The River of Wind (11 page)

L
ook! Look over there at those…those…those…It looks like something from the weavers guild at the great tree. Something torn loose from the loom,” Primrose shouted.

This must be a sign that we’re getting nearer to something,
Eglantine thought. If it were true, she would be glad. Although the long flight on the River of Wind in many ways had not been as arduous as she had expected, she knew that the terrible sight of those mummified creatures spinning through the tumblebones would haunt her for a long time. She had felt compelled to look at them, for she was fearful that her own brother or some other Chaw of Chaw member might have been caught in them. So despite the lovely, soft, swift breezes of the River of Wind, she had never been able to completely relax. And she was still uncertain if Soren, the king, and the rest of the Chaw of Chaws had actually arrived on this side of the Unnamed Sea.

She looked up in the direction that Primrose had indicated. Something colorful was dancing in the wind eddies of this marvelous stream of air that had borne them across the Unnamed Sea. They began to follow the strings of the qui just as the Chaw of Chaws had done a few nights before. But this time, the welcoming gong did not sound. Tengshu, who had returned to his hollow at the end of the River of Wind, was caught completely by surprise. He looked up, startled from minding his qui.

“Hee naow, hee naow,” the sage stammered. “I…I was not expecting you…You are Soren’s sister?” The similarity was striking. But Primrose and Eglantine were blinking in amazement. The color of this owl was astonishing, and yet had they not seen blue feathers in Ambala? And now this blue owl was talking about her brother.
My brother! Soren!

Eglantine gasped with relief. “You mean they got here?”

“Oh, yes, yes! Soren-sister and Little One.” The sage nodded toward Primrose.

“Thank Glaux!” Eglantine and Primrose said at once. “We must find them immediately,” Eglantine said. Her voice was almost hoarse with desperation. “The Pure Ones—they are coming. A slink melf—an assassination squad.”

So this was it,
thought the sage. This was the undecipherable part of the eight astrologers’ prediction that had been written in an ancient form of Krakish. There were suggestions of some threat that was to come. But who would have ever thought so soon? When he had returned from the owlery, he had left the Spotted Owl, the one called Otulissa, pondering the writings of the eight astrologers. Tengshu knew that action was necessary, not further thought. He must dispatch these owls to the owlery with all haste and stay here to “welcome” the vicious owls that were to follow.

“You must fly, Soren-sister, to that distant ridge and then to the next that will appear. Keep Little One,” he said, nodding at Primrose, “under wing, for the winds turn very boisterous.”

“But Eglantine,” Primrose said. “You’ve lost your crow feather.”

“Crow feather?” the sage asked.

“Crow feathers protect us from crows during daylight, and it’s almost day now.”

“There are no crows here. Do not worry. Just go. And take this.” Tengshu tore off the red tail of his qui. “Fly with this. It is the signal for danger. Imminent danger! Now fly!”

Far behind them, across that vast sea, a black feather drifted in lazy swirls.

“What’s this?” the Burrowing Owl Tarn asked.

“What’s what?” Nyra barked. The frinking blue owl’s instructions had got them absolutely nowhere. “Zong Phong…fly to tomorrow,” she muttered.

“It looks like part of the crow feather that Doc Finebeak flies with,” Stryker said.

“What?” A new heat surged through Nyra’s somewhat restored gizzard. “Finebeak! The traitor!” The Snowy, the finest tracker in any kingdom, had joined the owls of the great tree. He had once tracked down her own son. Nyra flew to where Tarn and Stryker were hovering. She stared at the feather and blinked in disbelief.
What luck!
“This must be the way. The Guardians have gone this way. Follow me!”

Nyra started a banking turn and examined the center of the swirl where the black feather rotated. They followed it up and suddenly were caught in a savage crosscurrent of slashing winds. The rest of the Pure Ones had followed their General Mam, the supreme commander of the Tytonic Union of Pure Ones. But they now seemed to be fighting for their lives. Nyra ducked in and out of the rungs of the ladder of confusing windkins. “Follow me!”
she cried. Tarn was right on her tail, as were Stryker and Wort, but two Barn Owls were sucked away and a Sooty was fighting to escape the grip of the tumblebones. His dark eyes froze in fear first as he saw the feathers stripped from his wing, and then with the terrible realization that his port wing was separating from his body.

But, finally, the rest of the Pure Ones were safe at last in the streaming River of Wind. Nyra looked around. Yes, she had lost three officers of the slink melf, but there were fifteen others, including Tarn, thank Glaux, who had survived. “We’re here!” Nyra screamed triumphantly as she tumbled into the racing currents of the Zong Phong. “We’re on their track. Vengeance is ours!”

Tengshu had sharpened his talons on his flintstone. He knew about battle claws, but there was not a pair to be found in the Middle Kingdom. They were forbidden, and had been ever since the time of the first H’ryth, Theosang, who was the battle claw inventor and had left that world of warring owls behind. If owls needed to fight and to kill they would have to find other ways. This was considered the most sacred proscription of any H’ryth in the history of the Middle Kingdom. But fighting is an instinct among all animals, and often a necessity, although the owls of the Middle Kingdom seldom admitted such, for even that
seemed like a violation of the great first H’ryth’s philosophy. Compared to other owls, these blue ones were quite peaceful. But they had, over the centuries, developed skills that were every bit as effective as battle claws. And as Tengshu squinted into the dawn and saw his prayer qui torn from the sky, he hardened his gizzard and realized that for the first time in a century, he was about to use these skills.

The sun glinted off the battle claws of the Pure Ones. These owls were armed, but that didn’t bother Tengshu. It was to his advantage. He could fly better, faster, more nimbly, without the additional weight.

“Eeeyrrrrk!” he screeched, and like a blue bolt of lightning he cracked the noon stillness with his cry. It was not a battle cry, but one that was known as the “zong qui,” literally the breath of the qui, which would expand an owl’s lungs, and when expelled thrust him through the air at blinding speed. Tengshu had been schooled in the fine art of Danyar, the way of noble gentleness. The exercises he had learned those many years ago, which he continued to practice, had one purpose: to develop the entire owl organism—joints, hollow bones, gizzard, lungs, heart, and feathers—so that an owl could strike with great force using every part and fiber of its body. Tengshu repeated the chant of the Danyar. “I am the root of the
tree, the breath of the dragon, the clearness of the air, and the brightness of the stars in the pitch of the night.” He could feel the huge wind, the breath of qui, flow through him.

“What is it?” Stryker gasped as he saw the blue streak hurtling toward him. In the next second, he had been rendered senseless by a blow to his chest. He plummeted unconscious to the ground. There was blood, but it was caused by the rock he lay impaled upon. Danyar was not about spilling blood, but depriving another of their senses, rendering them unconscious. If they were killed or torn apart, it was rarely from the sharpened talons. To tear with talons was considered an undisciplined way to win combat. Although the end result might be the same—death—the less bloodshed the better. Three more Pure Ones fell from the sky, not from a blow but from witnessing what had just transpired. Their wings locked and their gizzards turned to stone: They had simply gone yeep.

Nyra felt a terrible unease in her gizzard. Was it one owl that was doing this or several? She peeled off in flight. Tengshu, meanwhile, was engaged with three other Pure Ones. Time for the Zi Phan, the talon like the spiked flower. It was a deadly move, and the three owls followed their lieutenant to the ground.

Tengshu felt the first weakening in his zi field, which was the region of concentrated energy and control. He had done well. The group of a dozen or more owls that the great moonfaced owl had been leading were scattered. They would undoubtedly reunite, but he had slowed them down. Still, he was three hundred and twenty-five, he reminded himself—and for that age, he had done a decent job. Hopefully, Soren-sister and Little One had reached the outer winds of the Mountain of Time by now.

Hopefully,
he thought, and flew back to his hollow. Some yak tea would restore him and yes, of course, a poem. He must put quill to paper and write—write of something peaceful with great dignity. Isn’t that what Theosang had always done?

In the dimness of his hollow wrapped in the rich glow of the butter lamp, he picked up his quill and began to write.

Soon it will be spring

Ice melts

The Puoy bird will whoop and wipe its muddy feet on a leaf

A bud begins to unlock its secret

L
isten to them.” The blue owl spoke softly. “Their words grow thick. They are drinking the bingle juice. You say it will make them drunk?”

“Very,” Bell whispered. “My parents only give us just a drop mixed with lots of water on special occasions. But…but…” Bell cocked her head. The little one was obviously hearing something, the blue owl thought. Her hearing was quite amazing. “I don’t think they are drunk yet. But their heartbeats are slowing and they might fall asleep soon. Their breath is snory.”

“Asleep? Oh,” the blue owl said, suddenly remembering. This was a new word for him.

“Sleep, you know,” Bell said, turning to look at him. “What do you call it? Is it different in Krakish?”

“Yes, we call it something else.”

“What?”

“We call it going to the spirit realm.”

“Oh,” Bell said with wonder. “That’s nice. I like that. But do you actually go someplace?”

“In a sense.”

“Where? Is it a good place?”

“Sometimes it is good, sometimes it is bad.”

“Explain it to me.”

“It’s as if part of us leaves our body as it needs rest…the spirit part.”

“Sort of like a scroom,” Bell said.

“Yes, of course, sort of like a scroom.” But the blue owl had no idea what a scroom was. Another little, but not quite, lie.

“And what does your spirit do?”

“It roams.”

“Where?”

“It is hard to explain.” The blue owl truly did not want to explain. His spirit sometimes roamed to a dark and horrible place. A place he felt he had been before, where his feathers had not been blue, but raggedy and black. A place in which he had been possessed by uncontrollable urges for which he knew he must now pay until the phonqua was completed.

But almost as bad as his previous life was the one he had been forced to lead in the Dragon Court of the Panqua
Palace. A life of complete and utter luxury, a life of no physical need, but a life that was no life at all. It had been severed from what the owls of the Middle Kingdom called the golden thread, which tied the spirit and the body together in a meaningful way. So with the cutting of the golden thread, life became a mockery. Perhaps the worst part was the sheer boredom and the constant shame at the travesty that they had grown to look like the magnificent dragons of the past but had none of their power. Every minute of every night and every moon cycle for year upon year reminded them of their impotence, reminded them of the travesty of their so-called lives in this court.

It was only after years and years that the phonqua could be brought to a close that would result in a new life. He desperately wanted the phonqua fulfilled, the cycle to end, but he was impatient. It was this impatience that had driven him to escape the Panqua Palace. He felt that there must be another way. And now he was going to shorten that cycle. He was going to rescue this little owl. He would restore her to her parents, to this tree they called the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. The guards were asleep, gone to the spirit realm. He was sure he could do it. He had felt himself growing stronger.

So lost in thought was he that he had not noticed that
Bell had crept up the short tunnel to the opening in the burrow where the guards kept their watch. She returned now.

“They’re asleep! Sound asleep. We can escape!”

“Escape!” the blue owl said.

“Yes, Striga, escape!”

A few minutes later, they emerged from the desert burrow into the light of the newing moon. It had grown much fatter since they had first arrived in the Desert of Kuneer. It felt good to spread their wings after the tight confines of the tunnel spaces of the underground burrow. The breeze stirred their facial disk feathers, and Bell tipped hers toward the velvety darkness of the sky. “Stars, wind,” she whispered softly to herself, and wondered how one could bear to live underground.

“I thought I was going to have to go in there and drag you out.” It was an Elf Owl, the same voice that they had heard offering the bingle juice to the guards. “Come on, follow me. Let’s get out of here. I have to get you to somewhere safe from these terrible owls.”

“Are you sure it’s safe to go?” the blue owl asked.

“Yes, the top command is gone. The other owls around here have no idea that you are prisoners. Follow me.”

“He can’t fly too well,” Bell said.

“No, no. I’ll be fine,” the blue owl assured them both.
Cuffyn looked at him and wondered. What in the name of Glaux had this owl eaten or drunk to make him blue and weak of wing? No time to inquire. They had to get out—now.

“Where will you take me?” Bell asked the Elf Owl. “I want to go home.”

“First, let’s just get you to safety, and then we’ll figure out the rest,” the Elf Owl replied. “We don’t want this old sot of a snake to wake up before we’re out of here.”

Bell looked down. She saw the fat old snake, the one she had heard called Gragg. She had to resist yarping a pellet on him for fear of waking him up. There was something about that snake she absolutely hated. He seemed so different from any nest-maid snake. He had given Bell a hard whack when she had first arrived. Apparently, she had not moved down the tunnel quickly enough. And he had called her a really disgusting name—seagull splat.

Oh, Bell could hardly believe it. She was going home…home…home to the great tree! Home to see her mum, her da, her two sisters, her auntie Plonk and her auntie Ot, for that was what the three B’s called Otulissa. Then she remembered, Twilight had promised to give her her first battle claws lesson. And Bubo.
Oh, my! How I have missed Bubo!
What did she want to do first? Curl
up in the hollow with Mum and Da and hear stories or go drink milkberry tea with Bubo?
Oh, be with Mum and Da, of course.
They flew on, hours passing like minutes while happy anticpation warmed Bell’s gizzard.

Suddenly, she noticed how well the blue owl was flying. “Hey, you’re doing great. How did you learn so fast?”

“I’m not sure…” the blue owl answered honestly.

Then Bell saw something that made her gizzard tremble with joy. “The great tree! The great tree! I can see it from here!” she called out.

“B-b-but…but what’s that?” Cuffyn asked, gesturing to dozens and dozens of owls flying toward them.

“Strix Struma Strikers!” Bell gasped, then blinked. “And the Flame Squadron, the Bonk Brigade with Bubo in the lead—and there’s Doc Finebeak!”

Doc Finebeak split off from the tracking unit he was commanding. “Take over, Sylvana.” He swiveled his head. “I’ll catch up.”

“It’s little Bell!” A cheer from the Guardians roared up into the night.

“What’s happening?” Cuffyn asked.

“It’s war…” Doc Finebeak replied. “In the sixth kingdom.” Then he seemed to notice the blue owl. “You’re
from there, aren’t you?” The blue owl staggered in his flight.

“Yes,” he said softly, and turned to Bell. “I lied, letting you think I was from the Northern Kingdoms. I didn’t mean to.”

“More important, you helped to save this little owl,” Doc said. “Her mother was gizzard-broken.”

Something swelled within the blue owl. “I can help you. I will get you to what you call the sixth kingdom. I know the way of the Zong Phong and how to fly through the hole in the wind.”

“We were to seek someone called Bess, in the Shadow Forest,” Doc Finebeak replied. “She was to tell us where this place is.”

“No. I’ll save you time. I will lead you there. I know the moonfaced owl has gone there. She is terrible.”

“You needn’t tell us!” Doc Finebeak said, then turned to Cuffyn. “Can you get this little one the rest of the way home?”

“Certainly.”

“You’re going, Striga?” Bell said, turning to the blue owl.

“I’ll be back. I promise.”

“How can I thank you?”

“You don’t need to. I should thank you.”
Yes,
thought this owl, once called Orlando and now called Striga.
I might have found the shortcut to the completion of my phonqua. It really does seem possible—at last.

“But I want to do something for you,” Bell protested.

The blue owl hovered and peered deeply into Bell’s dark eyes. The pale yellow light seem to flood through Bell’s hollow bones. “Just live purely and simply from the innermost part of your gizzard—the ‘ryth,’ as we owls of the Middle Kingdom, the kingdom of Jouzho, call it.”

“You mean, no red berry decorations?”

The blue owl churred. “That’s a start…that’s a start,” he said, and then began a steep banking turn to join the Guardian fighting units of the tree.

He was intoxicated with this new feeling that flowed through him and powered his flight. He felt a new alertness in his gizzard. It felt trim—trim and ready for the completion, the moment when the cycle was at last broken and his life would be a real life, not a travesty. A zeal burned through him. Now the lessons of the Danyar would be his. It was all about control, self-control, and through that, one could indeed become the master of one’s fate.