The Rescue (Guardians of Ga'hoole) (11 page)

“Scummy,” Soren offered.

“Well, yes,” Gylfie nodded. “I was going to say unethical. But yeah, ‘scummy’ just about sums it up. Soren, you surprise me. I mean, that’s really asking for a flint mop.”

“Who cares about flint mopping? This is life or death. If we can discover something that would help us find and save Ezylryb, it can’t be scummy, unflecktual.”

“Unflecktual!” Gylfie whispered hoarsely. “Flecks, Soren? Do you think this is connected with flecks?”

Soren blinked. He had meant to say that word Gylfie had used—unethical. But it had come out wrong. Still it was just a slip of the beak. But was it connected with the flecks in some way? There was a web being spun here. He could feel them all being reeled in, and at the center of the web sat a spider with a Metal Beak.

“I have to go,” Soren said.

“I won’t let you go without me,” Gylfie said.

“It should only be the two of us.”

“No,” Digger suddenly spoke up.

“You awake?” Gylfie asked.

“I just woke up. Listen, I want to be in on this. You’ll need a lookout. I’ll stand guard. What are you two going to
do if Octavia slithers in? I could distract her long enough for you to get out. Ezylryb does have a few sky ports in his hollow, doesn’t he?” Sky ports were the openings directly to the outside of the tree from which the owls could fly from their hollows. There were smaller holes called trunk ports which the nest-maids usually came through.

“Of course,” Soren replied.

So it was set. They would go the next day just after tween time and their flint mop for Dewlap, during harp practice. Octavia, as a member of the harp guild, would be attending.

“Gylfie! My dear, that hole is simply not deep enough.” Dewlap came up to the Elf Owl. “Here, let me demonstrate. And don’t use that excuse of being an Elf Owl and your beak being too tiny. One of my best chaw members ever was an Elf Owl. She dug exquisite holes.”

“Doesn’t she ever sleep?” Digger said under his breath at tween time as the four owls poked holes with their beaks in the soil to bury the pellets.

When the first chords of the harp rang out, they all breathed a sigh of relief. Their flint mop was done for now. And the investigation of Ezylryb’s hollow could begin. The other owls were still sleeping, for during these first days following the harvest festival, the owls tended to rouse themselves later. Soren, Gylfie, and Digger made their way
to Ezylryb’s hollow. Located in one of the highest parts of the tree, the hollow was the only one facing the northwest, the direction of the cold prevailing wind that most owls did not fancy. But, of course, Ezylryb was not most owls. And perhaps he liked facing the direction of the Northern Kingdoms from which he had come.

As soon as they entered the hollow, Digger took up his lookout position at the trunk port. He tried to take in as much as he could of the old teacher’s quarters, which appeared to have hundreds of books and maps, but Soren and Gylfie hurried him along to his watch post.

“Where do we begin?” Soren asked, looking at all the piles of papers, charts, maps, and infinite numbers of gizmos that Ezylryb had to help him interpret weather patterns. There was a vial of sand that he often hung outside his hollow, which registered the moisture in the air. There was another vial of quicksilver to gauge atmospheric pressure changes. There were at least twenty wind indicators. Ezylryb was always experimenting with new wind indicators that used feathers sometimes plucked from his own body, but it was usually a molted one from some very young owl who had just shed its baby down.

“It would be easier to know where to begin if we knew exactly what we were looking for,” Gylfie replied, lighting down on a dangerously tilting stack of books.

Soren just sighed. There was something so sad about the hollow. In the month or so before the Great Downing, Ezylryb had taken to inviting members of the weather chaw to his hollow to share tea. The old ryb would talk about his latest weather theories or inventions for interpreting weather. But now the coals in his grate were cold. The plates of his favorite snack food, dried caterpillars, went untouched and a fine layer of dust had settled on all the books.

Soren knew that off of this main parlor of Ezylryb’s hollow there was a smaller one where he slept. Gylfie had already flown into it. So Soren followed her. “Anything here?”

“Practically nothing,” Gylfie replied.

In definite contrast to the parlor, the sleeping hollow was sparsely furnished to the point of austerity. There was a bed, a mixture of down with generous portions of Ga’Hoolian moss known for its fleecy quality. By the bed stood a small table with a slender volume of poems atop another large leather-bound volume. Soren peered at the book.

“What’s the book?” Gylfie asked.

“Something called
Sonnets of the Northern Kingdoms,
by Lyze of Kiel.”

“Whoop-de-doo,” Gylfie said. “Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?”

“Well, you know Ezylryb. Everyone says he is the best scholar here. He likes all this weird obscure stuff. It’s not all just weather science with him.”

“What’s the other book?” Gylfie asked.

Soren moved the poetry volume. “I can hardly read the title, this book is so ancient.” The leather had crackled into fine lines and the gold leaf in which the title had been written had nearly flaked away. But underneath was the faint impression of an outline of the embossed letters. Soren, looking hard at the letters, spoke slowly.
“Sagas of the North Kingdoms: The History of the War of the Ice Claws
by Lyze of Kiel.”

“Talented fellow, I guess,” Gylfie said. “I mean, sonnets and war history.” Gylfie was talking as she flitted here and there in the almost bare chamber. “What’s this?” she said suddenly.

“What’s what?” Soren asked. “Oh, it looks like a perch. Must be for his exercises or something.”

“No, I don’t think so.” And at the moment Gylfie lighted down on the perch, it fell from the wall. The Elf Owl tumbled through the air and landed lightly on her small talons. “Some perch! Can’t even hold an Elf Owl like me.”

Soren blinked in dismay. That was weird. Where the perch had been was a hole. Soren flew up to the hole and then, using fast, scooping motions of his wings and by angling his tail, he managed to tread the air in order to hover.
Glaux! I wish I were a hummingbird!
he thought. Hovering in a tight space for a bird of Soren’s size was no easy matter. “Gylfie, get over here and hover. You’re smaller. You can do this better than I can. Peek into that hole. I see something.”

“You do?” Gylfie had flown up as Soren backed off. Now Gylfie hovered and then suddenly poked her beak in and within a fraction of a second came back with a string clutched in it. It was a long string and it was firmly attached to something in the hole.

“Pull it!” said Soren.

Gylfie gave a little tug. “I can’t, you’re stronger.”

So Soren came up and gave a yank. There was a creak and suddenly a door, previously invisible, opened. The owls blinked at each other. There was no need to ask if they should or should not go in. Their minds were instantly made up. Soren entered first. It was dark but, of course, darkness never bothered an owl. They could actually see better in the dark. They made their way through a very narrow corridor. Flying through it was almost impossible even for an Elf Owl. Soon, however, the corridor
widened and they found themselves standing in another hollow, about the same size as Ezylryb’s sleeping quarters.

A secret chamber,
thought Soren. Then both owls blinked in astonishment.

“Soren, do you see what I see?”

“I certainly do!”

Hanging on the wall in front of them was a pair of ancient, rusted battle claws.
Yes, a secret chamber for hiding secrets.
Soren now thought of his last conversation with the rogue smith of Silverveil. The words came back to him:
Ezylryb has a past. He is a legend. He does have enemies.

How shocked Soren had been. How unbelievable it was to him that the most nonviolent owl on earth could ever have an enemy. Ezylryb, the owl who had the greatest contempt for battle claws!

“Well, will you look at these claws! Holy Glaux!” Gylfie had flown up close to them. “Makes my gizzard wilt to even be this close. Soren you won’t believe this. These suckers are deadly. They’ve got jagged edges. Glaux almighty. Come up here and look at them.”

“No!” Soren said. He couldn’t stand the thought of his teacher—his hero—wearing those. Killing. He himself had killed before. He had helped kill the bobcat in the forest of The Beaks, and he had helped kill the top lieutenants
of St. Aggie’s, Jatt and Jutt, when the two Long-Eared cousins had attacked them in the Desert of Kuneer. But this was different somehow. This was like being a professional killer. Yes. What had they called those owls he had heard about—Hireclaws? They hired out to anyone to fight and kill. That was the only reason that an owl would have his own set of claws. All the claws in the Great Tree were kept in the armory. There weren’t many rules at Ga’Hoole, but it was strictly forbidden to keep arms in your hollow.

But Soren was drawn to them nonetheless. Slowly, he flew in short hops toward the claws on the wall. “Well, they’re rusty,” Gylfie said, looking nervously at her friend. She knew how much Soren admired Ezylryb. She knew this must be difficult for him. Hireclaws were the lowest of the low.

“Because they’re rusty, I don’t think he uses them much. Maybe not for years and years, Soren.”

“Maybe,” Soren said weakly. He peered more closely at the claws. There was something familiar about them. Something in the way the claws curved in such an exact likeness to the way an owl’s talons curved and were angled.
The fit must be perfect,
Soren thought. Then it burst upon him.

“Gylfie,” he turned suddenly to the Elf Owl, “these claws were made by the rogue smith of Silverveil.”

“No, young’uns,” the two owls whirled around. Slithering into the chamber was Octavia. “Not the smith of Silverveil, but her master from Dark Fowl Island in the Everwinter Sea. They were made for Lyze of Kiel, poet, warrior, and writer of sagas.”

“Lyze of Kiel,” Soren whispered the words. They rang in his ears. The letters rearranged themselves in his mind’s eye. Their true meaning turned in the deepest part of his gizzard.

The old blind snake seemed to sense all this. “Yes, Soren. You’re getting the picture, aren’t you?”

“Huh?” Gylfie said.

“Lyze of Kiel, Gylfie. Rearrange some of letters and it spells Ezyl.”

Y
es, my dear, the ‘ryb’ was added after we arrived here and the owls knew that the greatest of scholars and warriors had come to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.” She paused. “You know him as Ezylryb.”

At that moment, Digger entered the secret chamber. He was frantic. “I called and called trying to warn you. I tried everything to distract her. I’m really sorry.”

Octavia swung her head toward the Burrowing Owl. “Don’t worry. For a long time I have felt that Soren was up to something. Since that first night of the harvest festivities. I would have found out sooner or later.”

Soren remembered now how Octavia had slithered out onto the gallery to help Madame Plonk, who had passed out from the milkberry wine. Everyone else had been distracted by the comet’s appearance. It was the perfect distraction, camouflage for their leaving. But just as Soren was sweeping from the Great Hollow, he had felt the gaze of the sightless snake boring into him. She did
have extraordinary powers, even if she had not been born blind.

“You won’t tell anybody, will you, Octavia?” There was almost a pleading tone in Soren’s voice.

“No. What good would that do? It wouldn’t help get Ezylryb back.”

“Do you think that his disappearance has something to do with his past—with someone who wants to get even?”

Octavia coiled up and extended her head directly toward Soren. He had that same feeling again as if her gaze were penetrating his deepest thoughts. “Who told you that?”

“The rogue smith.”

“Of Silverveil?” Octavia lifted her head slightly. “Yes, I might have known. She’s quite different from her sister, isn’t she?” It was useless asking this snake how she knew anything—she just seemed to know.

But how come she doesn’t know where Ezylryb is?
Soren asked himself.

Now Octavia picked up her feather duster and began whisking the film of dust off a stack of books on a desk near the claws. Gylfie gave a little sneeze. “Allergies, don’t worry. Go ahead, Octavia.”

“The place is a mess, isn’t it? It’s hard for me to come in here and tidy up. Too many memories.”

“Of course,” Soren said softly, but he had a feeling that Octavia was about to recount some of those memories, and perhaps moving about, keeping busy with this simple task of dusting, would loosen her forked tongue.

“You see, young’uns,” Octavia began as she neatened a stack of papers and continued dusting Ezylryb’s desk. “Ezylryb and I go way back, back to the time when he was known as Lyze, the almost legendary warrior of the War of the Ice Claws.”

The three young owls hardly dared to breathe as the chubby old snake began her tale.

“This War of the Ice Claws was the longest in history. It was well into its second century by the time Lyze was hatched. He was groomed, trained, raised to be a warrior, as were all the young owls from the Stormfast Island in the Bay of Kiel in the Everwinter Sea. His father, his mother, his grandparents, his great- and great-great-grandparents all were superb soldiers. Every single one of them had been a commander of an air artillery division. They were learned, too. Knew how to fight with their minds, not just with their talons. But it was soon apparent, as soon as Lyze first fledged and took to the wing, that this was one extraordinary young Whiskered Screech Owl. More brilliant than any of his siblings, which was later to cause trouble in the nest. He soon became the youngest commander
of an air artillery division and shortly thereafter began in earnest to train colliers.

“Now you are probably wondering where I came in. Well, on the island of Stormfast there were, of course, nest-maid snakes. They were blind. But there was another breed of snake called Kielians, and they were not blind. They didn’t have rosy scales, but the blue-green ones like my own. I am a Kielian snake. We are known for our industry and wit. More muscular than the blind snakes and extremely supple.”