The Hatchling

  “Oh, no…please, Mum…just a little more…” They all began pleading for another little bit of the story, and Nyroc felt like joining in. The problem was that young chicks could never concentrate on anything for long so by the next dawn, they might be asking for a completely different story. It might take forever for Nyroc to hear the story of Grank and Hoole and the Ember. Especially the Ember. And he needed to. He was almost desperate in his need to hear the story of Grank and Hoole, and especially the Ember of Hoole. Somehow this story of the coal had something to do with him. He wasn’t sure what, but he had to find out. He would have to wait, however. Story time was over. He yawned sleepily although it was nearly time for him to start hunting. He could see the dawn through the cracks in the rotted stump.

  Hoole is from the time of legends, and the Ember of Hoole was hidden in ancient times by the collier Grank. But Soren lives and the tree is real. Maybe, Nyroc thought, someday I will go to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree and meet my uncle Soren and become a collier.

  Maybe not! said another voice in his head. Nyroc felt his gizzard lurch. He opened one eye halfway and peered out from the hollow in the stump. A gray shadow loomed against the rising sun. The dawn wind drove the tatters of mist, which swirled, then clumped together. Nyroc felt dread in his gizzard as he saw the familiar shape of the horrible mask—first the beak, then the hollow eyes. Just as the sun slipped up over the horizon, breaking like a bloodied yolk low in the sky, the mask seemed to turn molten, a fiery red. The beak moved.

  Maybe not! The two words thundered in Nyroc’s head. His gizzard froze, and he felt himself wilf with a terror he had never known before.

  Suddenly, he heard a loud crack in the sky. Lightning crashed through the forest. There was an enormous explosion, and he heard the screech of owls fleeing from the very tree where the mum had minutes before been reciting the legend of the Coming of Hoole. And they were fleeing from other trees as well. The stump where he had taken refuge for the night was suddenly squirming with the sounds of all manner of small animals fleeing—snakes, rats, and squirrels. The snapping and sizzling of dry wood was deafening. The forest was ablaze. But Nyroc remained in the stump. He could not move once he had peeked out and saw the fire. It was as if he was hypnotized. Huge flames, immense flames reached for the moon, now merely a dim outline in the dawn sky.

  Odd shapes leaped from the flames, shapes of creatures he had never seen before, or so he thought, until he saw the flash of green in the strangely tilting eyes as the four-legged creatures loped through a fiery mist in the middle of the flames. The heat was building fiercely. But Nyroc hardly felt it. The young Barn Owl was entering a state that experienced colliers knew to be the most dangerous of all. He was fire-yeep. As the fire raged with its terrible beauty Nyroc stared, transfixed by the flames. His wings hung heavily at his side. He had no thoughts of flying. He read the fire and its flames. He loved them. He could hear songs in the fire. He was the fire and the fire was he.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A Legend of Coals

  Grank, the first collier, was more than just a collier. He became one of the most revered rybs in Ga’Hoolian history.” Otulissa spoke quietly. The Spotted Owl looked at the students who were listening to her raptly in the library of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree in a late-night predawn class. “He was, in fact, the ryb for our very first King Hoole, and you all know the story of Hoole.” The little owlets nodded. Although Otulissa was a strict, no-nonsense ryb, and most of the owls were quite shy in her presence, they all loved to hear her stories of the very old days. There was a little owl who was not shy, however. She was a very inquisitive little Pygmy Owl who would never let anything stand in the way when she wanted to know something. “Yes, Fritha, you have a question?”

  “Is it true that King Hoole…well, that they knew he was the real king for all of the owl Universe, because he found the Ember of Hoole and could hold it in his beak?”

  “Well, so they say,” Otulissa said. “I mean, that is part of the legend. Before King Hoole discovered it, it was called the Glauxian Coal. It was Grank, the first collier, who found it. He knew it had special powers that could be used or misused. According to the legend, he dropped it into the cone of a volcano to hide it to keep it safe. Although those first colliers could dive into volcanoes, he felt that only the noblest of owls would sense its presence there and retrieve it.”

  “Can colliers still dive into volcanoes? The ones who live in Beyond the Beyond?”

  “Oh, no. That is an art that has been long lost. No owl has dived into a volcano in probably a thousand years.”

  “Not even Ruby?” Fritha asked.

  The little owl was listening intently. She blinked, and the white tufts of feathers that arched over her bright yellow eyes made her look remarkably studious. Ruby was a very powerful collier. A Short-eared Owl, she was known for her spectacular flying.

  “Not even Ruby,” Otulissa said quietly.

  “But what was the Glauxian Coal exactly?” Fritha persisted.

  Otulissa continued, “The Ember of Hoole is said to be a type of bonk coal of extraordinary powers. You all know what bonk coals are?” The owlets nodded. Early on they had been told about bonk coals, which were the hottest coals that a collier could pull from a forest fire and were greatly coveted by all blacksmiths. They had many uses in the making of metal tools. “But according to legend there was only one Ember of Hoole, and when Hoole died, some say it died with him. But others say it was taken to the land of Beyond the Beyond and hidden there.”

  “I heard…” a Great Gray Owl named Buck started to speak.

  “Yes, Buck, please raise a talon before speaking,” Otulissa said.

  Buck raised his talon and continued. “I heard that it’s buried someplace there near a volcano and guarded by dire wolves.”

  “Dire wolves?” Fritha said. “That’s stupid.”

  “Now, now,” Otulissa cautioned. “We maintain a civil discourse here.” All the owls looked blankly at her. They had no idea what “civil discourse” was, but they were pretty sure it was something about not being rude.

  “Well,” continued Fritha. “I only meant to say they are extinct. As in, long gone! No more!”

  “We think they are extinct,” Otulissa replied. When Buck had first mentioned the dire wolves there was a small twinge in Otulissa’s gizzard. Something felt familiar to her, as if she had seen one someplace, but that was ridiculous. Dire wolves were thought to be extinct, and they had never been anywhere near the Island of Hoole. The only place dire wolves had ever been mentioned in connection with was the Beyond the Beyond. Even in the Northern Kingdoms, where they had wolves of all kinds, there had never been any dire wolves.

  Then a Barn Owl raised its talon. “But do you think it could be true at all—not the wolf part, but the legend of the Ember of Hoole?” The young Barn Owl’s black eyes shone with such enthusiasm and hope that Otulissa dearly wanted to say yes, it was true. But all she could say was, “Wensel, it could be true. No one knows for certain, but it could be true.”

  “Could?” Wensel repeated. “Just could?”

  Otulissa nodded. She wished she could say more. It was odd but lately, since she had been teaching the young’uns about the Fire Cycle, Otulissa had been having gizzard disturbances and unsettling dreams. But Otulissa was extremely practical and did not really believe in dreams. Oh, they were all right for some owls like Soren who had starsight. But she did not consider it all that reliable. It was not scientific in the least and Otulissa was a great believer in science. She required facts, evidence, testable results.

  But not only did Otulissa feel that she might have been dreaming more lately, she also had the distinct feeling that the scroom of her old, dearly beloved ryb, Strix Struma, was somehow a part of these dreams. And Otulissa absolutely did not believe in scrooms. Not one bit. She thought they were some kind of optical illusion that grew out of a disorganized or feverish mind. But Otulissa was not disorganized and she had never had a fever, n
ot even when she had been wounded in the great Battle of the Siege.

  Otulissa did not believe that Strix Struma would even possess a scroom, let alone haunt her with it. Of all the owls in the universe, Strix Struma would not be one with an unsettled spirit. There was no possible reason for the scroom of such an owl as Strix Struma to haunt the earth. She had finished her business in this world magnificently, with valor, grace, and courage. She had led a full life.

  But nonetheless, there were times of late when Otulissa had begun to wonder. And then there was the issue of the Fire Cycle. Why had she begun after all these years to see the legends in a new light? Why had they started to disturb her in some strange way? It was as if these legends had a special significance, a meaning just for her. Was she somehow reading between the lines? Was there some message encoded in these writings just for her? Each time she read them, she felt a new sense of urgency and yet despair. Why? Why? Why? It was as if the stories of the cycle were echoes of some long-forgotten dream she had had. Impossible. She never dreamed.

  Twixt time was upon them. It would be the hour of breaklight in the dining hollow and then on to their own hollows for rest. Otulissa wasn’t hungry and was not inclined to go chatting it up in the dining hollow this dawn. So, after leaving the young owlets, she retired directly to her own hollow, passing Mrs. Plithiver, the elderly nest-maid snake of Soren and Eglantine, in a hallway.

  “What, no breaklight for you, Otulissa?” Mrs. P. asked.

  “No, Mrs. P. I thought I’d just hit the moss.”

  The nest-maid’s head swiveled around and followed Otulissa. Although nest-maids were blind, they were known for their refined sensibilities, and Mrs. Horace Plithiver possessed some of the most refined sensibilities imaginable. She had noticed for the last few days that Otulissa had been out of sorts and although she was only a snake—and snakes did not have scrooms—she could have sworn she sometimes felt fine, scroomish vibrations circling about Otulissa.

  As the morning light filtered into the hollow, Otulissa tossed restlessly in her sleep. This was a dream, and she could not escape it. She saw fire and flames. The songs of the Fire Cycle wove through her brain. Her gizzard twitched madly. But even in this daymarish sleepscape, Otulissa struggled to remain rational and calm. This is just a bad dream, she told herself. It has more to do with indigestion than dreaming. It must have been that sugar glider they served at tweener, or the roasted bat wings. You know you can’t eat roasted bat wings, Otulissa! she scolded herself in her sleep. It always upsets your stomachs—both of them. I must go tell cook not to take offense if I don’t eat the bat wings. I do love that barbecue sauce, though.

  Only Otulissa would think of apologizing to the cook in the midst of a bad dream!

  When the dream finally ebbed, and she at last escaped into sleep for the few hours of the day that were left, it was still not a peaceful sleep. And when she rose before tweener, she felt completely exhausted and for the first time ever she could almost remember the blurry outlines of her dream. She peered at herself in the fragment of looking glass. “Great Glaux, I look a sight!” she muttered. Well, perhaps a good tweener would set her up. Thank goodness, she had her lesson prepared for the young’uns. But then she remembered what the lesson was: the Fire Cycle, part two. “Racdrops,” she swore softly. Otulissa hardly ever swore, but she was definitely not inclined to discuss the Fire Cycle this evening. She had had enough of it during her turbulent sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Spirit Woods

  Otulissa! That is the name! Her name is Otulissa.” And with that, Nyroc broke from his hollow, which had become thick with smoke in the blazing forest. He rose through the columns of flames, finding drafts on which he could surge upward. And although this young owl had never been trained as a collier, he had all of the instincts of one. He rode the hot spires of air that sliced like knives through the night. He had a natural sense of where the air suddenly cooled to what colliers called a “dead drop,” which could drag an unobservant owl straight down to the ground.

  Then an ember whizzed by and he caught it in midflight, an amazingly difficult feat that took most colliers many seasons of experience in forest fires to master. If an old collier had seen him, he would have exclaimed, “By Glaux! You’d think he’d been trained by Grank himself.” For indeed, he had what was often called a Grankish style of flight, slicing the air with wings hunched slightly forward and angled down. This was called the “reverse Grank sheer” and could help a collier spin around the fringe of a rising crown of embers and snap off the best ones.

  But it was all instinct with Nyroc. He did not even know the terms for what he was doing as he flew through the flames—reverse Grank sheers, catching the ember crowns. No, he was not even thinking about this. He was looking down into the flames and thinking about the Spotted Owl named Otulissa. Once she had dissolved from his dream like dewdrops in the morning sun, but now he could almost see her, feel her. At first, he was sure it was she and she was calling to him. But then he realized it was another Spotted Owl, an elderly one. And he saw the image of this older one clearly now in the flames. Could she be a scroom? He had never heard of a good scroom before. But this one he could trust. He sensed it deep in his gizzard. He was seeing her in the flames. He was reading her. She was no hagsfiend, no hagsmire-bent scroom. No, this scroom was all goodness, glaumora-sent.

  Follow me! Follow me! the scoom’s voice sounded in his brain.

  He looked down. The fire had vanished, but the voice guided him on. Indeed, he was no longer in Silverveil. They were northeast of Silverveil. He could see the Sea of Hoolemere. Was she taking him to the Island of Hoole, to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree?

  No. The clipped but kindly voice filled his head.

  He looked down. They were flying over a peninsula and beneath them was a very strange forest. Nyroc had not seen many trees or forests in his short life, but even he could tell this one was most peculiar. All the trees had white bark and not one tree had a single leaf on it. It was a dark and moonless night. But it might as well have been day, for this forest with its white-barked trees seemed to glow. Then within the glow of these woods an eerie intensity gathered into a luminous shape. And within that luminosity there were brighter points of light that twinkled with a shimmering beauty. The luminous shape rose until Nyroc realized that hovering before him in midair was the Spotted Owl he had read in the flames and whose voice had guided him to this strange place. She was composed entirely of light. He felt himself float down from where he had been flying and perch on some invisible branch in the ghostly woods.

  What is this place? he asked.

  A spirit wood, came the answer. Once again, the voices, his own and that of the scroom, could not be heard aloud but remained sealed in his head. Nyroc felt a dim tweak of fear pulse through his gizzard. It is a scroom!

  But not like the one who has haunted you. This is a spirit wood and a spirit wood will not harbor evil scrooms. It is the only place the evil ones cannot enter.

  But why are you here? Why am I here? Nyroc asked.

  We must wait.

  Wait for whom? Nyroc silently asked.

  I think you know.

  I do?

  Think, Nyroc, think.

  Otulissa?

  The scroom nodded. You saw her in the flames, didn’t you? She will help you complete your journey.

  But what is my journey?

  I cannot tell you that. You must find that out for yourself.

  But what am I to do? And if I must find it out for myself, why should Otulissa come here?

  To and from, the Spotted Owl said cryptically, and her spots twinkled with such intensity that Nyroc had to blink. It was as if he were looking directly into the sun.

  To and from? he asked. But the scroom did not reply. But what am I to do?

  The scroom took a long time before she answered. You know what you must do. I was hoping that she would come here to help guide you. But she is a stubborn one. Her head often gets in t
he way of her gizzard. She cannot believe what she cannot see or prove.

  But what of the dire wolves? Nyroc was surprised by his own words.

  Yes, exactly. So, you know about them. You saw them in the flames, didn’t you? the scroom asked, and Nyroc nodded. He hadn’t realized until this moment that those loping creatures with the slanting green eyes he had seen in the flames were actually dire wolves.

  She doesn’t believe in them or in dreams or in scrooms.

  Nyroc knew she was speaking of the owl named Otulissa.

  But you know scrooms exist, don’t you, young’un?

  Nyroc nodded. This has something to do with the Ember, the Ember of Hoole, doesn’t it? And something I must do.

  But the glowing scroom of Strix Struma had begun to fade. The spots twinkling just seconds before seemed to blur. Watch for her, Nyroc, the scroom said. Watch for Otulissa.

  Now a fog bank rolled in from the Sea of Hoolemere and enfolded the luminous shape into its thick roiling vapors. She was gone. Nyroc felt something slide together within the deepest part of his gizzard. There was a soft jolt as one part of his being rejoined the other. He peered down. The toes of his talons were wrapped firmly around the white limb of a tree.

  He looked to where the fog bank had rolled back out to sea. Did he hear a thin voice whispering to him, “Glauxspeed, young’un”?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dire Wolves

  It was midafternoon at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree when Otulissa entered the library. The entire tree was sound asleep. She picked this time to do her research because she didn’t want anyone sticking their beaks into her business. But she aimed to find out all she could about dire wolves. Were they just the stuff of legends or had they ever truly existed? It seemed strange to her that books on both legends and science were next to one another on the shelves. She didn’t quite approve. In Otulissa’s well-organized mind, the two were entirely separate divisions of knowledge. One had nothing to do with the other. One could be proven through experimentation; the other could not. Yet both were valuable for exercises in the development of the mind and gizzard. Their purposes were different: The intent of science was to give insight to the natural history of the earth and its creatures. The purpose of legend was to challenge the imagination and develop the finer sensibilities of the gizzard.