words came back to him.
You shall grow into your father’s battle claws, Nyroc. They are the sacred relic of the Pure Ones. You are the only one fit to wear them into battle. Regard them closely, my hatchling.

Nyroc was indeed inspired. He could imagine the claws sinking into flesh in battle. And this, now, was his first battle—his First Prey ceremony. He began to swing his head just as his mother had demonstrated in the lesson on directional ear slit maneuvering. Within seconds he had picked up the noise of scampering feet. It was coming from his downwind side. His left ear was receiving the sound before his right ear. He angled his tail and began to fly in the direction of the noise source. It was the chipmunk, he was fairly sure. The sound of the chipmunk’s feet and then its breathing came to both ear slits at almost the same time. There was only the difference of a fraction of a second.