Authors: Kathryn Lasky
O
n this same night, another pair of owls were winging across the Sea of Hoolemere. Desperation filled them, their gizzards quivered in disgust. Their progress was slow, as the load that Otulissa and Fritha carried was a heavy one. Suspended beneath them in their talons were botkins of scrolls and strapped to their backs were books, smaller books in Fritha’s case for she was a Pygmy Owl and too small to carry anything large on her back. Adding to their burden was an unfavorable wind. They would be lucky if they could make Cape Glaux by daybreak. Otulissa would have welcomed more help but it would have only aroused suspicion. She had planned this operation meticulously, ever since that dreadful night when they had discovered the missing books. The first thing she had done was to go to Octavia in Ezylryb’s hollow. Her mind replayed the scene that had transpired there.
“We have a problem.” Otulissa had hardly begun to speak when Octavia interrupted her.
“Don’t I know it!” the old snake hissed.
“The Striga’s been here?” Otulissa was gripped with panic.
“Yes, but he didn’t get anything.”
“What did he ask for?”
“The legends, the songs,
The History of the Ice Claw Wars, Volumes One and Two
.” Octavia was referring to the original manuscripts that Ezylryb had written under the name of Lyze of Kiel. These were locked in a secret compartment in the hollow that few knew about.
Otulissa sighed. “He got the copies of the songs we have in the library and a few other books as well.”
“What are you going to do, Otulissa? Confront him?”
“Not yet.” Otulissa had thought about this briefly on her way to see Octavia. She feared that this owl, this blue thing, had more followers than she might imagine. Possibly some in the tree, for there were some new owls. But there were always new owls coming to the tree, few to stay, most to study for limited periods of time. But she worried that there might be more followers of the Striga on the mainland. She wasn’t sure exactly what he was offering them. But he was undoubtedly a curiosity,
exotic, intriguing from his blue feathers to his silky voice with its Jouzhen accent. So Otulissa had bided her time, but she was not perching idly, twiddling her talons. More books were discovered to be missing. She had sneaked into the guest hollow where the Striga was staying one time when she knew he was in deep conversation with Coryn—this growing relationship between Coryn and the Striga worried her to no end—and, while in his hollow, discovered in his fire grate the singed fragments of parchment and paper. A couple of words were still decipherable—“splat,” “seagull,” “wet.” She immediately recognized the pages from the wet poop chapter in
Slightly Filthy Riddles for Soiled Minds
that she had read after the Striga had come into the library and blathered on, praising Otulissa for the practical nature of her work. She recalled his unctuous voice. “Flattery!” The word had exploded in her head as she stood over the scraps of singed paper. It hadn’t been praise at all, she realized, but shameless flattery.
Things from that moment on began to fall into place for Otulissa. Had not the Striga himself said, when describing the Dragon Court, that the fuel that fired it was vanity. But that fuel had to be ignited by something, and the kindling of that vanity was flattery delivered every minute of every hour, night in and night out, by the servants. “Oh,
good Glaux,” Otulissa whispered to herself in a kind of stunned horror, “that is what he was trying to do to me.” And, she realized, what he had been doing to Coryn. How clever he was!
It was then in the Striga’s hollow when she discovered the burnt scraps of paper that she began to formulate her plan. The first part of it involved removing the most treasured books to a temporary hiding place. One by one, they would move them. The second stage would be transporting them to the Palace of Mists. Hopefully, the Band would return by the time she was back and they could decide how to rid the tree of this dangerous owl.
Otulissa looked up at the stars to check their course, then glanced over at Fritha, who seemed to be flying a bit unevenly. She sensed that the young Pygmy Owl was tiring. Fritha was so fired up about going to the Palace of Mists that Otulissa knew that she would never admit to being tired. Very few owls in the great tree knew about it, even though they owed it much. Fritha, who was smart beyond her years and had suspected another library someplace for a while, was thrilled to be finally going there. She could hardly believe her great luck, although it was a result of a horrendous crime.
Otulissa had confided her plan to only two other owls—Pelli and Bubo. Pelli, it turned out, was very
alarmed by what she had heard when Blythe and Bash had reported the activities of the Blue Feather Club. She had been about to insist that Bell return the feather but Otulissa prevailed upon her not to as it might arouse the suspicions of the Striga. Pelli nearly fell off her perch when Otulissa had told her about the book burnings. “Who could have ever imagined! And to think that he was the one who rescued my daughter! What should we do?” Otulissa had said that she must not let on that she was worried to any of her children and, least of all, the Striga.
“You must play this very cool, Pelli. It is the only way we can hope to be safe until the Band is back.”
“But Coryn! How could Coryn…?” She hadn’t finished the sentence.
All this came back to Otulissa as she flew across the Sea of Hoolemere. “Land ho!” she said, turning to Fritha. The scratchy outline of Cape Glaux appeared on the horizon just as the sky began to lighten. The wind died. The sea grew so still that from the altitude at which they were flying it looked like an enameled surface painted with the first pink streaks of the dawn, twixt time.
O
ne more story, Mum. Please?” Bash begged. It was past First Light and time for all the owls of the great tree to go to sleep. Pelli was exhausted.
I’m this tired
, she thought,
and there has been no real Harvest Festival
. It was amazing how anxiety could just wring every ounce of energy from an owl. She did not want to betray her worry to the young’uns. Earlier that night she had met with Coryn. He had requested that she come to his hollow. In the presence of the Striga he read her a note he had received from the Band saying that they had found it necessary to extend their expedition on the mainland. They had been frustrated in their attempts to track the windkins and needed more time. When she asked if Soren had included a note for her, the Striga answered very quickly that there was no such note. And then rather casually, too casually, he nodded his head and gave a meaningful glance to Coryn.
“You know the Band. They keep to themselves. Often exclude those to whom they owe the most.”
“I don’t understand what you mean. I am Soren’s mate. He would write to me.” Pelli did not want to be too pushy. She must play it cool, as Otulissa had cautioned.
“It seems that their first loyalty is always to one another,” the Striga said, again with another glance at Coryn.
“I, too, sometimes feel excluded, Pelli,” Coryn said sympathetically. Pelli shook her head. It wasn’t that she felt excluded. This note from the Band somehow did not feel right to her. She worried about it for the rest of the evening and was still worrying about it as twixt time approached and she was tucking the three B’s in for the day.
“Just one more story,” Blythe echoed Bash. “I love them so much.” Pelli had been reading them some owlet stories based on the legend cycles. They were compelling tales, and Primrose had adapted several for young’uns. Wensel, a very talented young Barn Owl, had illustrated them with quill ink drawings. Pelli noticed that Bell was the only one of her three daughters who had not demanded another. She turned her head to look at the young owl who was feigning sleep, and wondered.
I love them, too
, Bell was thinking.
So much, especially the
parts about the wolves of the Beyond. But what would the Striga think?
That’s what the Striga said they should ask when they were in doubt. They should hold their blue feather close and ask, “What would the Striga think?” But she couldn’t reach for her blue feather because then they would know she was not asleep.
Oh, what to do? Does it really hurt me to listen to this?
she wondered. “All right,” she heard her mum say. “One more…”
Her mother’s voice threaded through the milky light that washed into the hollow as the sun rose.
“‘In the strange, distant region known as Beyond the Beyond with its clans of dire wolves was one wolf by the name of Fengo, who became a good and great friend of Grank the first collier’…”
By the time their mother finished the story, the young owlets of Pelli and Soren were fast asleep. Pelli retreated to her corner of the hollow and took up a book she had been reading. It was about King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table. Much as Pelli loved the story, she could not concentrate on it. She was worried about Coryn. Since the Band left, he ate alone in his hollow and she had seen him haunting the emptiest branches, gazing into the night sky as if looking for answers. And he was growing thinner. He seemed almost crippled by melancholy. The Others called this condition melancholia, which was far beyond
what owls called the gollymopes. Coryn took no joy from life. How could he feel this way here in this magnificent tree on this little piece of Glaux-given earth in the middle of the Hoolemere Sea? Pelli hopped over to the port of the hollow and peered out. Through the shimmering strands of the copper-rose milkberry vines, the daytime world seemed to glow, and beyond the vines she could see patches of the Hoolemere Sea sparkling like jewels. She looked down at the book of legends, which she had left open. There was a magnificent picture of a dire wolf glimmering in a pool of moonlight. That was art, not some proof of vanity. How could Coryn see only sadness and vanity in such a world?
At the same hour of the day that Pelli contemplated the melancholy of Coryn, the young king was alone in his hollow staring fixedly at the spot where the Ember of Hoole had once sat in its teardrop-shaped iron case. It had been so dangerous, having the ember in his hollow. Merely being in the presence of its radiance had made Coryn think strange things. Coryn feared his own vulnerability to the radiance of the ember and often felt unequal to its power. The Band and those close to Coryn had noticed his moodiness around it. Their concern had
prompted Otulissa to suggest removing the ember to the ordinary coal pits in Bubo’s forge. There, surrounded by other embers, it seemed to be insulated and less able to disturb the owls around it. The whereabouts of the coal was a secret, a deep secret to all but Coryn, Otulissa, the Band, and Bubo, of course. It had been a wonderful solution.
However, in the last few days, the Striga had been pressing Coryn for information about the ember. He had not asked for it directly but he had been very disappointed that Coryn had not been more forthcoming with information.
“I sense,” he had said that morning as he visited Coryn in his hollow, “that you are holding something back.” Coryn had not replied. “Coryn,” he persisted, “there should be no secrets between us.”
“Yes, I know,” Coryn had said, but did not look straight into those pale eyes from which a stream of weak yellow light flowed. “I feel terrible,” Coryn added. But the Striga said nothing. His silence, which seemed to stretch endlessly, made Coryn feel even worse.
Finally, the Striga spoke. “I shall depart this evening on a contemplative journey.”
“A scouring one?” Coryn asked.
“Yes, there will be some of that, because it is only when I tear out my own feathers that I can hope to understand this strange impasse at which you and I have arrived.”
Coryn felt a deep ache in his gizzard. He groaned. “No,” he whispered.
“Coryn,” the Striga said patiently. “This will give us both time to reflect. I have failed you in some way. Perhaps away from the great tree and its vanities, I shall gain some insight.”
“It’s not your fault!” Coryn said almost desperately. But there was no discouraging the blue owl. He left just after tween time. And with each passing hour, Coryn slipped deeper and deeper into a sadness that seemed nearly bottomless. And his sadness seemed contagious. For although during this season of the Copper Rose, the nights had been clear, the stars sharp and brilliant in the sky, and the days bright with sunshine, a gloom seemed to have wrapped itself around the tree like a thin mist. The silence that had prevailed during the Harvest Festival continued. Mysteriously, several strings of the grass harp were broken and had not yet been repaired. So there was no singing or harp guild practice. It was as if life’s energy was slowly seeping out of the tree.
A
lthough the weather on the Island of Hoole was perfect, with calm seas and flawless skies, such was not the case as one approached the mainland. For several days, cantankerous winds and sudden autumn squalls had buffeted the coastline beyond Cape Glaux and well into the interior. Otulissa and Fritha’s flight with the books had taken longer than they had expected. Fritha was tiny even for a Pygmy Owl, but she was an excellent flier and never complained. There was something in this young owl that reminded Otulissa of herself. She possessed a steely determination in the face of difficult odds. At last the two owls had made it to the Palace of Mists and were now perched in the library, exhausted, their botkins deposited on the table. Bess, a Boreal Owl, was helping them unstrap the books from their backs.
“All right, now what is all this about?” Bess asked. She was utterly bewildered. Never had she seen this Spotted
Owl so out of sorts. Otulissa had been thinking how she would explain all of this to her. Bess was strange. Reclusive. She rarely left the Palace of Mists. First and foremost, Bess was a scholar. She had learned the Jouzhen language of the Middle Kingdom and was fairly fluent now. Long before that, she had also learned the language of the Others and enjoyed translating their books for the great tree. But for all her learning, she was not a particularly worldly owl. She lived alone and knew little of the surrounding regions.
Otulissa began: “You know about the blue owl that saved Soren’s Bell and alerted us to the slink melf and all that, right?”
“Yes.” Bess nodded.
“Well, that same blue owl, who calls himself ‘Striga,’ or rather ‘the Striga,’” Otulissa’s facial disk contracted as she said this, and the dark patches that were on either side of her beak seemed to pucker. “The Striga,” she repeated, and continued. “Unfortunately, this blue owl is having a bad influence on the tree, especially on Coryn.”
“For example?”
“For example, the blue owl is obsessed with what he calls vanities. Excesses, decorations, festivals. There was no Harvest Festival this year.”
“Coryn agreed to this?”
Otulissa nodded.
“And why did you bring these books?” Bess said, casting her eyes on the ones that Otulissa and Fritha had just set down. “He claims books are vain?”
Otulissa nodded again, took a step closer, and whispered, “He burns books!”
Bess staggered, blinked, and seemed to have difficulty catching her breath. She had known there had to be a good reason for Otulissa to bring this young Pygmy Owl with her. Otulissa and the Band were sensitive to her reclusive ways.
“Are you all right?” Otulissa said, leaning forward, listening to the Boreal Owl’s labored breathing.
“No, I am not all right!” The mist from the great falls against which the palace was built swirled into the library. “Who could be all right on hearing this?” She recovered her breath. “So that is why you brought the books.”
“Our most precious ones,” Otulissa replied, and then explained how books had begun disappearing from the library, and how she had sneaked into the Striga’s hollow and found the burnt scraps of a joke book. “And I am not sure if he is confining his activities to the great tree. I have a feeling that he might actually be doing most of his burning on the mainland. He makes many trips away from the tree for what he calls contemplative journeys
or meditative retreats. Since the Great Flourishing more owls read than ever before. More animals of all sorts read. With the press up and running, well, there are simply more books around.”
“Around to be burned,” Bess said grimly.
“Yes,” Otulissa replied.
“This is truly awful.” Bess sighed. “Given how I live, the solitary life I pursue, it is not surprising I had not heard of this.” She blinked. A horrified light filled her eyes. “Otulissa, it is more important than ever that the Palace of Mists remains a secret.” There was a raw desperation in the Boreal Owl’s voice.
“Yes,” said Otulissa. What, indeed, would happen if the beautiful old stone palace deep in the Shadow Forest was discovered? What then?
Unbeknownst to the Striga when he left the great tree, he had been followed at a very discreet distance by Doc Finebeak. The Snowy was a tracker of great repute and the new mate of Madame Plonk. Doc Finebeak was as angry and upset as he ever had been. The frinkin’ blue owl had convinced Coryn to forbid Doc’s mate, the magnificent singer of the great tree, to sing. And then shortly after this there was the trouble with the grass harp’s strings. When Plonkie, as those closest to her affectionately called
her, could not sing, she sank into a terrible spell of the gollymopes. It was just so wrong. He wanted to know what this blue creature—a very poor excuse for an owl in Doc Finebeak’s mind—was up to.
So he followed him. The blue owl was a strong flier, given the threadbare condition of his wings. But he was noisy and messy, leaving several clues in his flight track. Doc Finebeak eased himself into the flight groove of the blue owl and followed it right into The Barrens, a treeless landscape due north of Ambala. As with many such landscapes, there were signs of Burrowing Owls. These owls preferred living in ground nests or burrows that they dug with their strong, long, featherless legs. Although the land appeared empty, Finebeak knew there were plenty of places for the Striga to hide. He soon noticed that some other owls had joined the Striga, and he observed that they all sported a single blue feather tucked somewhere into their plumage.
They soon lighted down in an area that Finebeak knew as the “boulder garden.” There were many immense boulders that extended for a distance in every direction. Burrowing Owls liked to burrow underneath large rocks and boulders; perhaps it made them feel fortified to have their holes right up against the stone. Doc wasn’t sure, but he was able to creep close enough to listen in.
“You say that right here there are offenders?” the blue owl asked one of the others.
“Yes, Striga. Vanities abound.”
“I would think that in this barren land, there would be no fripperies or ornamentation.”
“It ain’t ornamentation so much as books,” said a Horned Owl. “Ever since that printing press got started, them books—why, they’s like a blight, a disease that’s spreading.”
“Yes, it spreads,” said the blue owl. “I think we need to strike now. Make an example. You say you have a target, an offending burrow?”
“Yes, sir,” said a Screech Owl. “Not a quarter league from here and we already found a good pyre.”
Pyre
, thought Doc Finebeak.
What in hagsmire is a pyre?
He had never heard that word. He felt something crinkle in his gizzard. He suddenly had the most dreadful feeling that a pyre might be a haggish sort of thing. He was crouching behind a bramble of cotton bush. The soft white fuzzy buds opened at this time of the year and provided a perfect camouflage for the Snowy.
What is going on here?
he wondered.
Doc Finebeak would learn all too soon as half a dozen of the twentysome owls gathered rushed into a burrow not far from where Doc was concealed.
“Kalo!!!” An anguished scream split the air. Then pandemonium struck. Owls from nearby burrows poured out. Cries of “It’s the Blue Brigade! The Blue Brigade!” came from all sides.
“You were given a warning to turn in your books or be raided,” the Striga addressed the crowd. “Prepare to light the pyre.”
Now Doc Finebeak saw exactly what a pyre was. How clever! This blue owl and his helpers were using plants that grew here naturally to make a fire. There was a large huckleberry bush and right next to it an immense creosote bush, two of the most combustible plants in the entire Southern Kingdoms. And since there were no trees in this region, there was no threat of forest fires. But still, fire was fire and it could destroy. Finebeak watched in horror as the objects for destruction were ferreted out from the surrounding burrows. The owls of this Blue Brigade came out with scrolls, books, and the occasional sparkly bauble.
“Kalo, let go of it. It’s not worth it,” Burrowing Owl shouted. “Please, Kalo.”
A lovely-looking Burrowing Owl stood in the center of the clearing, clutching a book in her talons. “I just got this book! It
is
worth it,” Kalo protested. A Great Horned with a blue feather stuck right between his horn tufts was wrenching the book from her.
“What’s the problem here, Field Marshal Cram?” The Striga lighted down.
“Oh, we get one of these book huggers now and again. Won’t let go.”
“What sort of book is it?” the Striga asked, wondering if it might be a study of something useful like metallurgy and worthy of sparing.
“Looks like a legend of sorts,” Cram said.
“Take it away from her,” the Striga ordered harshly. “What about fripperies?”
“Some pearls. They look valuable,” Field Marshal Cram said, holding up a strand of pink pearls.
“They are!” the owl named Kalo said. “Genuine saltwater pearls. Take them. Just leave me my book!”
“Books, pearls, it makes no difference!” the Great Horned said.
“Let her keep her book,” another owl said. He was younger than Kalo, but not young enough to be her son.
“Coryn, stay back,” Kalo commanded.
“Did you say ‘Coryn’?!” The blue owl wilfed, as did his companions.
“Yes,” replied Kalo. “Although sometimes we call him Cory.” Planting her long, slender, featherless legs in the ground, she drew herself up to her full height, which was
impressive. “My brother was named for our king.” The nearly horizontal band of white feathers across the top of her brown head framed her yellow eyes, giving them a powerful intensity. Doc was impressed with this Kalo. She could certainly stand up to a threat.
“That’s blasphemy—using the name of our revered king,” the Striga spat.
“I knew the king when he was but a lad and I was a lass. We were both young’uns.” A quiet had settled on the owls. “When he was not a king but an outcast.” Kalo extended her wing and gently touched her brother’s shoulder with the tip. “He saved my mother’s egg. And from that egg came Coryn.”
“Da, what is happening to Mummy?” a little hatch-ling screeched from where she crouched between her father’s legs.
“Hush, Siv,” Kalo said.
“Siv?” The blue owl blinked. “I’ve heard that name. Who is she?”
“A queen. A queen from long, long ago in the time of the legends and these are her stories.” Kalo was standing on one leg, balancing perfectly as Burrowing Owls could, and with her other talon she clutched to her breast the book entitled
Siv, a Queen’s Tale
.
Doc blinked away tears. This was some owl, this Kalo!
The Striga opened his beak wide and cried out, “Ignite!” There was a great explosion and the creosote bush erupted into a ball of fire. The Striga ripped the book from Kalo’s talons.
“Who ordered this…this insanity?” Kalo cried above the roar of the flames.
“Your precious king, madam, your precious king!” the Striga said.
What!
Doc Finebeak thought.
Has the entire world gone yoicks?
And as if to confirm this, he heard a triumphant, maniacal hooting overhead. A formation of owls from the Blue Brigade was flying over the pyre. Each owl carried a book and dropped it into the fire. The flames seemed to reach up for the books, craving them, thirsting for them, and as each book dropped, the fire raged more fiercely. Random white pages fluttered up like scorched doves, the edges of their wings turning black and curling up until the page was consumed and disintegrated into a swirl of ash.
Doc Finebeak observed it all. He could not tear his eyes away, he felt that he should not. There must be a witness to this horror. His gizzard was in turmoil as he noted every sickening little detail. Just before a book caught the flames, when it was still fresh to the fire, it was
seized with a series of odd little movements. Its pages, stirred by the heated wind, began to turn by themselves. The glue in the spines burbled and thin tendrils of dark smoke rose. And finally the edges of the pages darkened to amber. The amber turned to black, and then the book consumed itself. Some books, perhaps newer ones in which the glue was fresher, simply exploded.
Doc Finebeak finally turned his gaze from the fire and looked in a mixture of horror and curiosity upon the face of the Striga. Nearly featherless now, the puckered skin was bathed in the shifting orange light of the flames. His yellow eyes glimmered and his beak hung open as he watched, transfixed by the terrible beauty of this forest of flames.
“He’s mad,” Doc Finebeak murmured.
I must take Plonkie far away, as far away as possible
, he thought.
Maybe to the Northern Kingdoms, who knows? She could become a gad-feather. Those are her roots
. And the Snowy knew that if they were burning books now, what would be next, owls? And the first owls to be burned would probably be artists, great artists like Madame Plonk, the love of his life.