Lost Tales of Ga'Hoole (Guardians of Ga'Hoole) Read online

  You are my grandda!

  Indeed, the scroom answered softly. Now and forever…

  Then the scroom of Ezylryb faded and was gone.

  Braithe sat silent in his nest while the night grew full and dark around him. The scroom was truly gone, Braithe could feel it. And yet Ezylryb remained—in Braithe’s veins and sinews, in his gizzard and his heart. The young Greenowl of Ambala spread his wings and rose into the deep blue-emerald air of the Brad. He soared up, up, up into the open sky above its mighty heartwoods and set his course for the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. He had much to ask Soren about his grandfather.

  All of us who know Braithe have seen a deep and subtle change in him these last several moon cycles. His voice rings with a new lightness, there is fresh power and spring in the great sweep of his wings, and according to the young owls under his tutelage in the Brad, he never forgets any of the words in his stories anymore. I think, dear reader, we know the reason for this happy change!

  SIX

  Cleve’s Sorrow

  How does one begin to write about someone so…close. Literally! How does one write about someone who is reading at the other end of the hollow as my quill scribbles across this page. I speak, of course, of my dear Cleve. I want to tell you his tale, for I think it’s one worth telling, but I do not think I could do justice to it. I think, instead, I will ask Cleve to tell his own tale. It seems only fair, as he, too, is a great scholar and an accomplished writer.

  Cleve, dear, the page is yours. Tell your story as only you can.

  Why, I’m honored, Otuli—

  Wait! I will need to retain editing privileges, of course. All right, now, the page is yours.

  Thank you, Otulissa, I’m honored that you think so highly of my story and my—

  Please, Cleve, address the readers, we have to remember the readers here.

  Oh. Of course. I am Cleve of Firthmore. I hail from Firthmore Passage in the Tridents of the Northern Kingdoms. I am a student of the healing arts, who has spent many seasons cloistered at the Glauxian retreat on the island in the Bitter Sea. I came to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree in—

  They know all that, my dear. I was thinking you’d talk about what happened before that. What about your clan? Don’t forget to talk about your ancestors, it’s important, you know, for posterity.

  So the page is mine, you say?

  Yes. But the book is still mine, and I will get the final word.

  All right then. I guess I can say a few words about my clan. Mine is called the Clan of Krakor, one of the most ancient in the Northern Kingdoms. The Krakish language was named for it. In fact, the clan is known for its rich history and colorful lore. Many writers, poets, and historians have come out of my clan.

  Like the great Strix Emerilla, the renowned weathertrix of the last century.

  Yes, I was getting to that, but now I don’t have to.

  Oh, and you’re a prince, don’t forget that.

  Otulissa, may I begin?

  Oh, of course. That was my last interruption, I promise.

  The story I tell is a sad one, one that I have carried in my heart and gizzard all my life. It’s about my brother, Clay, may Glaux keep his soul. Many have wondered why I have renounced violence and war. Now, you’ll learn the reason.

  My brother, Clay, short for Claymore, was hatched moments before I was. In old northern families like ours, hatch order was very important. The first hatched would be named the rightful heir, and claim titles and ownership of hollows. In my family, the heir also inherited a collection of rare and ancient weapons that served as important symbols of our clan’s accomplishments in the earliest ages of the Northern Kingdoms.

  Among these was a pair of battle claws called Unguis Montania, or Mountain Claws in Hoolian. It’s one of two pairs of ancient battle claws that belonged to the Clan of Krakor. The Unguis Oceania was the other, but those did not belong to the Hollow of Snarth. Those belonged to some distant cousins of ours who had a hollow on the other side of Firthmore, the Hollow of Kyran. The two pairs of battle claws were forged a long time ago by two brothers from our clan. They had been through many historic battles. And even though they would be practically useless in combat up against modern battle claws, they were passed from generation to generation in Firthmore. They were very valuable to our clan.

  There was a saying among the aristocratic clans in the Northern Kingdoms: Each family had to have an “heir and a spare.” So there was Claymore, egg tooth at the ready, hatching only seconds before I did. The ancient Mountain Claws were ceremoniously brought into the hollow nights before the hatching. And it was under the gleam of those battle claws that Claymore was hatched. Clay was the heir. I, the second to hatch, was just the spare.

  As with all the firstborns in our part of the world, certain expectations were placed on Clay from a very young age. He was supposed to be strong in body and in spirit, and smart in academics and in life. He was to be trained to become a great warrior as well as an able leader. Da had an entire staff of reputable owls to ensure his son’s success—a master of arms, a flight instructor, a master of the hunt, a political strategist, tutors in every subject, you name it. There was even a young squire whose sole task was to keep the Mountain Claws polished for Clay. Jak was his name: I’ll never forget Jak. Jak was just a fledgling when he became our squire. He was from a common family, who thought it a great honor to send their son to the Hollow of Snarth as a squire. He saw Clay and me as big brothers, I suppose. He followed us around every where, and copied every thing we did. One time, I even found him trying on my practice battle claws.

  Mum and Da’s expectations of me were never that high. As the “spare,” I supposed I really could have led a life of leisure if I had wanted. Da thought it best for Clay, however, that I be brought up by his side, to provide a bit of brotherly competition. But Clay was always small for his age, and had trouble with all those Firsts. I was younger, but I was bigger and stronger. Early on, we had some of our First ceremonies on the same night, but by the time we reached First Flight, I had mine long before he had his. Those of you who know my reputation as a pacifist might be surprised to know that I was the first to wear battle claws and the first to wield an ice sword.

  You know that I am not a fighting owl. I practiced with weapons as a young’un, sure, but I never fought in a real battle. The Northern Kingdoms were always entrenched in warfare. The military tradition there is strong even to this day. Clay and I were practically hatched with ice daggers in our talons. Weapons were both practical and symbolic to my clan. Why, it was even a family custom to bring the Mountain Claws to every one of our First ceremonies so that Da could tap us lightly on the wings with it when we completed our tasks. Jak kept them polished with the finest salt crystals from the Bitter Sea for just those occasions. It was just how things were, and a part of growing up in the Hollow of Snarth.

  I was all too proud of myself, of course, for outdoing my big brother in these physical feats. More than once I teased Clay for being the smaller, weaker brother, in the way that fledglings tend to do. My parents, however, were seriously concerned with Clay’s performance. “Clay should be doing better already, just look at Cleve,” I heard them whisper to each other once. Only when we were fully fledged did I realize how hard it must have been on Clay.

  One thing Clay always excelled at was academics. He devoured books on any subject in a matter of days and then could explain all their theories without missing a wing beat. He used to disappear into some secret place for nights at a time. It was moons before I realized he was off reading something that he just couldn’t put down. Otulissa reminds me a lot of him in that respect. He was also quite good at the arts. No one in our family appreciated music the way he did. Da and Mum thought this was all very well and good, but they thought Clay needed more brawn to balance out his brains. “Still prefers his songs over his sword,” Da would say, more than a little disappointed.

  I, on the other wing, was all brawn, not a thought in my head. Clay would cal
l me “WPB” sometimes—short for “wet pooper brains.” I don’t want to sound boastful, but I was the strongest flier that Firthmore had seen in generations—was navigating the katabats within a moon cycle of my First Flight. Dare I say, I was the Ruby of the Great North Waters? Well, I might be exaggerating there, but I was good.

  So there we were, the two imperfect princes from the Hollow of Snarth. I overheard Mum say once that if she could just combine us into one owl, she’d have the perfect son. She meant well, I guess. I did learn later precisely why she wanted a “perfect son.” It was a bit more complicated than you might think.

  One night, Clay and I were sharing a nice fat mouse in our hollow. I remember it so vividly because it was a hard-won mouse. You know, when you’re on the hunt for what seems like all night, and the little creature seems forever to be a talon-grab away. At the end of it, Clay was so ravenous that he almost butted my head going after the last bit of meat. He apologized for his uncouth behavior, and explained that he was starving because Da had made him do extra ice dagger drills earlier, and wouldn’t let him eat until he could double his speed or power or something.

  “I can’t take it anymore, Cleve,” he told me after we finished the mouse. “I don’t know why Da is doing this to me. I hate it!”

  I was about to launch into a good old-fashioned brotherly ribbing when Old Pan started mumbling something peculiar.

  Old Pan, short for Pandorissa, was a Spotted Owl who had been in our family for generations. She was so old she was my grandda’s nursemaid. Some said, jokingly of course, that she was so old that she knew Hoole himself. Nobody knew her age, but we were sure there was none older in all of the firths. Old Pan was no longer a nursemaid for my family. We all figured that our family kept her around because she had nowhere to go. She would do the occasional tidying of the hollow and such, but mostly, she entertained the chicks with her stories. I first heard the legends spoken from her very beak.

  As I was saying, Old Pan mumbled something peculiar as Clay and I finished tweener. I didn’t even know what it was at the time, but now I know it was “Iso Veikko tahto olla prinssi joka on lupaus.”

  The strangest thing was, she spoke not in Krakish, or in any dialect of Krakish I had ever heard of. It was a language so ancient and so obscure that it’s considered dead. Clay and I knew nothing of dead languages back then, but Clay would later figure out that Old Pan had spoken in the language of the ancient Northern Prophecies, the language that the Glauxian Brothers call Kratean. It was never spoken anymore, only written.

  Old Pan was old, but not old enough to have spoken Kratean. Nor was she a scholar who might have come across it in her studies. Besides, no one really knew what it was supposed to sound like, exactly. She kept repeating those words over and over before she waddled out of the hollow.

  So there I was, thinking Old Pan was mumbling nonsense—I wouldn’t have known Kratean from raven caws. But Clay paid close attention. He memorized what she said, and, just as you would, went to our very limited family library to try to figure it out.

  His search led him to a scroll about our family history—the history of the Hollow of Snarth. Much of it was just a record of who married whom, who fought in which battle, whose chick was born when, that sort of stuff. But he also found in it bits of Kratean, interspersed through the records. He could not figure it out by himself, his tutors wouldn’t have taught him such things. So he took the scroll to the trusty Glauxian Brothers at the retreat. He snuck away for two nights to go to the island in the Bitter Sea. I covered for him, of course. I didn’t think he’d find anything important, but thought he should get away from the old hollow, and from Da and all his demands, for a bit.

  When he returned, he flew into my hollow, puffed up his chest, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, “I best take up an ice sword and battle claws, it seems I must become a warrior.”

  “That’s what you learned, Clay?” I joked. “Isn’t that what Da has been telling you…oh, I don’t know, your entire life?”

  The look on Clay’s face told me he thought it was no joking matter.

  “I’m the big brother. I’m the Prince Who Is Promised,” he said.

  “The what who is what?” I teased.

  Clay rolled his yellow eyes and laid down a scroll.

  “Here, the ‘Prince Who Is Promised.’” He pointed to a passage that I couldn’t begin to read or understand. “According to the brothers, this says, ‘In the age of strife and tyranny, a prince shall emerge, a prince promised to us by the stars themselves. This great warrior shall be a savior of saviors.’”

  I could tell Clay was beside himself with excitement. His eyes always glowed a bright gold when he discovered something new and fascinating in one of his books or in a piece of music.

  Then, he retrieved our family scroll. “And here, right after the record of our hatching, this says, ‘The big brother shall be the Prince Who Is Promised. The prince who shall banish the fire of evil and save the light of wisdom…’ or something like that.”

  “Or something like that?” I asked. I was quite dubious of all this, you see.

  “There aren’t exact translations for some of the words. Like, here.” Clay pointed to a part of one line with his talon. “This word ‘kiista,’ it can either mean strife or illness. The brothers figured it was more likely to be strife. And this, this word could mean either wisdom or fruit.”

  “Or fruit. You’re supposed to, let’s see, save some fruit?” I was becoming more and more convinced that Clay had stumbled upon a lot of nonsense.

  “Well, clearly wisdom would the better definition here. The Glauxian Brothers were quite intrigued by this, Cleve, don’t make light of it! The Northern Prophecies have been revered for generations, and what we have here is an important document. And I, the big brother, am apparently quite important to the future of owlkind!”

  “Listen to yourself, Clay!” I said with a churr. “A few days ago, you were complaining that Da was making you do too many drills. Now you’re out to save owlkind as the Prince Who Is Promised? All because of Old Pan?”

  “Yes. I must do this. These prophecies are important. Just such a prophecy foretold the coming of Hoole. Don’t you believe in them?” he asked.

  “Maybe. But this one came from Da’s old nursemaid, Clay.”

  Honestly, I was at a bit of a loss. I didn’t know why I was arguing with him.

  “Cleve,” Clay continued, “even if you don’t believe in the prophecy, even if you don’t think I am the Prince Who Is Promised, what harm will it do if I prepare for the moment, just in case? Will you just help me to train? Like you said, isn’t that what Da and Mum would want, prophecy or no?”

  He had a point, of course. I didn’t believe in this prophecy business, but I’d be doing good to help Clay train anyway.

  “All right, big brother—Your Princeliness,” I told him. “I guess there’s no harm in believing. I’ll help you with your warrior training. Da and Mum are going to be thrilled to pieces, you realize.”

  The very next night, Clay began training like he was some sort of hero owl from the legends. He really dove into it, beak and claw. Master Benard, the old master-at-arms, was astounded. Da was outright shocked—happy, but shocked. Where Clay used to be timid around weapons, he became more daring. His began to fly farther and into stronger winds. He became very interested in warcraft, studying it and researching it with the intensity he previously had only for music. He grew stronger in wing and talon.

  For a while, it all seemed to be going very well for Clay. I was proud of him. My big brother was finally starting to live up to my family’s expectations, and he seemed to be pleased. Only…his approach always seemed a bit academic. His head was in it, for sure, but he lacked that certain…oh, how should I put it—gizzardly instinct.

  I’ve always believed it’s something you can’t teach an owl, it has to come from within the second quadrant of the gizzard. Well, even if I couldn’t teach it, I thought I could at least encoura
ge it in Clay. I would go on to find the perfect opportunity to do so when winter came.

  For several nights after our ice weapons practices, Clay and I would gleek about the armory, playing innocent pranks on Master Benard. When he took inventory of the weapons, Clay and I would hide a weapon while he was trying to keep count, and just when he’d think it was lost, we’d put it back in its place as if it had been there all along. Sometimes, we would replace one weapon with another, and he would think he was seeing things. It drove him crazy! Benard had a tough exterior, but inside, he was warm and jovial. We knew he might find our pranks mildly annoying, but we also knew he could take a joke.

  One night, Clay and I went into the armory with Master Benard. We had just had to cut short our battle claw drills as a fierce blizzard was threatening. We were on our way to return our practice claws. As we went past the display area for the Mountain Claws, Benard did a double take. He went toward the wall to take a closer look. All of sudden, his voice rang out with fury.

  “Claymore! Cleve! You’ve gone too far this time! It’s one thing to have a lark with an ice scimitar, it’s quite another to mess with one of the clan heirlooms. The two of you know better than to play games with it. What would your father say? Now, produce the Mountain Claws this instant!”

  We had no idea what he was yelling about. We went in for a closer look. That’s when we saw that the battle claws hung on the display hook were not the Mountain Claws, but a pair of common battle claws polished to look like the ancient weapon. Clay and I were dumbfounded. We hadn’t moved the claws, hadn’t touched them at all. We were innocent! We would never play games with the family heirlooms; we knew better than that. Clay and I spoke out at the same time, proclaiming our innocence. The shocked looks on our faces must have told Master Benard that we were telling the truth.

  It seemed that in the same instant, Master Benard, Clay, and I all arrived at the same conclusion.

  Master Benard called for Jak. There was no answer. He called again, the suspicion building in his voice, and in our minds. He called a third time. By then, we knew there would be no answer. We went looking for him. Clay and I knew that he often liked to take short naps in the library, so we looked there. Master Benard looked in the dining hollow, where Jak would sometimes pilfer snacks. There was no sign of him.