The Capture Page 4

  “How?” Soren asked.

  “I’m not sure. My parents never really explained it but they did say that the old owl Rocmore had gone crazy from too much full shine.” Gylfie paused, then hesitating, went on. “They even said that he often did not know which was up and which was down and that finally he died of a broken neck when he thought he was lifting off from the top of a cactus.” Gylfie’s voice almost broke here. “He thought he was flying toward the stars and he slammed into the earth. That’s what moon blinking is all about. You no longer know what is for sure and what is not. What is truth and what are lies. What is real and what is false. That is being moon blinked.”

  Soren gasped. “This is awful! Is this what is going to happen to us?”

  “Not if we can help it, Soren.”

  “What can we do?”

  “I’m not sure. Let me think a while. Meanwhile, try to cock your head just a bit, so the moon does not shine straight down on it. And remember, when flying in full shine there is no problem. But sleeping in it is disastrous.”

  “I can’t fly yet,” Soren said softly.

  “Well, just be sure you don’t sleep.”

  Soren cocked his head and while doing so tipped his beak down to look upon the little Elf Owl. How, he wondered, was such a tiny creature so smart? He hoped with all his might that Gylfie would come up with something. Some idea. Just as he was thinking this, there was a sharp bark. “12-1, head straight, beak up!” It was another sleep monitor. He felt a thwack to the side of his head. They did not fall asleep, and as soon as the patrolling owl left, they began whispering again. But then, all too soon, came the inevitable alarm for a sleep march to begin. It would be three more circuits before they could meet again under the arch.

  “Remember what I told you. Don’t sleep.”

  “I’m so tired. How can I help it?”

  “Think of anything.”

  “What?”

  “Anything—” Gylfie hesitated before a sleep monitor shoved her along. “Think of flying!”

  Flying, yes, thinking of flying would keep Soren awake. There was nothing more exciting. But in the meantime, all thoughts of flight were drowned out by the sound of his own voice repeating his own name.

  “Soren…Soren…Soren…Soren…” There was also the sound of thousands of talons clicking on the hard stone surface as they marched in lines. Soren was between Hortense and a Horned Owl whose name blended into the drone of other names. Three Snowy Owls were directly in front of him. There were perhaps twenty or more owls to each group, all arranged in loose lines, but they moved in unison as one block of owls, each owl endlessly repeating his or her name. It was impossible to sort out an individual name from the babble, and it was not long when, on the fourth sleep march, his own name began to sound odd to Soren. Within another one hundred or so times of repeating it, it seemed almost as if it was not a name at all. It was merely a noise. And he, too, was becoming a meaningless creature with no real name, no family, but…but…but maybe a friend?

  Finally, they stopped again. And it was in the silence of that moment when they stopped that Soren suddenly realized what was happening. It all made sense, particularly when he thought of what Gylfie had explained to him about moon blinking. This alone would keep him awake until he met up with her again.

  “They are moon blinking us with our names, Gylfie,” Soren gasped as he edged in close to the little owl under the stone arch. Only the stars twinkled above. Gylfie understood immediately. A name endlessly repeated became a meaningless sound. It completely lost its individuality, its significance. It would dissolve into nothingness. Soren continued, “Just move your beak or say your number, but don’t say your name. That way it will stay your name.” There would, however, be at least three more nights of full shine and then the fullness would begin to lessen until the moon was completely dwenked.

  Gylfie looked at Soren in amazement. This ordinary Barn Owl was in his own way quite extraordinary. This was absolutely brilliant. Gylfie felt more than ever compelled to figure out a solution to sleeping exposed to full shine.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Separate Pits, One Mind

  When Soren and Gylfie parted at the end of that long night, they looked at each other and blinked, trembling with fear. If only they could be together in the same pit, then they could think together, talk, and plan. Gylfie had told Soren a little about her pit. She, too, had a pit guardian who seemed very nice, at least compared to Jatt and Jutt or Skench. Gylfie’s pit guardian was called Unk, short for Uncle and, like Auntie, he tried to arrange special treats for Gylfie—a bit of snake sometimes, often even calling Gylfie by her real name and not her number, 25-2. Indeed, when Gylfie had told Soren how her pit guardian had asked her to call him “Unk” it was almost identical to the way in which Aunt Finny had insisted on Soren calling her “Auntie.”

  “It was all so weird,” Gylfie had said. “I called him sir at first, and then he said, ‘Sir! All this formality. Really, now! Remember what I asked you to call me? ‘Uncle,’ I answered. ‘Now…now…I gave you my special name.’”

  The special name was Unk and the way in which Gylfie described Unk drawing that name of endearment from her, well, Soren could just imagine the Great Horned Owl dipping low to be on eye level with the little Elf Owl, the huge tufts above his ears nearly scraping the ground.

  “The pit guardians go out of their way to be nice to us,” Soren had said. “But it’s still kind of scary, isn’t it?”

  “Very!” Gylfie had replied. “It was after I called him Unk that he gave me the bits of snake.” She had then sighed. “I remember so well, as if it was yesterday, my First Snake ceremony. Dad had saved the rattles for me and my sisters to play with. And you know what, Soren? It was as if Unk had read my mind because I was thinking about my ceremony and just then he says, ‘I might even have some rattles for you to play with.’ And then I thanked him. I over-thanked him. It was disgusting, Soren.”

  And Soren knew just what the little Elf Owl meant.

  But now they were separated and Soren hoped desperately that Gylfie would come up with some solution. And Gylfie, once more stuffed with some extra snake bits that Unk had given her, had become very drowsy in her pit. Unk had even allowed her to sneak in some extra sleep—another little treat, or was it a bribe? But Gylfie could not sleep. She would be on the brink of sleep, drowsy with the succulent snake meat she had gorged on—much too much for an owl of her size, but just as she was about to fall asleep something would prick her dim consciousness, some thought. Soren, in the pit next door, was concentrating as hard as he could. “Think of something, Gylfie! Think of something!”

  Auntie had been so nice. When Soren returned to the stone pit, she had said that she’d never seen a more tiredlooking owl. “Didn’t sleep a wink, huh?”

  “‘Fraid not, Auntie,” Soren had replied.

  “Now, you hear me. Why don’t you hop up there in that little stone niche, just your size and out of prying eyes, and take yourself a little blink or two?”

  “You mean sleep?” The question just slipped out. “Sorry about the question.”

  “Of course, dear, I mean sleep and don’t apologize about the question. We’ll get stricter with that later.”

  “But it’s against the rules. We’re suppose to be getting ready for our work assignments.”

  “Sometimes rules are made to be broken. In my opinion, they should go much easier on you owlets after you first arrive. You’re orphans, for Glaux’s sake.”

  It still disturbed Soren deeply to be called an orphan. He had a mother and a father and a sister and a brother. He wasn’t sure why, but there was something shameful about being called an orphan, especially when one wasn’t. It was as if you were this disconnected, unloved creature.

  “I know,” Auntie continued. “I’m just an old broody.” What was a broody? Soren wondered, but he suppressed the urge to ask. Soren hopped up into the stone niche. My goodness, he thought. I did that rather well. Could have passed m
y branching test on that one. And then he became very sad when he thought that he had not even been able to begin his first branching lessons with his father.

  Sleep indeed was hard to come by—even a blink or two, because when Soren started to think about branching, he, of course, could not help but think about flying and remembered watching Kludd’s attempts and finally his first very small flight. Something pushed at the back of Soren’s brain, a memory. Soren was not sure how long he had been sleeping but it was not Auntie who woke him up. It was something else, something unspeakable. Once more he felt that terrible queasiness mixed with dread. It was as if his gizzard might burst. But the terrible truth settled like a stone inside him. Kludd had pushed him! It came to him in a flash. So real that he could still feel the swift kick of Kludd’s talons in his side and then pitching over the edge of the hollow.

  His legs began to shake. Auntie was at his side. “Need to yarp, dear?”

  “Yes,” Soren said weakly. He yarped a miserable little pellet. What did he expect? He had never even had his First Bones ceremony, which again made him remember all of Kludd’s strutting about when he yarped his first pellet with bones. Would they have such things as First Bones ceremonies here? They did everything so strangely. The Number ceremony, for example. They called that a ceremony! Ceremonies were supposed to make you feel special. The Number ceremony hadn’t made him feel anything. Auntie Finny was nice, but the others really weren’t so nice at all, and this orphanage business—what was that all about? What was the real purpose of St. Aggie’s? Skench, the Ablah General, said, “When Truth Is Found, Purpose Is Revealed.” No questions, just be humble. The only truth that Soren knew right now was a deep gizzard-chilling one: His brother had shoved him from the nest. Think, Gylfie, thought Soren. Think of something!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Great Scheme

  Pretend to march, Soren. That is what we must do!” It was just after the first rising shriek had been sounded by the brutish Great Horned Owl, who perched on one of the outcroppings. Soren and Gylfie had met at the stone ledge for morning food rations.

  “What do you mean, pretend to march?” Soren blinked. Between the horrible truth about his brother and missing his parents, Soren could hardly hear what Gylife was saying. His head was filled with the thoughts of his parents. It seemed as if every hour he found a new, more painful way to miss them. One, he decided, did not get used to missing parents. The thought of never seeing his mum or da again was the most unbearable thing he knew. And yet he could not stop thinking of them. He did not want to stop thinking of them. He would never stop thinking of them.

  “Listen to me, Soren. It came to me first that the reason for the march is because of the shadows cast from the high cliffs into the glaucidium, and the arch is always in the shadows. Right?”

  “Right.” Soren nodded.

  “We are forced to march so that no one group of owls will spend too much time under these shadowy shields against the moon’s light. I remembered what you said, how we must pretend to say our names but instead we actually repeat our numbers. And then it was easy. We have to pretend to march but never move, so we stay under the protection of the shadows. I suddenly remembered how my father, who was a great navigator, one of the best in the entire Desert of Kuneer, had tried to explain to me that stars and even the moon do not move in the way they seem to from our view on Earth. Some stars, my father said, even appear to stand still in the sky, but, in fact, they do move.”

  “Huh?” Soren grunted.

  “Look, I know it’s a little weird, but my da explained that this was because of the great distance that disguises in stillness a star’s motion. Even the moon, my father said, which is closer than many stars, is so distant that we cannot see the wobbles in its path as it glides through the night. So, don’t you see that if the motion of something as big as the moon could be disguised, well, couldn’t the motion of something as small as us be disguised?”

  A new light began to glimmer in Soren’s eyes. Gylfie grew more excited. “We can be like the stars, only in reverse. In other words, what would happen if we just stayed still and pretended to march—if we marched in place?”

  “What about the monitors?” Soren asked.

  “I’ve thought about that. The monitors always stand at the edges of the mass of marching owls. They don’t really see what is going on in the middle. I saw a Grass Owl stumble last night. No one said, ‘Oh, sorry’ or ‘Move it!’ or ‘You clumsy bird.’ All the owls simply parted and went around the Grass Owl. So what if we pretend to march and stay under the shadow of the arch each time? Get it? We would march in place and give the appearance of motion.”

  “It’s a great scheme, Gylfie!” Soren’s voice was filled with awe.

  “We’ll try it tonight. I can’t wait,” Gylfie said. “But I’m hungry now.”

  “This is it?” Soren blinked as a large rusty-colored owl shoved one dead cricket toward him on the stone ledge. “I mean, this is it!” Soren quickly said, correcting what had been a question, as he stared down at what St. Aggie’s called breakfast. No mouse meat, no fat worms—oh, for a hummingbird! But one cricket! This was ridiculous. He would starve.

  As the owlets stopped to eat, there was only the sound of their beaks crunching the crickets. Soren couldn’t believe that no one talked. Owlets always talked when they ate. His little sister, Eglantine, jabbered so much sometimes that his mum had to remind her to eat. “Eat the feet on that bug, Eglantine. Eat the feet. You talk so much you’re missing the very best part of the beetle.”

  So the silence began to bother him and there was indeed a terrible quiet to the stone canyons that made up St. Aggie’s. Always, of course, there was the hollow whistle of the wind and the endless clicking of talons on the hard rock surfaces. Other than that, there was not much sound. Instead, there was an overwhelming sense of being cut off, separated from Earth, and even from sky. Soren began to realize that the entire lives of these owls, if one could call it living, were carried out in the deep stone boxes and slots, the canyons and ravines of St. Aggie’s. There was very little water—just a trickle here and there into which they could dip their beaks for a drink. There were no leaves, no mosses that he could see, no grasses—none of the soft things that wrapped the world and made it tender and springy. It was a stone forest with its jagged outcroppings, rock needles, and spires and ledges.

  They had almost finished eating, so there was not even the clicking, just the sound of crickets being crunched. An owl next to him muttered, “I’d love a little piece of rat snake.”

  “Oooh.” Soren sighed and thought of Mrs. Plithiver. His family avoided serving snake out of respect for Mrs. Plithiver. Mrs. Plithiver said it was nonsense. “Show me a rat snake or a bull snake that anyone really loved.” She would say, “Don’t worry about my feelings. I have no feeling toward such snakes.” But still his parents avoided such foods. Soren’s father called it “species sensitivity.” Soren had no idea what that meant, except he didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Plithiver’s feelings and she had just said she had none. Soren, of course, didn’t really believe this. He thought Mrs. Plithiver had plenty of feelings. She was a most lovable creature, and his heart beat a little harder when he remembered her calling down to him from the hollow high in the fir tree. It almost made him cry to remember her voice. What had happened to her that night? Had Kludd done something to her as well? Or had she gotten away to get help? Did she miss him? Did his parents miss him? Once more, there was that sharp pain of missing and Soren nearly staggered with the very idea of never seeing his parents. Then he thought of Kludd and began to tremble all over again.

  “You all right?” Gylfie asked. She was so small that she barely reached up to Soren’s wing tips.

  “No, I’m not all right,” Soren gasped. “Nothing is right. Don’t you miss your parents? Don’t you wonder what they think happened to you?”

  “Yes, yes. I just can’t think about it,” Gylfie replied. “Listen, pull yourself together. We have o
ur Great Scheme, remember?”

  “What do you mean pull yourself together? Do you know what I just figured out about my brother?”

  “Look, we don’t have much time,” Gylfie said quickly. “Make sure you get assigned to the pelletorium.”

  “The pelletorium?” Soren said blankly.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Pelletorium

  Auntie Finny suddenly appeared. “Cricket hunter. You’re perfect. You see, here in our lovely stone country the cricket season is much longer. They hide in the nooks and crannies and then come out in the sunshine to bask in the heat of the day.”

  “Uh…” Soren started to speak. “I’m feeling a little peckish, you know, Auntie. I think maybe the pelletorium would be better for me.”

  “Oh, the pelletorium!” Auntie Finny looked slightly confused. She had never had an owlet suggest another workstation or training schedule. She looked at the Barn Owl. He didn’t look well. And if he failed as a cricket hunter, it would reflect poorly on her. And then again, if she fulfilled this owl’s request, it would perhaps put him in her debt. It was always good to have an owlet indebted to you. “Yes, yes. I suppose so.” She gazed at the young owl. Soren felt the soft yellow glow of her eyes. “Now, remember, dear, what I’ve done for you and remember the little”—she beaked the word—” ‘nap’ I allowed you.” The yellow light turned a bit hard like glinting gold. “Then follow that line over there into the pelletorium.”

  “I am 47-2. I am to be your guide for the pelletorium. Follow me.” The owlet spoke in a peculiar manner. Her sounds were clipped and hollow. It was not like the terrible thrum and clang of Jatt and Jutt, but it was like no owl sound Soren had ever heard.

  Soren and Gylfie followed number 47-2, who had begun to march. Soon, they heard the click of all the owlets’ talons as they struck the ground, for they were once more marching in time. Now the strange hollow tone in which 47-2 had spoken seemed to hover over the vast marching assembly of owlets. They were singing!