Guardians of Ga'Hoole: To Be A King (5 page)

“
S
he’s dead? Siv is really dead?” The polar bear swung her massive head from side to side as if trying to make sense out of these words.

Theo nodded. “I am sorry to bring you this sad news.” He had found the polar bear Svenka in an inlet off the Firth of Fangs. Just before Theo left, Hoole had visited his forge at the great tree and seen in the flames of the forge’s fires what he felt was surely Svenka and her cubs swimming north by northwest.

“Mum, did Auntie Siv die?” Rolf asked. Svenka’s cubs, Rolf and Anka, were now almost half as big as their mother. Siv nodded and both the cubs began crying.

“We’ll never see her again,” Anka gasped in disbelief.

Theo knew he must give the kind bear her time to grieve, but the urgency of his mission pressed upon him. His gizzard began to twitch nervously. He must set up the slipgizzling system. Every moment was precious. Information was desperately needed to plan the invasion.

“But you say that they finally did meet as mother and son?” Svenka asked.

“Yes. She died folded in his wings.” Theo was beginning to feel desperate. He could sense the minutes slipping through his talons. But Svenka and her cubs were there before him, awash in grief. He turned to the twin cubs and, remembering what Grank had said to comfort Hoole at his mother’s death, repeated it to Rolf and Anka. “Siv and her son will meet again in glaumora,” he said, “—in owl heaven.”

The cubs instantly looked toward their mother. “But…” Anka blinked with confusion. “If Siv is in owl heaven and we are in bear heaven, we won’t see her there, either.”

“Don’t worry, child,” Theo said. “There are no separate heavens. All creatures are together. We just call them by different names.”

“But you have not come merely to tell me of the death of my dear friend,” Svenka said.

A feeling of great relief swept through Theo. “No. I have been sent by Hoole. Are you familiar with the term ‘slipgizzle’?”

“Spy,” Svenka said with more than a hint of unpleasantness in her voice.

“Yes.” Theo paused. “I’m not asking that you go out and
spy, but just to keep your ears open.”
And,
Theo thought,
those are rather large ears.
“There is not much time, Svenka. The last of the H’rathian troops were forced out of the palace by Lord Arrin. And now rumors abound that hagsfiends have formed an entire division—of just hagsfiends.”

“A division of hagsfiends!” There was a flash of alarm in Svenka’s dark eyes.

Theo nodded. The notion of King H’rath’s Ice Palace falling to hagsfiends was as unthinkable to a polar bear as it was to any decent owl in the N’yrthghar. “Winter is setting in. The more water that freezes, the safer the hags-fiends are and the more vulnerable we are. Hoole is planning an invasion, a massive one. It has to happen on or before the Long Night. And we need all the information we can get, as fast as we can get it.”

Svenka shook her head heavily as if despairing. “But we bears are solitary creatures. We do not hear much news.”

“Oh, Mum,” Rolf said, almost dancing off the iceberg with excitement. “I heard that a school of blueskins had been swimming out of the firthkin.” He turned to Theo.

“And I heard a seal talking about anchovies in the ice gut that connects this firthkin to the big firth,” Anka said.

“Cubs! Cubs!” Svenka interrupted. “I don’t think schooling fish is the information that our friend Theo has in mind.”

“Well, that is all very interesting,” Theo said politely, thinking that such information could be quite helpful in tracking other polar bears who might agree to become part of the slipgizzle network.

“What exactly do you want to find out?” Svenka said.

“There is an owl with King Hoole, a very brave owl and good fighter—Strix Strumajen of the Ice Regiment. Her daughter, although very young, decided to fight, as well, but was lost in a skirmish off the Ice Fangs. We want to know if she is still alive.”

Svenka shuddered. She was all too familiar with hagsfiends’ habits. Just before her cubs were born, she had witnessed the murder of Myrrthe, Siv’s beloved servant. Never would she forget the image of that hagsfiend flying off with the huge white Snowy’s head impaled on the ice pike, still bleeding, leaving a trail like that of a bloody comet.

“And,” Theo interrupted her grim recollections, “we need to learn all we can about the movements of hagsfiends and Lord Arrin.” Theo went on to tell Svenka about the great tree and how Hoole was starting a new order. “You see, Svenka,” Theo continued, “King Hoole is a very different sort of king. He does not want to be an absolute ruler. Despite the fact that he now possesses the greatest of all powers—the ember—he does not want to rule by
any kind of magic—nachtmagen or otherwise. Hoole says that the true roots of power must be the ideals of goodness, equality, and nobility.”

Svenka pondered the ways of hagsfiends and this young king. “I will find out what I can,” she told Theo.

A deep quietness descended upon them and if the wind had not picked up, they might have heard the soft whispers of the half-hags’ wings.

“What!” Kreeth screeched. “He wants to rid the world of magic? What an idiot!” She began to croak madly with laughter, then she turned serious. “But that ember! That ember! I must have it. It is wasted on this stupid king. It will be wasted on any creature, save myself.” Her eyes became dark pinpricks as the old hagsfiend began to dream of spells never imagined, of curses and enchantments never conceived. “Well, my dear, we have our work cut out for us. Now, tell me, have you practiced your Spotted Owl transformation lately?”

“
B
ut I can’t sing!” Hoole protested.

“Nor could your mother, my dear. Just hum along,” the Snow Rose said as she tucked a few random feathers and some twigs into the fan of Hoole’s tail.
My goodness,
she thought,
I am actually tucking a feather into the back plumage of a king! Imagine a gadfeather dressing a king! A little tizzy in the old gizzy,
she chuckled silently to herself.

The Snow Rose then turned to Phineas. “The same goes for you. I’ll do the melody. You do the harmony. Let’s hope no one asks us to sing. Remember, we’re going to plead sore throats—or at least the two of you are.”

It had been Grank’s idea that Hoole, like his mother, should go disguised as a gadfeather on this flight into the Southern Kingdoms. Although few had seen Hoole, there was always the chance that some owl might recognize him. When three gadfeathers set off from the great tree, no owl would suspect a king was among them.

Soon Cape Glaux loomed ahead of the trio on the far side of the sea, which the owls of the tree had taken to calling the Sea of Hoolemere.

Their mission was twofold: to get news of Emerilla and to recruit slipgizzles. They lighted down on the tip of Cape Glaux. “Where to go?” Phineas sighed. “Where to begin?”

“A grog tree,” the Snow Rose said quickly. “That’s where one gets all the news or gossip. There are bound to be some gadfeathers there and perhaps a few old perch warriors.”

“Perch warriors?” Hoole and Phineas asked together.

“Perch warriors. Never heard the expression?” The Snow Rose blinked. Phineas and Hoole both shook their heads. “Well, some are veterans, but many of them have never been to war. Of course, they won’t admit that. Mostly they perch in grog trees quaffing great quantities of bingle juice and clacking their beaks about war, old battles, and notions about how they should have been fought. Moments of great valor, usually their own. They are either too old or too lazy for war now, but they have very definite ideas about it. Glaux forbid they should actually ever have to get off their perches and fly into battle. But they are all for sending the young’uns off.”

“Hmmph!” Hoole gave a snort of disapproval.

“Yes, I know,” the Snow Rose said. “But they are a very
good source of information. Some of it could be quite helpful. They’ll talk to anyone. If there has been word of a Spotted Owl from the N’yrthghar who is missing in action, they will know about her. And if there has been a Glauxian Brother around, they will know about him, too.” Here the Snow Rose gave Hoole a look, for he had spoken to her and Theo about his wish to enlist Brother Berwyck in their cause. “They have great contempt for the brothers.”

“Because they don’t fight?” Hoole affectionately thought of dear old Brother Berwyck, who had taught him how to fish when he was still quite young, Brother Berwyck who had come to the S’yrthghar some time ago on a pilgrimage.

“Exactly.”

“Well, where’s the nearest grog tree?” Phineas asked.

“I believe there is one on the border between Silverveil and the Shadow Forest. But it’s getting on toward morning. What with crows and all, I think we should wait until tween time.” Hoole and Phineas sighed impatiently.
These young owls,
the Snow Rose thought. “Now, don’t fret. The days are growing shorter. Evening will be here before you know it. We have just enough time before twixt time to get something to eat.”

It was good hunting on the cape. With few trees, prey
was easy to spot, and the rocky outcroppings and scrubby land was scampering with voles, mice, and the occasional rock rat, which were particularly succulent.

Phineas caught one that they shared but gave Phineas first choice since he was the one who had pounced on it.

“I say, Phineas,” the Snow Rose nodded at the little Pygmy Owl. “You hunt right good for a little fella.”

“Size has nothing to do with it,” Hoole said. “It’s all about accuracy. See where he punctured it—right between the eyes? Phineas has always been a great hunter. No one does the kill spiral like him.”

A riffle of embarrassment stirred Phineas’s feathers. The little Pygmy was a very modest owl and did not relish being the center of attention. “It was nothing,” Phineas said as he tore off the head of the rock rat.

The spindly trees that grew on Cape Glaux offered no hollows, but beneath some of the large boulders that were scattered across the land, they found shelter from the wind and whatever random crows might be passing overhead.

So as night bleached into day, the three owls nestled beneath the overhang of a boulder and went to sleep. It was the first time that either Phineas or Hoole had ever slept on the ground. The Snow Rose, however, was used to such accommodations because Snowy Owls lived and nested in
what they called ground scrapes. Just before falling asleep, the three owls were alone in their own thoughts.

The Snow Rose remembered a fox that she had once caught in Silverveil years before. It had been so long since she had tasted fox that her gizzard gave a little gurgle at the mere memory of it.

Phineas missed his own family’s hollow and his parents and younger sister, who had all perished in a forest fire in the region known as Ambala.

Hoole reflected on how curious life could be. He had thought he was an orphan and then discovered that he had a mother. Then she died before he could even get to know her. He had thought he was an ordinary owl and now he was a king. Why had he been able to fetch that coal from the fiery mouth of the volcano? It had all happened in the midst of battle, the battle in which his mother had been dealt her mortal wound. Something had beckoned him during the battle. He had actually flown through a curtain of flames, which had not even singed him. But he did remember something now: The sides of the volcano had begun to turn transparent and that was how he saw the ember. This ember—was it a blessing or a curse? He knew deep in his gizzard that it could be very dangerous. He had seen the subtle changes that occurred in some owls when they were in its presence. He remembered all
too well how Grank had become oddly agitated, and how Theo, Joss, and Phineas had replied to him in that queerly mindless way before they had left on their missions. As long as the ember was in his possession, however, he felt he could master whatever peculiar emanations it had and, for the most part, protect those around the ember from its influence. But what would happen after he was gone? Death did not frighten him anymore. He knew that his mother, Siv, would be waiting for him in glaumora. Death did not frighten him, but leaving the ember behind did.

His eyes grew heavy now. He must stop thinking about such things. How wonderful it would be if he could meet once more with Berwyck; how lovely, those lazy evenings of fishing back in Bitter Sea on the island, the two of them perched on the limb of an alder that hung out over the pond. The moonlight scattered across the surface of the dark water, and the fish stirring beneath—just waiting to be caught. There was no ember then. He did not know even what a mother really was exactly, and he certainly had no notion of kingship. Life was very, very simple then. Hoole yawned and fell fast asleep as if into a dense fog.

The fog thinned to a mist, and from the mist flew a lovely Spotted Owl. Her spots seemed to shimmer. She looked battle weary but strong. Hoole’s gizzard sang.
What
a warrior!
And she was flying straight into another skirmish.
I must help her,
he thought. He spread his wings and took off. It was hard to see her. Was the fog thickening now? Was it not fog but the Short Light? Was the Short Light here already? Impossible. Not yet. Hagsfiends? Were they doing this? Was their magic so powerful that they could change the moon cycles? Every time he sensed the Spotted Owl close by, the fog would thicken more. He lost sight of her. The spots of her plumage, which moments ago twinkled with the brightness of the stars, faded away. Now the fog turned dark. Not dark like the night, but a crowish darkness, and didn’t he smell a terrible stench? And almost as soon as he thought this, a dreadful yellow light seeped out of the dark.
Great Glaux, it’s the fyngrot
—
I am going yeep!

Then the shadow of an owl with a misshapen wing blocked the awful yellow light. It was his mum!

“Mum, where are you?”

“Hold steady, my prince. Hold steady.”

“I can’t! I can’t!”

“Hoole, wake up! Wake up!” The Snow Rose was shaking him hard, so hard that a small storm of her feathers swirled across his blinking eyes.
Just like the fog,
he thought.
Phineas was standing next to her, looking quite frightened. “You were having a bad dream, I think. Sorry about the feathers,” the Snow Rose apologized, “but I’m just getting ready for a mid-season molt.”

Phineas hopped over. “Are you all right? What was it?”

“A bad dream, I guess,” Hoole replied.

“What was it about?” Phineas pressed.

“I can’t really remember. Something about fog, I think, because when I saw Rose’s feathers, I thought I was still flying in the fog.” He paused and raised a talon to scratch his head, then gave himself a little poke in his belly feathers near his gizzard in an attempt to jolt his memory. “For the life of me, I can’t remember what the dream was about. But it wasn’t all bad,” he said. It was as though a wisp of something sweet and dear had blown through that dream. “Is it tween time yet?” he asked.

“Just,” the Snow Rose replied. The three owls peeked out from under the overhang. The sky to the west was purpling and streaked with clouds of burning orange. The moon was just rising behind the clouds, which cast an eerie yellow light on it. Hoole felt a twinge in his gizzard and a riffle passed through his feathers. Phineas looked up at his friend. “Scroom fly over your deathspot?”

“Huh?” asked Hoole.

“For Glaux’s sake, he’s spooked enough!” the Snow Rose scolded.

“It’s just an old saying from Ambala. It doesn’t mean anything,” Phineas said apologetically.

“I only wish it were a scroom,” Hoole replied cryptically.

“Now, what do you mean by that?” Phineas asked.

Hoole gave a soft churring sound. “You know, I’m not quite sure. But let’s get on with our business.”

So, as the orange clouds were engulfed in purple, and the purple darkened to black, the owls rose into the night along with the first stars.