Mrs. P. coiled up and c.o.c.ked her head in that particularly sympathetic way she had. "Soren," she spoke softly and there was something in the very softness of her voice that brought tears to his eyes. "Soren, dear boy, I know you are sorry, but I don't think that is why you are here."

"It's not?" Soren was dumbfounded. But she was right. That really wasn't why he was here. He knew it as soon as she had said it. Yet he was still confused. "Whyawhy," he stammered, "am I here?"

"I think it has to do with your sister, Eglantine."

As soon as she said it, Soren knew that she was right. He missed his parents terribly but he did not worry about his parents. Eglantine, however, was another story. Mrs. P. had her suspicions about Kludd. These suspicions deepened when Kludd threatened to eat her. Still, she was not sure if Eglantine had been s.n.a.t.c.hed or not. Eglantine had simply disappeared.

"It's the not knowing, isn't it, that's so hard. Not knowing if Eglantine is dead or alivea"

"Or imprisoned," Soren said.

"Yes, dear. I know."

"And if she is dead, it doesn't help me one bit to think of her being in glaumora if I am here and she is there."

"No, of course not. She's too young to be in glaumora."

"Mrs. P., I know that St. Aegolius Academy for Orphan Owls is the most terrible place. But remember what the dying Barred Owl said about," Soren dropped his voice, "the *you only wish'a"

"Hush now, dear."

Soren simply couldn't stop himself. "Have you heard anything else about the *you only wish'?"

Mrs. Plithiver waved her head about in a small figure eight, which was the manner in which blind snakes often moved when they could not quite decide what to say or do. Soren peered at her closely. Was something leaking out of the small dents where her eyes would have been? Soren suddenly felt terrible. "I'm sorry, Mrs. P. I won't speak of this again."

"No, dear. Come to me whenever you want to talk about Eglantine. I think it will help you, but let's not get carried away about rumors of terrible places. I have a feeling deep within me that Eglantine is not dead. Now, I cannot tell you more than that, but I think, together, we can hope. Hope is never a foolish thinga"although others will tell you it is. But I don't need to tell you that, Sorena"look at yourself. You were s.n.a.t.c.hed and you taught yourself to fly and you escaped from that awful St. Aggie's. You flew straight out of those deep stone canyons and right into the Yonder. Anyone who flies out of a stone hole into the Yonder knows about hope."

It was always this way when Soren spoke with Mrs. P. She always made him feel so much better. It was just as if a clean rain had washed away all of the worry and the sadness. Yes, he still missed his parents. He would always miss his parents, and he would never get used to it, but Mrs. P. had given him hope about Eglantine, and this alone made him feel so much better. He decided to take the outside route back to his hollow. The day guard on this side of the tree was very nice and wouldn't mind that he had gone down to see his old nest-maid. And there weren't any real rules at the Great Ga'Hoole Tree about having to stay in your hollow asleep all day until the wake-up calls of good night. So he stepped out on a branch and lifted into flight, swooping through the spreading limbs of the old tree. Yes, Mrs. P. was right. He could see the beginnings of the new milkberries forming on the long glistening threads they called silver rain at this time of the year.

These slim vines cascaded down from branches of the Great Ga'Hoole Tree and swayed like sheer curtains in the afternoon sun. In winter, they were white and then in spring they turned silvery, by summer they would be golden, and by fall they would turn a deep coppery rose. Thus, in Ga'Hoole, the seasons were not simply called winter, summer, spring, and fall, but the times of the white rain, the silver rain, the golden rain, and the rain of the copper rose. For the young owls, there was nothing more fun than to fly amid the glistening curtains. Therefore they had developed all sorts of games to be played. But on this bright afternoon, everyone was asleep so Soren found himself alone. Rain must have just fallen for the vines sparkled with beads of water and behind one curtain he caught the shimmering colors of a rainbow.

"Lovely, isn't it?" A voice melted like a chime out of the silver rain. It was Madame Plonk, the harp singer, who sang them to sleep each morning. She was a Snowy Owl and, as she sailed through the silver rain, Soren blinked in amazement, for he had never seen such a beautiful sight. She was no longer snowy white but indeed had become a living, flying rainbow. All colors seemed to radiate from her plumage.

Soren wished that one of the chaws of the Great Ga'Hoole Tree could be learning the harp and singing from Madame Plonk. But the pluckers of the harp were never owls, only blind snakes. And the only ones trained to sing were direct descendants of the Plonk line of Snowy Owls.

They flew, weaving themselves through the vines and the hues of the rainbow for a few more minutes. Then Madame Plonk said, "Time for me to go, dear. Wake-up time. Evensong must be sung. I see the snakes coming out now, making their way toward the harp. Can't be late. But I've so enjoyed our afternoon flight. We'll do it again sometime. Or drop by for a cup of milkberry tea."

Soren wondered if he would ever have the nerve to just"drop by" Madame Plonk's for a cup oftea. What would he ever have to say to such a beautiful and elegant owl? Flying was one thing, but sitting and talking was another. Soren saw dozens of rosy-scaled blind snakes crawling up to the hollow where the harp was kept. Soon the Great Ga'Hoole Tree would begin to awake and stir to the lovely harmonies of Evensong. For twilight was upon them.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Books of the Yonder

Now, young ones, please follow me as we explore the wondrous root structure of our dear tree. You see where the roots b.u.mp up from the ground." It was the Ga'Hoolology ryb, a boring old Burrowing Owl.

"Here's one."

"Oh, yes, Otulissa. A perfect example."

"Here's one," Gylfie mimicked Otulissa. "She has the most annoying voice."

"Now if we can find a pellet or if someone would care to yarp one, I shall demonstrate the proper burying technique. Pellets properly buried nourish the tree," the ryb continued.

"Oh, I'll find you one," Otulissa quickly volunteered and bustled off.

"This is the most borrring cla.s.s," sighed Soren. They had been stomping around the base of the Great Ga'Hoole Tree all during twilight.

"I don't think it's that bad," said Digger. Digger, of course, being a Burrowing Owl, preferred ground activities.

"I don't know what I'll do if I am tapped for Ga'Hoolol-ogy," Twilight muttered.

"You? Never," Soren said, but he was secretly worried that he might be. He realized that knowing about the tree was important. The Ga'Hoolology ryb constantly drummed this into them just as she was doing now. "The Great Ga'Hoole Tree has thrived and flourished for these thousands of years because the owls have been such excellent stewards of this little piece of earth that the Great Glaux gave them." Twilight began to mouth the words as she said them.

"That is so rude," Otulissa hissed.

"Oh, go yarp a pellet!" Twilight barked back.

"What's that? Someone has a pellet to yarp? Twilight dear, come up here. I believe I heard you say you had a little gift to bestow on our Great Ga'Hoole Tree."

Cla.s.s finally ended an hour before First Black. There was still time to go to the library. This was Soren and Gyl-fie's favorite place in the old tree. The two young owls had a special fondness for libraries that went beyond the wonderful books that they were now learning how to read. At St. Aegolius Academy, the library had been strictly off-limits to everyone except for Skench and Spoorn, the two brutal owls who ran the orphanage. No one knew how to read at St. Aggie's except for Skench and Spoorn, but here everyone knew how to read and they read constantly. But the reason why libraries were so special to Gyl-fie and Soren was that it was from the library at St. Aggie's that they had escaped.

For the two young owls libraries meant freedom in every way. Sometimes, Soren thought that libraries for him were a kind of Yonder, in the sense that Mrs. Plithiver and other snakes spoke of the sky. The sky so far away for snakes, as far as anything could be, was a world unseen. But as Soren and Gylfie learned to read they began to get glimmerings of worlds unseen.

The only problem with the library was the old Whiskered Screech, Ezylryb. He was always there, and he was still as frightening as he had been that day when Soren first saw him in the parliament and felt his squinted eye burning into him. The old bird rarely spoke and when he did it was in a low, growlish hoot. He had a fondness for caterpillars and kept a store of dried ones for when they were out of season. These he put in a little pile by his desk in the library. It was not what Ezylryb did say that Soren and Gylfie found unnerving, it was what he didn't. He seemed to quietly observe everything even as he read with his one and a half eyes. Every once in a while he emitted a low growl of what they could only feel was disapproval. But worst of all was his deformed foot. And although Soren and Gylfie knew it was impolite to stare, their eyes just seemed drawn to that foot. Soren admitted to Gylfie that he couldn't help it, and Gylfie said that she herself was fearful of making a terrible slip.

"Remember when Matron came in the other day to serve tea and she asked me to take the cup to him and to ask if he wanted his usual with ita"whatever that was. I was so afraid I was going to say something like, *Ezylryb, Matron would like to know if you'd like your tea with your usual fourth talon.'" Soren laughed but he knew exactly what Gylfie meant.

There were, however, too many compelling reasons to go to the library. So they went and learned to ignore his occasional growlish hoots, trying not to stare at his foot and trying to avoid the amber squint of his eye. The library was quite high in the great tree in a roomy hollow that was lined with books, and the floor was spread with lovely carpets woven of mosses, gra.s.ses, and occasional strands of down. When Soren and Gylfie entered, they spotted Ezyl-ryb in his usual spot. There was the pile of caterpillars. Every now and then he would pluck one and munch it. His beak was now poked into a book t.i.tled Magnetic Properties as They Occur Naturally and Unnaturally in Nature.

Soren made his way toward a shelf that had books about barns and churches for, indeed, once upon a time Barn Owls like himself had actually lived in such places and Soren enjoyed looking at the pictures and reading about them. Some of the churches were magnificent, with windows stained the colors of rainbows and stone spires that soared high into the sky. But Soren actually preferred the simpler little wooden churches, neatly painted, with something called steeples for their bells. Gylfie liked books with poems, funny riddles, and jokes. She went to see if a book she had discovered yesterday was still there, called Hooties, Cooties, and Nooties: A Book of Owl Humor with Recipes, Jokes, and Practical Advice. It was written by Philom-ena Bagwhistle, a well-known nest-maid snake who had spent many years in service.

But just as Gylfie was about to pull the book from the shelf there was a low growl. "You can do better than that, young one. One day with that Philomena Bagwhistle slop is quite 'nuff, I'dsay. Whyn't try something a little weightier?"

"Like what?" Gylfie said in a small voice.

"Try that one over there." Ezylryb raised his foot, the one with three talons, and pointed.

Soren froze. He could not take his eyes off the talons. Was it a deformity that he had been born with, as some said, or had it been snapped off in a mobbing by crows? The three talons raked the air as he pointed, and Soren and Gylfie's feathers automatically drooped as owl feathers do when they find themselves in conditions of fear. The old owl now got up from his desk, lurched toward the shelf, and pulled the book off using only one talon. Gylfie's and Soren's eyes were riveted on the talon. "Look at the book, idiots, not my talons. Or, here, take a good look at the talons so you can get used to it." And he shook the deformed foot in their faces. The two owls nearly fainted on the spot.

"We're used to it," Soren gasped.

"Good. Now read the book," Ezylryb said.

Gylfie began sounding out the words, " Tempers of the Gizzard: An Interpretative Physiology of This Vital Organ in Strigi-formes."

"What are Strigiformes?" whispered Soren.

"Us," Gylfie said softly. "That's the fancy name for all owls, whether we're Elf Owls or Barn Owls ora" Gylfie hesitated, "a Whiskered Screech."

"Right-o. Now go on, the both of you. Try something harder. Read it together." He fixed them in his amber squint. "And you can now quit wasting time thinking about my three talons. If you want to see it again you can." He gave a little wave, and then with his odd gait made his way back to his desk, stopping on the way to poke the small fire in the grate.

Soren and Gylfie opened the book. Thank goodness there were lots of pictures but they had a go at the first paragraph.

The gizzard is a most marvelous organ. Considered the second stomach in owls and often called the muscular stomach, it filters out indigestible items such as bone, fur, hair, feathers, and teeth. The gizzard compresses the indigestible parts into a pellet. The pellets are yarped through the beak. [See footnote pertaining to identification of owl species through pellet a.n.a.lysis.]

"I think we can skip the footnotes," Soren whispered, hoping that Ezylryb wouldn't hear. "This is boring enough as it is."

"Oh, I always skip the footnotes," Gylfie said.

"How many books with footnotes have you read, Gyl-fie?" Soren blinked in surprise.

"One. It was about feather maintenance. But look." Gylfie pointed with her talon to the next paragraph.

Volumes have been written about the physical processes of the gizzard. But rarely do we find much in the literature concerning the temper of this marvelous organ. This seems like a gross oversight. For do we not attribute all of our most profound feelings to the sensitivity of this muscular organ? How many times a day does an owl think, "Oh, I feel it in my gizzard?" When we feel a strong pa.s.sion, or perhaps trust, or even distrust, this is our first reaction.

"Well, that's the truth," Soren said. "There's not much new in that. Hardly original."

"Hold on, Soren. Look what he says here."

We do use our gizzards as our guide. Our gizzards, indeed, do often navigate us over treacherous emotional terrain. However, it is my considered opinion that the immature owl does not always know for certain his gizzardly instincts. Why do so many break the one rule their parents tell them never to break and try to fly too young, thus falling out of nests? Stubbornness. They have blocked out certain subtle signals their gizzards might be sending thema Soren looked up and saw Ezylryb staring at them. "Why do you suppose he's having us read this, Gylfie?"

"I think he's trying to send us a message," Gylfie replied.

"What? Don't be stubborn? Open up your gizzard?"

"I don't know, but it's almost time for night flight exercises."

They closed the book and then backed out of the library, making short little bobbing gestures to Ezylryb. "Very interesting," Gylfie said. "Thank you for the suggestion."

"Yes, thank you," Soren said.

Ezylryb said nothing. He only coughed a ragged hoot and plucked another caterpillar from the pile.

"Great Glaux, I'll just die if I get tapped for the weather interpretation chaw. I mean, can you imagine having Ezyl-ryb as your chaw leader? It's just too creepy to even think about," Soren said.

"You know if you get tapped for colliering, you automatically have to take weather interpretation and fly with that chaw as well," Gylfie said.

"Well, who wants to get tapped for colliering and get their beaked singed, anyway?" Soren replied dejectedly.

"You didn't get it singed when you picked up the coal that you dropped on that bobcat."

"We were all picking them up when we were burying them."

"Yeah, but you flew with yours!"

"That was pure dumb luck."

"Maybe, but if you do it properly you never get singed, and that's what Bubo helps teach. It would be great to have Bubo as a chaw leader."

"Yeah, but if you get Ezylryb with him, I would hardly call that a bargain. I think Bubo only helps. It's that other old owl, Elvan, who is the leader of colliering. I still don't see why you have to do weather with colliering."

"Well, you have to fly into forest fires and pick up burning embers. And forest fires, they say, are like a weather system all by themselves. You have to know about the drafts and winds that the heat can cause. I heard Bubo talking about it the other day."

Soren decided not to worry about it.

Just at that moment Digger came up. "Ready for night flight, Digger?" Soren asked.

"Yes. And I've really improved. Much stronger, that's what Boron says. Wait until you see me."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Night Flight

The night flight was always fun. There was never any special purpose to it. It really was mostly recreational. Boron liked to get all the newly arrived owls together with some of the other young owls in the blackness of the sky so they could, as he put it, "Buddy up, tell a few jokes, yarp a few pellets, and hoot at the moon."

"So, Twilight," Boron began. "I've got one that you'll like. Did you hear the story of the wet p.o.o.per who was flying over Hoolemere and hit a fish?"

Otulissa dropped back to where Soren was flying. "He's just too much," she muttered.

"Who's too much?" Soren asked.

"Our king, Boron. He's telling a wet p.o.o.p joke. I think it's undignified for one of his position."

Soren sighed. "Give it a blow, Otulissa." This was not the most polite way for an owl to say, "A little less serious, please."