The Rescue (Guardians of Ga'hoole) (6 page)

Soren was confused. “How can you not be sure about what kind he is?”

“Because he wears a metal beak and a metal mask over most his face.”

“Why’s that?”

“Wouldn’t really know,” Bubo said as if he didn’t really want to discuss it. “Some say he flies noisy like a Pygmy Owl, but he ain’t no pygmy size, I’ll tell you that. Well, maybe Barn Owl but bigger, much bigger, but not as big as a Great Gray. Some swear he’s got ear tufts like a Great Horned, yours truly here. Others say no. But there’s one thing they all agree on.”

“What’s that?”

Bubo’s voice dropped. “He’s the most brutal owl in all the kingdoms of owls. He’s the most vicious owl on earth.”

Soren swore that he felt his gizzard drop to his talons. When Soren and his band had been on their journey to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, they had come across a dying Barred Owl. To Soren and his mates it looked like a murder by St. Aggie’s top lieutenants.

“Was it St. Aggie’s?” Glyfie had asked. And the dying Barred Owl had responded with his last breath. “I wish it had been St. Aggie’s. It was something far worse. Believe me—St. Aggie’s—Oh! You only wish!”

Soren, Gylfie, Twilight, and Digger could not imagine anything worse, anything more brutal than St. Aggie’s. But the Barred Owl had told them differently. There
was
something far worse. It was nameless and now possibly faceless, but so frightened were the four owls that they
had begun to refer to this monster or possibly monsters as the “you only wish.” The few times they had begun to ask about this evil thing, the owls of the Ga’Hoole Tree, the rybs, had deftly turned the conversation to something else. But now Bubo was telling him of this brutal owl known as Metal Beak.

Bubo would never turn away from a young owl’s question. That simply wasn’t his style. So Soren did not feel reluctant to press him. “You know, Bubo, how Gylfie, Digger, Twilight, and I found that dying Barred Owl in The Beaks?”

“Yes, I heard tell of that and the bobcat that you four young’uns managed to kill right stylishly, I’d say. Dropped a coal in his eye, direct hit from how far up was it?”

“Oh, I’m not sure, Bubo. But tell me this—do you think that the Barred Owl might have been done in by this Metal Beak?”

“Very possible! Possible, indeed. Maybe even probable, which, as you know if you study your arithmetic, can happen more often than possible. In other words, probable is more possible than possible.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Bubo could go off in this way, and it could be very difficult to get him back on track. “I see what you mean. But why would it be very possible, or maybe even probable, that this Metal Beak killed the Barred Owl?”

“Well, the Barred Owl were a rogue smith, warn’t he.” But it really wasn’t a question. Soren wasn’t quite sure if he understood Bubo’s meaning. It was as if Bubo was saying that if an owl was a rogue smith, this sometimes could happen.

“Yes,” said Soren hesitantly. “But…”

“But what?”

“Well, Bubo, I am not sure exactly what a rogue smith is.”

“Don’t know what a rogue smith is, don’t you?”

Soren shook his head and looked down at his talons.

“Nothing to be ashamed about, lad. A rogue smith is a blacksmith just like me. But he ain’t attached to any kingdom. I mean, we here at the Ga’Hoole Tree be the only ones who know how to use fire in all different ways, like for cooking, and the light for the candles for reading and, of course, for tools, like battle claws, and pots and pans and cauldrons. But these rogue smiths, they know about forging some and they mostly make battle claws. Weapons, you know.”

“But who do they make them for?”

“Anyone who comes along. They don’t ask no questions about the who, but seems like they get plenty of information one way or the other. They have to deal with rogue colliers. Get a lot from them.”

“Rogue colliers? You mean colliers like me and Otulissa and Martin and Ruby?”

“Yep, but no chaw. You get it? They just go it alone.”

“Alone into forest fires?”

Bubo nodded. “But it’s the smiths who really get all the good information. This Barred was a slipgizzle.”

“Yes,” Soren replied.

“Now, you know what a slipgizzle is, don’t you?”

“Uh…kind of a secret agent owl?”

“That’s it, basically. Keeps their eyes and ears open for any news, then reports back to us. But they never stay long when they come. They likes living wild. I think I recall this Barred Owl coming in here once a while back. A rough-trade sort of bird. Didn’t like his meat cooked, no sirree. Said candlelight, smell of wax wobbled his gizzard.”

“Are there any other rogue smiths?” Soren asked. An idea was forming in his head.

“Oh, yes—a few. There’s a Snowy Owl over near the border between The Barrens and Silverveil.”

“Do you know his name?” Soren asked.

“His? What makes you think it’s a ‘his’?”

“Hers?” Soren asked tentatively. Bubo nodded. “I’ve never heard of a female blacksmith.”

“Well, now you have.” Bubo batted his talon on one of the whirlyglasses and the colors seemed to ignite as they
were caught in the light of a candle dappling the walls of the cave.

“What’s her name?” Soren asked.

“Don’t know. Most of them rogue smiths keep their names to themselves. They’re an odd sort, I’m telling you.” Then he looked narrowly at Soren and fixed him in his amber gaze. “Rogues are unpredictable and not only that, they are often visited by bad sorts. After all, they make weapons. So, Soren, don’t you be getting ideas.”

But that was just exactly what Soren was doing: getting an idea!

B
eware of Metal Beak.’ It was the scrooms who told me.” Soren was in the hollow with Twilight, Gylfie, Digger, and Eglantine.

“But did they actually say it out loud?” Gylfie hopped up close to Soren and looked straight up.

“Well, no—not exactly. Scrooms don’t speak out loud.”

“Then how do you know,” Eglantine asked in a broken voice, “that it was them, the scrooms of Mum and Da? Because if it was, that means they are dead, doesn’t it, Soren?” Tears began to leak out of his sister’s coal-black eyes.

“It does, Eglantine, and there is nothing we can do about that,” said Soren.

“Dead is dead,” Twilight said in his usual blunt way. Gylfie turned and kicked him in his talons.

“What did you do that for, Gylfie?”

“Twilight, she has just found out for sure that her parents are dead. You could be a little more sensitive!”

“But it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Twilight said, slightly abashed by Gylfie’s reprimand.

“It is, and it isn’t,” Soren said. “You asked me how I heard them, how I could be sure. I can’t explain exactly. It was them. I felt their spirits, and their words were not out-loud words but seemed to form in my brain. First, they would come like fog or mist, and then they would gather into a shape that had meaning, a picture. But I felt so close to them. I knew it was them.”

Digger now spoke. “But why do you say that it is and it isn’t true that they are dead, Soren?”

“Mrs. Plithiver told me that one reason the scrooms of owls do not go to glaumora is because they have unfinished business on earth. I think Mum and Da’s unfinished business was to warn me about Metal Beak. We must find this Metal Beak, and I think that the best way is to go to the rogue smith of Silverveil.”

“But we can’t, Soren,” Eglantine said in an almost whiny voice. “I have navigation and Ga’Hoolology, and they really get mad at us new owls if we skip class. Especially the Ga’Hoolology ryb. She says that these are the most important days for the tree.”

Ga’Hoolology was the study and care of the great tree, which not only gave habitat to the owls of Ga’Hoole but nourishment through its nuts and berries. Indeed,
there was hardly a part of the tree that was not used in some way.

“Yes, but the berry harvest is coming up,” Soren said.

“So?” said Eglantine.

“It’s a big festival.” Gylfie turned to Eglantine. “There are no chaw practices or classes for three days. We all have to help with the harvest and then on the third night, there’s a big banquet that goes on every night for another three or four at least, to celebrate. They say the rybs always get very tipsy on the milkberry wine. It’ll be the easiest time to fly off with no one noticing.”

“Oh,” said Eglantine. She sounded slightly deflated as if some last hope had vanished for her. “So when does this festival start?”

“Five days,” Digger said.

“Five days!” Eglantine sounded panicked.

“Yes,” said Soren. “But we shouldn’t plan to leave until after the banquet is really going. The banquets don’t begin for another eight days.”

“Yes, yes,” everyone agreed. They began making plans immediately. Should it just be the five of them or should they include others like Martin and Ruby? Soren felt it might be a good idea because colliers knew the ways of smiths and other colliers and, quite honestly, Soren realized he did not want to take on the entire burden with
this rogue smith. She might prove difficult. He wondered to himself if Eglantine was really strong enough to go yet. She still seemed frail to him—even though it had been almost two months since her rescue—not just physically frail, but frail in the gizzard. Then again, would her feelings be hurt if she were left behind?

“What about Otulissa?” Gylfie asked.

There was a resounding “No!”

“She can’t keep her beak shut,” said Twilight.

“Right,” said Digger. “She’ll be hooting about it all over the tree.”

“I can come, can’t I, Soren?” Eglantine asked in a small tremulous voice.

“Do you feel strong enough?”

“Of course I do!”

Soren didn’t have the heart to say no.

Then another thought suddenly occurred to him. “You know, all this time I have been thinking that this Metal Beak, whoever he is, might be the one who killed the Barred Owl. Do you suppose that—”

It was as if the three owls, Twilight, Digger, and Gylfie, all read Soren’s mind. “Ezylryb,” they all gasped.

“Exactly. Do you think Metal Beak could have something to do with Ezylryb’s disappearance?” The owls began whispering in excited voices.

“We must work out our strategy,” Gylfie said.

“We better go to the library and look at maps of Silverveil,” Digger added.

“Well, Bubo said the rogue smith was on the border between Silverveil and The Barrens. So doesn’t that mean it could be in either place?” Soren asked.

“But they call her the rogue smith of Silverveil,” Gylfie said. “So most likely she is closer to Silverveil.”

There were countless details to work out. Should they “borrow” battle claws from the armory? No, they would be found out immediately even if the older owls were tipsy. Could they leave any earlier? What weather was coming in? If it was a south wind and they were flying south by southeast, it could slow them down. Amid all this jabber there was one little pocket of silence. And that was when Eglantine retreated to her own corner of the hollow and tried to weep as silently as possible in the fluffy nest of down. But it wasn’t her mum’s down. It didn’t smell anything like her mum, and there was too much moss in it. But she couldn’t let Soren see her crying. She had just told him that she was strong enough to fly with them to Silverveil. She wanted to be included so much. They mustn’t think she was a baby. Well, there was only one place to go when she was feeling this bad—to Mrs. Plithiver. She hoped Mrs. P.’s hollow mates—two other
nest-maid snakes—wouldn’t be there. It would be all over the tree if they saw her crying. Nest-maids were notorious gossips.

“There, there, dear.” Mrs. Plithiver had coiled up and was stretching as far as possible to stroke Eglantine’s wing. “It can’t be that bad.”

“But it is, Mrs. P. You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

So Eglantine told the old nest-maid snake about what Soren had seen in the spirit forest, about the scrooms of their parents, and how Twilight had said “dead is dead.” But Soren had said “not exactly” and the part about Metal Beak and the unfinished business. “See, Mrs. P., I know this is wrong but if the business gets finished, Mum and Da will go to glaumora, and then I’ll never see them again.”

Mrs. Plithiver was silent for a long time. If she had had eyes they might have wept. Finally, she spoke. “It’s not wrong, Eglantine, to want to see your parents again, but the real question is would you be happy if you saw them—or their scrooms—and they were very, very sad and worried about you?”

Eglantine blinked. She hadn’t thought of that.

“Was Soren happy?” Mrs. P. continued. “Did he say anything about being so happy and glad to have seen them?”
Now that Eglantine thought about it, Soren hadn’t seemed at all happy since he had returned from the spirit woods. He seemed completely dragged down by something. And Mrs. Plithiver, as if seeing directly into Eglantine’s brain, said, “It’s the scrooms. Scrooms with unfinished business, although they seem only to be made of mist and vapor, can be a terrible weight on the living. I noticed it as soon as Soren returned.”

“You did?” Eglantine blinked in astonishment. Mrs. P. nodded her rose-colored head, and her eye dents seemed to flinch. “How?” Eglantine asked.

“I’ve told you, Eglantine, that although we are blind, nest-maid snakes have very finely tuned sensibilities. We pick up on these things, especially if it concerns family members, and I worked for your family for so long—well, I just know when any one of you is out of sorts. But, Eglantine, the main thing is that you must rid yourself of this notion that to see your parents just one more time, to meet their scrooms, would make you feel happy. It won’t, my dear, believe me.”

“It’s hard.” Eglantine paused.

“I know, I know. But you know, dear, you must think about the good times you had with your parents, the happy times.”

“Like when Da would tell us the stories of the order of
the guardian owls of Ga’Hoole before we went to sleep. ‘Knights’ he called them.”

“Yes, dear, I listened to his stories, too. He had a lovely sonorous voice, especially for a Barn Owl.”