Exile Page 2

  “It’s a joke book! That’s all!” Otulissa then told one of the few lies she had ever told in her life. “I read it myself when I was an owlet.” Otulissa had never read a joke book, but she would never deny another owl the right to read one.

  “But such books are fripperies, indulgences, vanities!”

  She looked at him closely. What is this owl talking about? This word “vanity” was often in his speech.

  “I am not quite sure what you mean by the word ‘vanity’ in reference to literature.”

  “Literature?” He paused. “But surely, Otulissa, you need not concern yourself with literature, for you are a student of practical disciplines—like this er…uh…weather and—what is it you are reading now?”

  She didn’t like the way he asked the question. It was interfering, beaky. Why should she have to tell him what she was reading or studying? It wasn’t as if she had anything to hide. In fact, she was quite proud of this book, because it had been written by one of her own ancestors, a most distinguished scholar, the most renowned weathertrix of the previous century, Strix Emerilla. The book had the rather ponderous title Atmospheric Pressures and Turbulations: An Interpreter’s Guide. She held it up. “Written by my thrice-great-aunt, maternal side.”

  “You must be proud,” the Striga answered softly.

  “I am. I am very proud,” Otulissa replied curtly.

  “You must be careful of too much pride.”

  “Another vanity?” Otulissa leaned forward a bit and peered more closely at him. His face looked different from when he had first arrived at the tree. The feathers had thinned. Indeed, his face was almost bald. There was just a thin mist of blue over the gray-and-puckered skin.

  “Exactly, Otulissa! Exactly!”

  Otulissa flexed her head to one side, then to the other, running through a series of head postures as if she were studying the blue owl from every possible angle.

  “I am curious,” Otulissa began in a reflective tone. “Just what do you mean by this word ‘vanity’?”

  “Oh, I am so glad you asked.”

  I’m sure you are! Otulissa thought to herself.

  “As you know, Otulissa, I came from the Dragon Court, a most impractical place.” The Striga gave special emphasis to the word “impractical.” “It had become this way because of excess—excess of luxuries, of pampering, of every kind of indulgence imaginable. At the very center of this excess, the driving force, the fuel that fired it, was vanity.”

  “But what is vanity?” Otulissa asked.

  “Vanities are all the indecent things in life, the fripperies, the impracticalities that distract us from Glaux and our true owlness.”

  “True owlness?” Otulissa blinked.

  “Yes, we are, by nature, humble creatures.”

  “Hmm.” Otulissa sniffed, and thought of Twilight. Humble, my talon!

  “We must practice humility,” the Striga continued. “Anything else is vanity.”

  Otulissa was tempted to say, Well, to each his own. But she thought better of it. “One last question,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  Her eyes fastened on his face. “Are you suffering from mite blight? I notice the feathers on your face are quite thin.”

  “Oh, nothing of the sort,” the Striga answered almost cheerfully. “No. You see, for a long time, I was burdened with an indecent abundance of feathers. These feathers were the ultimate vanity. We dragon owls cultivated them with a disgusting mixture of pride and pleasure, preening all day. There were even special servants whose only job was to stroke and comb our feathers.” The Striga seemed to wilf just talking about it. “I can’t tell you how vile it was.”

  “But you did it. You preened your long blue feathers,” Otulissa said curtly.

  “I knew nothing better. I was deluded,” the Striga said.

  Otulissa blinked. There was so much that she did not understand about the Panqua Palace and the Dragon Court. She thought of Theo, that noble owl from ancient times they had all read about in the legends. When Otulissa had been in the Middle Kingdom, she had learned that it was Theo who had realized that the best way to distract owls with evil intentions, was to engulf them in luxury. The result was overweening vanity, so that their attention could focus only on one thing—themelves—to the point where they were reduced to powerlessness. It was an ingenious strategy for quelling the most dangerous kinds of owls, which had found their way into the Middle Kingdom long ago.

  “But I still don’t understand,” Otulissa said to the Striga. “You now have fewer feathers than any of us. Especially on your face.”

  “I strip them out. It is my personal penance. Thus I relinquish the unnecessary things, the distractions.”

  “I’ve never thought of feathers as a distraction, frankly. They are a most essential part of our bodies.” She paused. “Our true owlness, as it were.” She emphasized the word “owlness.”

  “But not your spirit! And how can the spirit rise, become everlasting, when burdened by the vanities of feather and bone?” The Striga blinked his pale yellow eyes.

  What did the Striga mean by “everlasting”? Life was the here and now. One must be able to rise into the air above this earth and fly. Was it not an abuse to pluck the very gifts Glaux had given owls to make a life for themselves? But Otulissa, for whom arguments were like a tonic, had no desire to engage in any further discussion with the Striga on the subject. Indeed, after this odd conversation, Otulissa was rendered speechless for one of the very few times in her life.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Simplicity

  Otulissa was not the only one that early evening who had entered into a very odd conversation. When the Band left Coryn’s hollow, the young king felt as if something rather strange had occurred. It was almost as if it was not he himself speaking. But it was. He, of all of them, had spent the most time with the Striga since he had arrived at the great tree. Although their lives had been entirely different and Coryn had never lived in anything comparable to the Dragon Court of the Panqua Palace, he somehow sensed a resonance with what this owl had been saying. Coryn’s early life in the harsh, unforgiving landscape of canyonlands had been entirely different from the Dragon Court. He had never been pampered, and had been abused by his mother, who had subjected him to a merciless indoctrination in order to make him a leader of the Pure Ones. The two words, “Pure Ones,” almost carried a stench. For the Pure Ones believed that Barn Owls, Tyto albas, were the only true owls. The rest were impure, inferior, afflictions to owlkind. It was a base, venal notion. The violence that could be justified by such thinking was revealed to Coryn most brutally when, before his eyes, his mother killed his only friend.

  But then the Striga had come to the great tree, invited by Soren and the rest of the Band after the defeat of Nyra and the Pure Ones in the Middle Kingdom. He had fought bravely, if not strictly according to the fighting methods practiced by the owls of the Middle Kingdom. The Striga’s attack had been bloody and the Hoolian owls were in his debt.

  The Striga preached that within every owl there was a “perfect simplicity.” But to find it, one must cleanse—or “scour”—one’s self of vanities and fripperies and all such distractions, and then a level of perfect simplicity would be attained. And thus, the message was an uncomplicated one: Burn away vanity. Being truly cleansed, one would achieve the supreme state of perfect simplicity, ready to receive Glaux’s blessings forever and ever.

  Just as Coryn was thinking about this, the Striga entered.

  “How did it go?” the Striga asked.

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “They agreed?”

  “Yes,” Coryn replied.

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Yes, it is.” Coryn nodded his head vigorously, almost as if he was trying to convince himself. “It is. Yes, I’m sure it is. But…”

  “But, what?” the Striga asked.

  “Well, it’s a change—this new way of celebrating the Harvest Festival. I promised
them that we were just trying this. That we’d still have Punkie Night.”

  “Of course,” the Striga said quickly, although he had no idea what Punkie Night was. He felt that now was not the time to push.

  “I think Soren felt a little bad about Blythe not singing.”

  “She will sing better when she has achieved simplicity. Then it will not be a vain art.” The Striga paused. “I was having a most interesting conversation in the library with Otulissa.”

  “Really?” Coryn looked up.

  “She is a very intelligent owl.”

  “She’s practically a genius!” Coryn said.

  “Yes, well, you know she has embarked on a very—very interesting research project.”

  “Oh, yes. Her study of windkins and the currents in the River of Wind. She and Soren are veterans of the weather-interpretation chaw, and were taught by the old master Ezylryb himself.”

  “I think these studies are good. Practical. Would it not be a benefit to the tree if she were allowed to pursue them further?”

  “Well, yes. She had talked about going out and performing some experiments, some feather-drift trials.”

  “Feather drift?” Striga asked.

  “Yes. It is done with wind and air currents. Feather buoys are set out, then tracked to measure variations in speed and drift.”

  “And who does it? Just the weather chaw?”

  “Well, it’s mostly under Otulissa’s direction but, you know, it’s fun. So, oftentimes, the rest of the Band goes. I mean, that is one thing that is special about the Band. They are so talented that they can really serve in any chaw when called upon. Gylfie, she’s chief ryb of the navigation chaw, so she can take instant fixes on the positions as the feathers drift. Digger is a skilled tracker, as is Twilight. Both come in handy.”

  “Might I propose something, Coryn?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Do you think it might take their minds off this simplified Harvest Festival if they were on a mission?”

  Coryn’s eyes suddenly brightened. “You mean, perhaps Otulissa and the Band should go on a research expedition for her study of windkins?”

  “Precisely. A service that they will rise to joyfully and it might…oh, how should I say, distract them from their regrets about the Harvest Festival.”

  “It’s a wonderful idea. I’ll send for them right now,” Coryn said.

  The Striga raised a talon in the air as if to caution him. “And when you tell them about this experiment, try to convey to them how essential this is to the well-being of the tree. How they are really the only owls who could do this because of their extraordinary expertise, brilliance, and depth of knowledge. Impress upon them that they are the best and that these studies are crucial. As a matter of fact, why not make the announcement in the parliament to give it the dignity it deserves?”

  “You’re absolutely right. The parliament! That is where it should be announced.”

  Coryn regarded the Striga with even deeper respect. It was a splendid idea, but more moving to Coryn was that the Striga valued Otulissa’s research. That truly surprised him. He wished that the Band could have heard the Striga’s concern for their feelings. I think they judge him too harshly, Coryn thought. Had they only been here! But give them time, give them time. They will see, as I have, that this is an owl of many parts. Good parts, all of them!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Windkins, Advanced Study of

  I’ve called this meeting of the parliament tonight to put forth a proposal,” Coryn began.

  “If this has anything to do with scrapping Punkie Night, I’m out of here!” Twilight muttered.

  “Hush!” Soren said, and shot the Great Gray a severe look.

  “As we know, Otulissa is our greatest scholar.”

  The Striga noticed that the Spotted Owl swelled a bit. Good!

  “Her intellect,” Coryn continued, “is renowned throughout the kingdoms of owls, including the Middle Kingdom. But the Band, as well, are fine students of our natural world, and that is why I have brought you together to approve this plan.”

  Something about all this just did not sound right to Soren. He couldn’t put his talon on it, and so continued to listen. But why hadn’t Coryn mentioned this plan to him or the Band before now? It certainly seemed to involve them.

  “For some time,” Coryn continued, “Otulissa has been studying the windkin patterns of the River of the Wind.” Otulissa’s face became more alert. “What I propose now is that the Band, with Otulissa as the expedition leader, set out now to gather information…”

  “Data,” Otulissa interjected. And why didn’t Coryn consult me before announcing it? she wondered.

  “Data,” Coryn continued, “that might further these studies. We must understand that these are the best, the brightest, the most insightful owls…”

  Stop with the adjectives already, Soren thought. Flattery. Why is he trying to flatter us like this? But the proposal was tempting nonetheless. Some of his fondest memories were of the weather expeditions on which Ezylryb had sent them.

  Otulissa raised her talon and stepped from her parliamentary position on the curved white branch where the members perched in a half circle. “May I say something? I am of course fl—” She a felt an alarming jerk in her gizzard and paused, mid-speech. “Flattered,” she continued softly. A bilious sensation rose in her gorge as she said the word. “…first of all, that you find my work interesting and important. As much as I would love to lead this expedition, I do not think at this time it is possible.”

  The Striga blinked. He had not expected this.

  “My duties here at the tree,” Otulissa went on, “especially since Winifred has been perched up with her arthritis, are great.” The Striga tried not to wilf. “My real job is to interpret the data, work it into my theoretical framework, and then derive applicable…” Otulissa was off and flying on how responsible science was performed. The upshot was that the Band would go, but Otulissa would not.

  “So,” Otulissa said when the Band had reconvened in the library. “A brief explanation here about my work.” She hauled out the Strix Emerilla book and several other scientific books, along with a variety of charts and some old scrolls written by Ezylryb when he had lived in the Northern Kingdoms and wrote as Lyze of Kiel.

  “History of the Ice Claw Wars?” Digger said. “Why? And the Sonnets of the Northern Kingdoms?”

  “Would you believe that the first time I ever heard of the word ‘windkin’ was in a sonnet Lyze had written to his mate, Lil? He spoke of them like a pair of windkins, interlocking, harmonious despite any distance. You see, as a scientist and a scholar, I cannot afford to discard anything. I must read everything—science, poetry, history—if it will help.” She paused and said suddenly, “Even joke books!”

  “Joke books?” They all chuckled.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Gylfie asked.

  Otulissa looked down at her talons and shook her shoulders. “I’m not really sure what I meant by that. But you get the point. One has to read and think outside the usual, predictable ways.”

  “And just what are your hunches about these wind-kins?” Soren asked.

  “And where is it you want us to explore?” Gylfie asked.

  “I want you to try to pinpoint their locations and do some drift analysis. My coordinates show that there is a possibility of windlets in the Shadow Forest. So, I would like you to go there. You’ll need the usual tools—feather buoys, air floaters, tethers, and, of course, the thermo-scope.” The thermoscope was a clever device that Ezylryb had invented for measuring changes in temperature. She paused and then looked out the hollow of the library. A nearly full moon was rising. “Well,” she sighed, “I suppose you should be on your way soon. Look at that moon! It’s so beautiful. But I don’t think you’ll be missing much of a Harvest Festival here.”

  “And we shall certainly be back in time for Punkie Night.” Twilight thumped his talon for emphasis.

  Otulissa saw them off f
rom the main branch of the library, watching the four owls lift into flight, their silhouettes printed against the rising moon. Normally, she would have been bubbling with excitement that she was sending off someone to carry out her experiments. But tonight, she did not feel that familiar fever of anticipation. She decided she needed to get out of the library for a while and go to her favorite place for reflection, her hanging garden. If she had not started the garden, another owl would have. High in the great tree, leaves and other bits of organic matter had collected in crevices called “trunk pockets,” which, over the ages, had decayed into soil. And into these little patches of earth, seedlings had found their way. Huckleberry mostly. In the lower canopy of the tree, there was a tree-pocket garden that Otulissa thought of as her own, and she tended it lovingly.

  Otulissa discovered that many plants that grew on the ground could grow in the trunk pockets of the great tree. She had brought flowering plants, moss, lichens, even orchids to her hanging garden. Settling down amid the hanging lichens, beneath a clump of lovely liverwort that was spinning in shards of moonlight, she wondered about her lack of excitement over the Band’s expedition. That delicious fizzy feeling she often experienced on the path of discovery was simply not there. If anything, she felt flat and apprehensive. She had stayed behind not just because of her duties. Winifred’s arthritis was a convenient excuse. No, it was something else. Why had she mentioned joke books when she had delivered her little speech about how one must read widely? It wasn’t just the diminished Harvest Festival that troubled her. For some reason, a large part of her anxiety seemed to be related to the library. The library and her precious books. No, she corrected herself, they are not just my books. They are everyone’s.

  Just then, one of the matrons appeared, a bunchy Barred Owl named Glynnis. The matron owls often tended the younger owlets, and worked in the infirmary and the kitchen of the great tree. “Want a spot of milk-berry tea, Otulissa?” she offered. “I have a little left in this pot, and you’ve got a cup there, haven’t you? Chill in the air.”