The Shattering (Guardians of Ga'hoole) (4 page)

“No!” Gylfie said in a stunned voice.

Soon they were all crowded around Soren and peering at the fragment of the page. Then Digger spoke: “Otulissa will flip her gizzard when she sees this. Can you make out any of the writing? She was just talking about this thing called shattering, which fleckasia can cause. It’s worse than moon blinking. But she never got to finish the chapter because Dewlap came in and took the book.”

“Then Dewlap must have thrown it away,” Soren said.
“What a complete creep that owl is. Imagine destroying a book like this.”

“How did this piece of it ever get this far without completely dissolving?” Gylfie wondered.

“Maybe a seagull picked it up, then dropped it here. You know they’ll try to eat anything. And it was caught in this little crack where it kept pretty dry,” Soren said. “In any case, we have to take this back to Otulissa. Maybe she can make something of it.”

When they returned to the great tree, the first pink streaks of dawn were just showing. After a quick breaklight, Soren, Digger, and Gylfie went to their hollow. Otulissa had completed her experiment for Ezylryb on the far beach but had not yet returned from a special errand for Barran and Boron. She was flying to a slipgizzle who it was thought might have information about the Northern Kingdoms. Soren felt that Boron and Barran were trying to placate Otulissa, who had been plotting a very complex attack on the Pure Ones in which she envisioned enlisting recruits from the Kielian League. Soren and Gylfie had discussed this plan, and both thought it was probably never going to happen. But Boron and Barran seemed to have decided to let Otulissa explore where things stood in the Northern Kingdoms. Ever since Strix Struma had been killed in
battle, Otulissa had been obsessed with her plan. In any case, the owls of the band would wait until the next night to show Otulissa the fragment of the page they had found.

In the coolness of the breaking day, the owls nestled into their hollow and, after a few sleepy words, were sound asleep—except for Soren. His mind continued to speculate almost playfully on how that fragment of paper got to where it was between those rocks. He supposed it could have gotten caught in the sub-Lobelian current. He tried to recall what those current charts looked like and imagine the course that little piece of paper had traveled. He wondered if there were possibly more pieces of paper caught in rocks.
Naw, not a chance, this was a one-in-a-million thing.
He yawned again and was asleep.

The sea seemed to float with pieces of paper, and oddly enough, the writing on the bits of paper was perfectly legible. But every time Soren swooped down to pick one up, the fog rolled in and he couldn’t see. He wished that Twilight were here. Twilight was the master of seeing in conditions like these.

Aaah, finally the fog is lifting.
But suddenly, Soren realized that he was no longer over the sea.
Racdrops!
He looked down and saw the regularly undulating hills. The Beaks! His gizzard twitched with dread. Mrs. Plithiver’s raspy
voice scratched in his ear:
“No owl, especially a young impressionable one, has any business in The Beaks. It’s a bad, bad place.”

And then below him were the tantalizing Mirror Lakes that had transfixed the band in a kind of deadly stupor on their first journey to Ga’Hoole.
Great Glaux.
He blinked at the dazzling sparkle of the lakes beneath him, but those lakes abruptly shattered into thousands of pieces.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Plithiver,” he heard himself say. Without even banking, he did a steep dive toward the lakes. He blinked. A dazzling white brightness nearly blinded him. Dread crept around the edges of his gizzard. The radiant brilliance of the shards reminded him of something. Something terrible. What was it?
No time to wonder.
The fog was drifting back over the lake. Only it wasn’t fog. It was smoke—but there was one small clear space above the lake. He would dive for it now. “I’ll take these lakes—piece by piece. Yes, Mrs. Plithiver, piece by piece by piece.”

Soren woke up suddenly and clamped his beak tight.
Great Glaux! It was a dream! I was talking in my sleep!
He looked across at his hollowmates and hoped his babbling hadn’t woken them up. But they all seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Soren went back to sleep and would not remember this dream for a long, long time—until it was almost too late!

A
nd in another hollow, another Barn Owl dreamed another dream.

Yes, just like the old fir tree
, Eglantine thought.
Just like home. And look, there’s moss draped across the opening, the same way Mum did it, to keep out the cold wind, or the sunlight if it was too strong.
She crept closer on the branch. Did she dare peek through?
Why, Great Glaux! Even this branch I am standing on is the same.
Then she heard a soft hiss and a slithering sound.
Why, that’s exactly the sound Mrs. Plithiver makes when she’s tongue-vacuuming and sucking up all the vermin. I’d know that sound anywhere!
Eglantine’s gizzard was about to burst with excitement.
This is more than a dream,
she thought.
Oh, Glaux, don’t let it end! If I peek in, will I see Mum and Da and Mrs. P.? Will everything be like before?
Eglantine edged in close to the moss curtain. Behind it, she saw a shape bustling about. The whiteness of a Barn Owl’s face shone through the green strands of moss.
Is it really you, Mum?
She was about to poke her beak through the curtain and ask.
Then a breeze stirred the moss. It riffled through her pinfeathers, a cool current of air. This was no dream about a breeze. She really felt it.

“Wind shift,” a voice outside her hollow said. It was Ezylryb.

“Oh, no!” moaned Eglantine, and woke up. “I was so close! So close, this time.”

“So close?” said Primrose, coming into their hollow. “So close to what? Eglantine, don’t tell me you’ve been sleeping all this time? Glaux, it’s not even near morning. How will you ever sleep during the day when we are supposed to?”

Eglantine blinked. “Oh, I will.”
I have to,
she thought. She was absolutely desperate to get back to her dream hollow.

“
Verrry
interesting!” Otulissa pored over the fragment that the band had brought back from the island off the Broken Talon peninsula.

“Is it from the book?” Soren asked.

“Definitely,” Otulissa replied.

“Can you read it?” Gylfie asked.

“Just barely. There’s one word that looks like ‘quadrant.’”

“Quadrant?” Gylfie said. “That’s a navigational term.”

“I know,” said Otulissa. “I can’t imagine why it would show up in a book on fleckasia.”

“You know,” Soren said, “I’ve seen Ezylryb fix up old books, especially ones where the pages have faded. He takes Ga’Hoole nut oil and soaks it into the page. The writing becomes a lot clearer.”

“Worth a try.” Otulissa looked up. “If only to prove that Dewlap is a traitor and not in the least shattered or having a nervous breakdown.”

Soren looked at Gylfie and the same thought went through both their minds.
She’s still blaming Dewlap for Strix Struma’s death.
Soren wondered if bringing this fragment back had been such a good idea after all. If Otulissa was only using it to get back at Dewlap, it seemed kind of stupid—even wrong—to him. The parliament would never decide to turn her out. It wasn’t the Ga’Hoole way. Boron and Barran, the monarchs of the tree, had said as much: Turn an owl out, and it becomes your enemy. If Dewlap was not a traitor before, she would certainly become one if she were banished.

Instead, Dewlap would be relieved of her responsibilities. She would be quietly retired. Already she had been removed from the parliament. That was the supreme dishonor. No owl in the history of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree had ever been removed from the parliament. But Soren knew it was useless to talk to Otulissa about this. She was bound and determined to have her vengeance on Dewlap
for the death of her beloved Strix Struma. She had sworn to do so. She had, indeed, changed. He had seen that immediately after the last battle of the siege in which Strix Struma had been killed. He had gone to check on Otulissa in her hollow. She was bent over a piece of paper, writing and drawing something. When he had asked what it was, she had said it was an invasion plan. Even though Strix Struma had been killed, the Guardians of Ga’Hoole had won the last battle. Yet, somehow the leaders of the so-called Pure Ones, Kludd and his terrifying mate Nyra, whose face shone white as a baleful moon, had escaped. Otulissa’s words came back to him:

“They aren’t finished with us, Soren. And we can’t wait for them to come back and finish.”

“What do you mean?”
he had asked.

“I mean, Soren, that we can’t fight defensively. We have to go after them.”

The fury in Otulissa’s eyes had made Soren’s gizzard roil.

“I’ve changed,”
she had said softly. But her voice, Soren remembered, was deadly.

The invasion might wait, but for Otulissa the vengeance was to begin here, right here in the tree, with Dewlap as its target.

A silence fell on the group. They all sensed the pent-up
violence in Otulissa, who was normally a reflective, highly intellectual owl. It unnerved them.

“Well,” said Gylfie a little too brightly, “isn’t it almost time for Trader Mags to arrive? Let’s go wait for her.”

“Why would I want any of that ostentatious stuff she’s always strutting about with?”

Aaah, that’s the old Otulissa,
Soren thought thankfully.

“But I guess there’s nothing else to do. I’ll go,” Otulissa said grudgingly.

Madame Plonk, whose ethereal voice sang them to sleep each morning and roused them in the evening with the accompaniment of the grass harp was, as always, first in line to survey goods brought in by Trader Mags and her assistant, Bubbles, a rather scatterbrained young magpie.

“Oh, Madame Plonk, as gorgeous as ever,” Mags addressed the large and lovely Snowy. “What have we here to show off the glorious whiteness of your silken plumage?” Mags cast a sweeping, beady-eyed glance over her goods. “Ah, yes. A crimson, ermine-trimmed cape—well, part of a cape.”

Trader Mags then swiveled her head toward Primrose, who was examining a drop of amber. “Hold it up to the moonlight, dear. It’s got a bug in it. Little, tiny beetle. They
say it’s a good-luck charm. Not heavy at all. Even a Pygmy like you can fly with it.”

“Fool’s iron! That’s what I call it.” Bubo the blacksmith had come up. “But pretty.” He nodded toward the amber drop.

It is lovely,
Primrose thought. She didn’t much believe in good-luck charms, but most of the jewelry and pretty things that Madame Plonk sold were too heavy for a small owl like herself. She had some awfully pretty turquoise chips that she had found in a stream on a search-and-rescue mission once.

“Would you take some turquoise chips for the amber, Trader Mags?” Primrose asked.

“Oh, yes, dear. I am mad for turquoise chips. They become me, you know. You have to have a certain plumage and stature for them to show. Run and get your turquoise, and I’ll wrap up the amber for you.”

Soren, who was watching the bargaining from a wingspan away, caught a blur of movement behind a small stand of birch trees where mice could often be found. He decided to explore and, without saying where he was going, slipped away silently.

Soren’s beak dropped open in utter horror as he peered down through the slim white branches of the
birch tree. Never in his life had he seen anything as revolting as the scene beneath him. An owl had just pounced upon a mouse. After having made a deep gash in its back exposing the spine, the mouse not yet dead but still mewling in agony, the owl had proceeded to tickle the dying creature with a blade of grass, all the while singing a little song. And then, most shocking of all, Soren recognized his own sister, Eglantine, who seemed frozen in rapt attention, watching as her friend Ginger sang, tickling and playing with what she would soon eat. This was in violation of every food and hunting law in the owl kingdom. Where had this Barn Owl been raised? What kind of family allowed this sort of behavior? Without thinking, Soren swooped down and thwacked the mouse on the head, killing it instantly and then gulped it down headfirst in proper fashion.

“Hey, no fair! Why did you do that? That was my mouse.”

Soren glared at Ginger. “You are a disgrace to the tree, a disgrace to every owl kingdom on the face of the earth. What sort of creature plays with her food? You don’t deserve to eat.” Then he swiveled his head toward Eglantine. “Eglantine, you go back to my hollow. I’ll talk to you there.” Eglantine blinked. It was as if she were coming out of a spell.

“You’re always ordering her around. She doesn’t like
it. And you never include her. She feels left out,” Ginger said.

“I hope she feels left out of this!” Soren shreed. He used the high-pitched tone of voice understood instantly by all owls to express utter anger. “Eglantine, on your way. And you!” He turned his attention back to Ginger. “You, I am reporting to Boron and Barran.”

“Oh, Soren, don’t report her. She’s been raised by those awful owls, the Pure Ones. They never taught her anything. They were brutes, all of them,” Eglantine pleaded. Within seconds both Ginger and Eglantine were sobbing.

“She’s right. I know nothing,” Ginger was saying, suddenly contrite. “I learned nothing except bad manners.”

“This is beyond bad manners. This is brutality.”

“Well, yeah. That, too,” she replied. “Your own brother was the most brutal owl imaginable.”

“Yes, but I’m not, and Eglantine’s not. And we were all born in the same tree, in the same hollow, in the same nest to the same parents. We are not like Kludd, and you don’t have to be this way, either. Don’t use excuses. You’re among civilized owls now. Haven’t you learned anything?”

“Oh, yes, so much. So much from your sister.”

Soren saw that Eglantine was yawning now. When Soren had mentioned the tree, the hollow, the nest, and their parents, it had made her think of her dream.