The Owl Keeper (3 page)

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though they never found one. Silver owls were a rare breed of warrior owl, Gran explained, and they possessed a fierce and terrifying magic, called OwlSong.

As a little boy, Max would clutch his blanket and stuffed toy owl and Gran would sit on the bed next to him, telling him his favorite story before he fell asleep, the tale of the Owl Keeper. It began in the ancient city of Silvern, high on a wintry plateau, with a strong-willed, independent girl named Fuchsia who lived in a tower and tended bees.

In Fuchsia's twelfth year, the evil group Alazarin Oro invaded the country, overthrowing the benevolent Circle of Sages. The Sages fled, braving snowstorms and hiding in the forests, until they reached Silvern. There they met Fuchsia, who offered them refuge in her tower. Inside they discovered hundreds of stone owls carved into the walls, which the Sages recognized at once as silver owls (Max's favorite part of the story), turned to stone by the Alazarin Oro. The Sages unlocked the dark spell, earning the owls' undying loyalty, and Fuchsia became the first Owl Keeper.

Once freed, the silver owls emitted their powerful OwlSong-- not so much a song, explained Gran, as a vibration, rippling across the land, creating an energy force that shifted the balance away from evil, restoring peace once again.

But, as centuries went by, the dark forces gained momentum. Sages and owls were scattered and Silvern fell to ruins. Yet there was a prophecy, written in the Silver Scrolls: in times of darkness an Owl Keeper would appear, to unite silver owls and Sages

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against the powers of evil. The time of the Owl Keeper, Gran would say, is coming soon.

As he approached the owl tree, Max saw the outline of the girl: mammoth black coat, beaky nose, hair flaming around her head. Beyond her, in the distance, he could see the dark haunted waterway that was the river, and the forest on the other side.

He balked when he saw Rose's tough-girl stance. Her aggressive style intimidated him. Rose was a reckless type, Max could tell, and that made him nervous. He liked his life orderly, with everything in its place and nothing left to chance. Artemis Rose Eccles was just the opposite. She was messy and impulsive, a risk taker who scrambled everything up.

"I guess you're not scared of the dark," he said, walking over to her as if he weren't afraid.

Rose stood on her toes, reaching for a branch. "Obviously you weren't listening." Her voice was high and know-it-all.
"Scared
isn't in my vocabulary. I'm not afraid of anything, and that includes the dark." She hoisted herself up.
"And
the Misshapens."

"You don't have to worry about them," said Max irritably. "We're safe here because they hate open spaces."

"I know that." Her smug voice drifted down.

Max had heard rumors about the Misshapens all his life. They were the government's botched experiments: laboratory-made creatures cast off by the High Echelon and set free to roam the forests. Some nights he sat in the owl tree, looking across the river, and saw their eyes glowing through the trees. Gran said

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the Misshapens would never cross over because they'd been programmed to stay in the forest.

Max heard Rose giggle. She was making faces at the silver owl from her perch on a branch. The owl puffed up her feathers, basking in the extra attention. Then she hopped from limb to limb, nursing her crooked wing, trying to get closer to Rose.

Max caught the owl as she tumbled off a low branch. Sometimes her timing was a little off. The owl clung to his sleeve with sharp claws, carefully trundling up to his shoulder. She seemed to know he would be in trouble if his jacket got torn.

He turned his head sideways and the owl swiveled her head right around. They blinked at each other and the owl nuzzled her head against his cheek. Max was always surprised at how delicate she was, how warm to the touch.

"See, Rose, this is her way of saying hello. It's owl talk." He never tired of petting her sleek feathers or breathing in the grassy sweetness of her breath.

"You should know," said Rose, hanging upside down. "I never had a pet owl." She swung herself up and sat on the branch. "Tell me about your parents, Max," she said, catching him by surprise.

Max couldn't think of anything impressive to say. Gran always described his father as the kind of man who liked his bread white and his hedges straight. His mother wore bifocals and was in the habit of falling asleep at the dinner table. Dr. Tredegar prescribed pills for her nerves.

Then he brightened. "My mom and dad both work at Cavernstone Hall. It's a chocolate factory where they make

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high-end chocolates and gourmet cocoa mix," he said importantly. "They have high-ranking jobs and they use smart cards to get in and out. And, oh yeah, my dad won an award for perfect attendance."

He didn't tell her that he had no idea what his parents did there. It made his stomach knot up, thinking how distant and quiet they'd become, especially since Gran died. Sometimes his heart ached for them. If only he could tell his parents about Rose and the silver owl--but how could he? They lived in constant fear of the High Echelon and its tedious rules.

"What kind of jobs?" demanded Rose.

"Umm ..." Max groped for words that would sound important. "Management, computers, that sort of thing." Why was she always quizzing him?

Soft silvery sounds came from the owl's throat and Max stroked her iridescent wings. "I know lots of things about silver owls," he boasted, eager to change the subject. He tried to recall owl facts that would impress Rose. "Mostly they see in black-and-white, but they sometimes recognize the color blue." His voice caught as he remembered that blue was the color of Gran's eyes. "And they can turn their heads right around, two hundred and seventy degrees."

There was no comment from Rose; she was too busy swinging on the branch. Her wiry frame and quick movements reminded Max of a tamarin monkey. He'd seen pictures of tamarins in Gran's book on rain forests.

Why didn't Rose say anything nice about his silver owl?

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Couldn't she see how intelligent the owl was? How extraordinary and elegant? Max considered his owl perfect in every way. He sighed, thinking how his words were lost on Rose. She obviously thought owls were boring.

"I guess you're wondering who this weird kid is who talks to owls," he said bravely. "Right?"

Rose swung down. "Wrong," she said, dusting off her hands. "I don't think you're weird. I think you're
mysterious.'"
She looked Max over and nodded to herself. "Yep, there's a whiff of mystery about you. Something along the lines of...
spellbinding"

"Really?" Max was astounded. He had never thought of himself as mysterious before--not with his dull brown eyes and stringy hair, his skin the color of paste, and his habit of breathing out of his mouth instead of his nose.

"You don't see things like ordinary people, do you, Max?" Rose pushed her face up to his. Her hair had a sticky smell, like tree sap, and for a moment her eyes seemed fathomless. "You're like that owl. She's mysterious too."

Max smiled to himself. Maybe Rose had noticed his owl's special qualities after all.

"You still didn't answer my question from the other night," she persisted. "What are you doing out here in the dark?"

Max thought a moment. "Ever since I was little, I've loved the dark. My gran and I used to sneak out of the house at night and go looking for owls." He felt a familiar sadness inside his chest. "She said if you look into the dark long enough, you'll see things that others don't."

"She sounds like one smart granny." Rose glanced over at the

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silver owl. "That's one smart owl, too. She understands everything we say, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, she does. And sometimes I understand her, too!" said Max enthusiastically. "I'd give anything to speak owl language." Gran once said that, long ago, people called Night Seers knew how to converse in the language of owls. What a remarkable talent, he thought dreamily, wishing he'd lived back then.

The owl was quiet, fixing them in her silver gaze. Maybe I should listen more closely to my owl, Max told himself. I think she wants me to like Rose, even though she's kind of bossy.

Then again, he thought, should he trust this odd and unpredictable girl?

"I found a message in her beak!" he blurted out, surprising himself, because he hadn't meant to say it. "It was folded up and wet with snow, but she let me take it and I hid it in my room. I think she was headed for the coast, because the message talks about ships and silver treasure. But she never made it to the sea because she was attacked, and whoever did it broke one of her wings."

"A secret message?" breathed Rose, and for a moment Max regretted telling her. What if she couldn't keep quiet about it?

"Hey, maybe it was meant for pirates!" Rose went on, waving her arms around. "Or diamond smugglers! Black-market gangsters! Who knows?" She reached out and patted the owl's head. "I think this owl has lots of secrets." Max watched her finger slide down the curve of the owl's beak. "And I think you do too, Maxwell Unger."

Her eyes flicked over to him and he looked away. A shiver of anticipation slid down his back. This girl was complicated, he

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thought, but in a good way. Suddenly he saw in Rose a kindred spirit.

Something shifted deep inside him, like the snick of a key, springing open a door. Out tumbled thoughts, ideas, emotions and dreams that had been locked away for five long years.

"My mom and dad don't even know I come here!" he told her. "They think I'm in my room at night doing homework; they don't know I sneak outside after they go to bed. I think Mrs. Crumlin suspects, but she never says anything. I get restless and bored being indoors all day. That's why I come here in the night--I have to be in the dark!"

Rose's eyes went wide. "Why don't you go outside in the daytime?"

"I can only leave my house when the sun goes down," he confided. Then, before he could stop himself, the words were spilling out. "I'm allergic to sun particles! If I stay one minute in the sunlight, I get seriously ill! If sun particles touch my skin, I'll burn up! I could die, that's how bad it is."

Rose's eyes grew even bigger. "Would your eyeballs sizzle in their sockets?"

"Sure they would! My hair would catch fire and my skin would bubble up like fried chicken!" Max pulled his cap down over his ears. Mrs. Crumlin and Dr. Tredegar had explained the worst-case scenario in excruciating detail. "I developed the condition when I was seven, and now the dark is the only place I can be. It's a disease and it won't ever go away. I take medicine to keep it under control."

Had he said too much? he wondered.

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Rose didn't say a word. But she didn't laugh, either, the way he feared she might.

"I hope I don't catch what you've got," she said at last.

"You won't," said Max. "Dr. Tredegar says it's in my genes. That means I was born with it."

Rose stared at him with that solemn, haughty gaze. Any minute now, he thought, she's going to take off into the night and never come back. He couldn't blame her. Why would she want to be friends with a pale sickly kid who was deathly afraid of the sun?

But Rose didn't go anywhere.

"Look," she said, pointing to the tree. "That silver owl is getting ready to fly."

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CHAPTER FOUR

[Image: Mrs. Crumlin.]

Seated at the kitchen table with Mrs. Crumlin, Max yawned through an hour-long game of Dark Hearts and Winding Shrouds. Mrs. Crumlin was winning as usual, cackling with glee each time she captured one of his pawns.

Mrs. Crumlin was manic about board games--Echo Magicians, Dome Delirium, Skeletons in the Cupboard, you name it. She was a big fan of jigsaw puzzles too. For months she had been constructing a 1,001-piece puzzle in the parlor.

As the game wound down, Mrs. Crumlin turned up the radio and Max heard a voice warble:

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Through the haunted forest, beyond the aching hills,

Darker grows the eventide, deeper grows the chill.

No longer fear the darkness, build your shining

domes,

You'll be warm and safe there, in your perfect

homes.

"Eerie, those beginning lines. They take me to another place altogether." Mrs. Crumlin tapped the game board with a pencil. "What do you make of them?"

"Weird," answered Max with a shrug.

"I do wish you wouldn't talk in monosyllables, Maxwell. Try to exercise your vocal cords a bit more."

He sighed. She was always trying to weasel information out of him: details of his dreams, opinions on songs. But Max never gave straight answers; he liked to keep her guessing.

According to his grandmother, the High Echelon had purposely trivialized the Silver Prophecies, reducing them to mindless jingles, songs and nursery rhymes, distorting the ancient words beyond recognition. The reason they did this, she said, was to make people forget the true Prophecies and discredit the Sages who had written them.

"And this reminder from your friendly High Echelon, here to serve your every need!" barked the radio announcer, breaking into the end of the song. "Remember to report any treasonous statements or suspicious actions by fellow citizens, no matter how insignificant they may seem, to your local Dark Brigade. Failure to report may result in a lengthy prison sentence--so don't delay!"