GUARDIANS of GA’HOOLE
BOOK FOURTEEN
Exile
By
KATHRYN LASKY
New York Toronto London Auckland Sydney Mexico City New Delhi Hong Kong
The author is indebted to Ray Bradbury for his Fahrenheit 451 and his brilliant depiction of a society in which book burning was the norm and intellectual freedom destroyed.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Maps
Illustration
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE A Reduced Harvest Festival
CHAPTER TWO Why a Blue Feather?
CHAPTER THREE An Odd Conversation
CHAPTER FOUR Simplicity
CHAPTER FIVE Windkins, Advanced Study of
CHAPTER SIX Burnt Paper
CHAPTER SEVEN The Blue Feather Club
CHAPTER EIGHT Deep Gizzardly Twinges
CHAPTER NINE Visions of Hagsmire
CHAPTER TEN Skart!
CHAPTER ELEVEN Page by Page, Book by Book
CHAPTER TWELVE A Mist of Gloom
CHAPTER THIRTEEN A World Gone Yoicks?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Mists of Ambala
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Word by Word
CHAPTER SIXTEEN This Is Hagscraft!
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The Wing Prints of Bao
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The Imperiled Ember
CHAPTER NINETEEN The Stink of a Hag
CHAPTER TWENTY A Few Good Owls
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE The Enemy Within
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO A Singed Blue Feather
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Something Familiar?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Once Upon a Time
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Flames Within Flames
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX The Last Design
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN The Greenowls Are Coming
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT A Vigil Is Kept
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE An Old Friend
OWLS and others from the GUARDIANS OF GA’HOOLE SERIES
A peek at THE GUARDIANS OF GA’HOOLE Book Fifteen
The Guardians of Ga’Hoole series
Copyright
Maps
Illustration
Their progress was slow as the load that Otulissa and Fritha carried was a heavy one. In the talons of each was a botkin of scrolls and strapped to their backs were books.
Prologue
“All right, Otulissa, how does this sound for the lead article?” Fritha, a very diligent Pygmy Owl and one of Otulissa’s best students, had become the assistant editor of The Evening Hoot, a newspaper that she and Otulissa had started shortly after Coryn came to the tree. Otulissa looked up from what she was reading.
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“‘The three-day Harvest Festival, one of the merriest of the great tree’s many festivals, is expected to be somewhat subdued this year in deference to the blue owl, the Striga, from the newly discovered Middle Kingdom, who was so instrumental in the rescue of Bell, one of the three B’s, daughter of Soren and Pelli. The Striga was also crucial in the thwarting of the heinous slink melf by the Pure Ones and their plan to assassinate our king and the Band. There will be no music or singing. Many here at the tree were looking forward to Blythe’s debut with an air composed by one of the new gadfeathers that have become so numerous in our kingdoms of late. In addition to these changes in our usual celebration there will be no brewing of milkberries.’” Fritha paused. “How is it so far?”
“Depressing,” Otulissa replied.
CHAPTER ONE
A Reduced Harvest Festival
But, Bell, I don’t understand. I’ve been practicing all summer with Madame Plonk for the Milkberry Harvest Festival and now you say I shouldn’t sing? I just don’t understand. She’ll think I don’t care.”
“But you shouldn’t care, Blythe,” Bell protested.
“Why shouldn’t I care? I’ve worked hard on this.”
“Singing is—you know—sort of prideful.” Bell squirmed a bit as she said this.
“Prideful?” Blythe blinked her huge, shining black eyes.
“Yes. It’s, you know, a vanity.”
Blythe blinked again. “Vanity” was a word often heard in the Great Ga’Hoole Tree since the arrival of the strange blue owl, the Striga, from the newly discovered Middle Kingdom. But the owls of the great tree were deeply indebted to Striga, or “the Striga” as he preferred to be called, especially her parents, Soren and Pelli, and her sisters, Blythe and Bash. This blue-feathered owl had saved the life of little Bell. The Striga had flown across the Sea of Vastness and encountered Bell, who had been caught in a freak storm while out on a routine chawlet-training mission. She had been blown off course and injured. Had she not been found by the Striga she might have died. But that was only the beginning of Bell’s trials. During her recovery, she and the Striga were captured by the Pure Ones and held hostage in the Desert of Kuneer. For many moon cycles there had been no news of the Pure Ones and their maniacal leader, Nyra. It was thought they had been vanquished, that only a remnant survived, and perhaps even that Nyra had been killed. But such was not the case. They had found new recruits, gone underground in the Kuneer Desert, and built themselves an elaborate system of underground nest holes and tunnels masterminded by Tarn, a wily Burrowing Owl.
The Striga and Bell managed to escape, but during the course of their captivity they had learned of a dreadful plan, a plan to assassinate the Band and the great tree’s king, Coryn. This would have been a fatal blow to the very gizzard of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. Had it not been for the Striga, all might have been lost. So it was not just Bell who owed her life to the strange blue owl, but the great tree itself. The Band and Coryn felt so indebted that they issued an invitation to the Striga: If he desired to come to the great tree he would be welcomed. Thus, after many moon cycles, the Striga had arrived, leaving the Middle Kingdom and the strange Dragon Court, where he had lived a pampered life of indescribable luxury and indolence.
“Look,” Bell said excitedly, “you just give this singing up for the Harvest Festival and you’ll get a blue feather from the Striga.”
“Why would I want some old molted blue feather?” Blythe asked.
“It means you belong to the club, Blythe. The Blue Feather Club. Don’t you want to be a member? Clubs are fun.”
Blythe swiveled her head toward her younger sister. She didn’t know what to say. Why were clubs so much fun? Singing was fun. Bell just isn’t the same anymore, Blythe thought.
“I don’t get it,” Twilight said grumpily.
“Get what?” Gylfie asked.
The Great Gray Owl turned his head and peered into the tiny Elf Owl’s eyes. “Now tell me truthfully, Gylfie. Does this seem like the night before the Harvest Festival to you? Where are the milkberry vine decorations?”
“And where’s the milkberry brew?” Digger said, flying up to a perch in the main gallery in the Great Hollow. “I don’t smell it brewing. And the harp guild hasn’t been practicing at all. Seems like more of a Final ceremony than the merriest festival of the year.”
“Agreed,” said Soren. “Although I have to say that last year things did get a bit wild. I mean, did you ever in all your hatched days think you’d see Otulissa getting tipsy? She nearly squashed Martin.”
“She loves to dance, though. I remember when she got you doing the glauc-glauc that first year we were all here,” Digger said.
“I was not tipsy!” Otulissa swooped down from an upper gallery. “Ask Martin. He was the one who stumbled mid-flight. If anybody can hold their milkberry wine, it’s me.”
“Yeah, but I think someone really did spike it with some bingle juice and the two don’t mix—at all!” Gylfie said. “It’s a bad combination. Gives me indigestion
. And those autumn mice, my favorite, repeating on me for the next three nights after I drank the stuff. Makes me burp to even think about it now.”
“It’s because of your size, Gylf,” Twilight said. “You’re just too small to handle bingle juice—in any form.”
“Oh, now let’s just cut out the small-stature remarks,” Gylfie replied, sharply casting a harsh look at Twilight. As the tiniest of the Band she was sensitive about her size. In fact she had resurrected the SOS—the Small Owl Society. It had been founded by Gylfie’s grandmother, and its charter was to prevent cruel and tasteless remarks about size.
“Gylfie,” Otulissa said, “this is not a reflection on your character. It is a scientific fact that smaller owls have a lower tolerance for milkberry wine and bingle juice. There is even a formula: You take your weight, multiply it by the square root of your wingspan, and then divide it by your head-to-tail length and that gives you the number of drams you can tolerate. Very simple. Your capacity is small. Maybe one one-tenth of a dram.”
“I find this conversation infuriating,” Gylfie fumed. “You’re the one who stumbled in the glauc-glauc. Madame Plonk, who is nearly as big as Twilight, passes out every year. All I do is burp—and you’ve got me pegged as a tippler.”
“I have said no such thing,” Otulissa protested. “I was merely giving you the formula to calculate your capacity.”
“Well,” Digger said wearily, “no such formulas are going to be needed this year because it appears that no milkberry wine is being brewed.”
“As a matter of fact,” Otulissa said, “it appears to me that nothing is being done for the Harvest Festival. A big fat nothing!” Otulissa was rarely so unrefined in her pronouncements. The four owls all swiveled their heads toward Soren. He wilfed a bit.
“I know…I know. The Striga is a bit strange. I think we just have to be patient while Coryn figures out what to do with him.” Soren resisted saying how indebted they all were to the blue owl. He did not need to constantly remind them of what he and Pelli owed to the Striga. They knew.
“But what does Coryn say?” Gylfie asked. “He seems sort of listless and distracted since our return from the Middle Kingdom. He should be rejoicing. We escaped the slink melf. The kingdom is intact. Not only that, we have a wonderful new ally in the Middle Kingdom. There is so much to be grateful for and yet he hardly ever comes out of his hollow these days.”
“Got the gollymopes, I’d say,” Digger offered. “Gone all broody on us—and I don’t mean ‘broody’ as in sitting on an egg nest.”
Gylfie blinked. Her yellow eyes grew bright. “You just gave me an idea, Digger!”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Maybe we need to find Coryn a mate. He could use a little romance in his life.”
“Not a bad idea,” Twilight said thoughtfully. “He needs to settle down. Have some companionship in the hollow.”
“Speak for yourself.” Soren laughed. Of all the Band, Soren was the only one who had thus far found a mate.
“Oh, Soren, you know me. I play the sky! I’m not the settling-down type,” Twilight said. The other owls flashed quick, knowing looks to one another. They knew exactly what was coming. “You know me. I’m a product of the Orphan School of Tough Learning. I’d be terrible at coddling hatchlings.”
“I think,” Soren said softly, “you’d be a lot better than you imagine.”
“What in the name of Glaux are those owlets doing?” Otulissa suddenly asked as she caught a glimpse of a half dozen owlets flying around with feathery blue tufts in their talons.
“Oh, it’s something called the Blue Feather Club,” Soren said. “It’s a fad. It will pass. Bell wants Blythe and Bash to join.”
“Is Blythe going to sing at the Harvest Festival, Soren?” Gylfie asked.
“Yes, Madame Plonk says Blythe’s a natural even though she’s not a Snowy. I do hope she gets to sing. She’s been practicing so hard. But…” There was a wistful note in Soren’s voice.
“But what?” Gylfie asked.
“Oh, nothing, nothing really,” Soren replied.
But Gylfie, who knew Soren best of all, sensed that there was something worrying Soren deeply.
CHAPTER TWO
Why a Blue Feather?
Blythe would not be allowed to sing. There would be no bingle juice, no dancing. One would hardly know it was a festival. Worst of all, this was by order of Coryn. “Just this once, that’s all,” Coryn had said. “You know how much we owe him. It seems the right thing to do.” That was Coryn’s reasoning for the pared-down Harvest Festival.
The Band exchanged glances as they perched in Coryn’s hollow, and Coryn looked nervously from one to the other. “You understand, don’t you?”
“Not really,” Twilight replied bluntly.
“Don’t be difficult, Twilight,” Coryn said.
“I am not being difficult. I really don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand where the Striga gets the right,” Gylfie added.
Coryn drew himself up a bit taller and puffed out his chest feathers. “It has nothing to do with rights. Look, do any of us have to be reminded of how awful it was not much more than a year ago during the time of the Golden Tree? The cult of the ember? The Guardians of this tree became obsessed with pomp and ceremony. They began to worship the Ember of Hoole. It was terrible. All that gilt and glitter had nothing to do with being an owl. It was Other-ish. You were the first to say it, Soren.”
Soren blinked. Coryn was right. They should be suspect of ritual. The Striga had roused himself from the jeweled splendor, the listless existence at the Dragon Court. Condemning luxury and pampering, he had endured the extreme pain of stripping out his own excess of feathers. Yes, this owl was definitely wary of excess, of indulgence, of the vulgarities that came with celebrations and festivities. These thoughts ran through Soren’s mind while Coryn spoke. Soren had to admit that it had been extremely astute of Coryn to refer to the time of the Golden Tree and the pernicious consequences of ritual and celebration that had inspired the cult of the ember.
The Band, as they often did, looked to Soren. It was from Soren that they usually took their cue in matters to do with Coryn, for the young king was Soren’s nephew. “You have raised some interesting points, Coryn. For now, we will respect your wishes.”
Twilight blinked, barely disguising the glare in his eyes. “Will there be a Punkie Night?”
“Of course,” Coryn said. Punkie Night was celebrated on the first new moon after the Milkberry Harvest Festival. It was a favorite holiday, especially for fledglings, although grown-up owls got into the spirit almost as much as the young’uns. There were mischief and sweets and masks. Bands of young owls put on masks and flew from the hollow, and, in exchange for sweets, they would sing or do flying acrobatic tricks. Although Twilight was much too old for such frolicking, it didn’t stop him. He was one of the most enthusiastic and raucous punkies. Donning the mask of a Pygmy Owl, he flew about with the fledglings, egging them on with his antics.
“There better be a Punkie Night. What’s life without a bit of punk?” Twilight muttered as he left Coryn’s hollow with the rest of the Band.
Soren was the last to leave. And before he hopped out the port to the branch, he turned to his nephew and blinked several times. “You’re sure about this, are you, Coryn?”
“Yes, Uncle. We must be wary of ritual and ceremony…” Soren was only half listening because something in Coryn’s hollow had caught his attention, something that he had not noticed before. Wedged into one of the niches where Coryn kept some of his favorite things was the tip of a blue feather. Why in the name of Glaux would Coryn keep a molted blue feather? That club is for young’uns. Coryn’s not an owlet.
CHAPTER THREE
An Odd Conversation
Otulissa had not gone to Coryn’s hollow for the conference. In addition to her other duties, which were many, she had temporarily taken on the job of chief librarian when Winifred’s, an ancient Barred Ow
l, arthritis had kicked up. So while the Band had been discussing the Harvest Festival with Coryn, Otulissa was minding the library. This was a job she loved, for it afforded her the opportunity to further her research on a weather-interpretation project she had been pursuing since her return from the Middle Kingdom—windkins and the system of air known as the River of Wind that flowed between the Ga’Hoolian world and the Middle Kingdom. Otulissa’s powers of concentration were great. She did not hear the clutch of little owlets giggling over a joke book nor did she hear the owl approaching the desk where she perched. It was actually the desk of Ezylryb, the late distinguished ryb, scholar, poet, historian, and, once upon a time, great warrior of the tree.
“Ahem.” The owl cleared his throat. Otulissa’s head jerked up from her labors. The blue owl, the Striga, perched before her.
“Oh, so sorry. I was quite absorbed here,” Otulissa said.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
But you did, thought Otulissa. She had little tolerance for the indiscriminate use of words. Wouldn’t it have been better to say simply, “Sorry to disturb you”?
“What is it, might I ask, that absorbs you so?” the Striga asked.
“I have for some time been immersed in a study of weather and air currents. I am a member of the weather-interpretation chaw.”
“Oh,” the Striga said with a jovial note in his voice. “I approve!”
Otulissa blinked. She did not quite understand. “Approve of what?” she cocked her head to one side. What in the name of Glaux is there to approve of? And why should you be the one doing the approving? But she, of course, said none of this aloud.
“I approve of the practical studies such as weather.” He swung his head slowly around. “But not the inessential, the frivolous, the, how should I put it? The heretical texts.”
“Heretical?”
“Yes. You know, the anti-Glaux books such as those the young owlets are giggling over.” He nodded toward the young owls gathered around a desk reading a book with great glee.