Lost Tales of Ga'Hoole (Guardians of Ga'Hoole) Page 5

  “I wish you could have seen me, Fritha,” Drusilla bragged. “I was ferocious!” She mimed slashing at another owl with her talon.

  “I’ll bet!” Fritha replied excitedly.

  Flinn saw Fritha’s eyes light up as she listened to Drusilla boast about having killed an owl for the first time. He wilfed. In that moment, Flinn knew that he would not, could not, let his daughter become like that.

  The next night, Flinn brought Fritha to the hot springs south of Pirates’ Lair. He found a small pool of tepid water in a natural depression in the ground.

  “Tonight, I will teach you how to wash all that dye off your feathers,” he told her.

  “So that I can dye myself different colors next time?”

  “No, Fritha.” Flinn had been thinking about his daughter and the great tree all day, and he had brought her here for a reason. “I don’t think you’ll want to paint your feathers for a while.”

  Fritha looked at him with inquiring eyes.

  “You know that in other parts of these kingdoms, owls don’t paint their feathers at all,” Flinn continued.

  “No other owls in all of the Northern and Southern Kingdoms paint their feathers, only we kraals do.” Fritha repeated one of the things that her father had taught her.

  “That’s right. And what if I told you that I think you would be happy in one of these other places?” Flinn didn’t know exactly how to tell his daughter what he was planning, but he went on. “I knew of an owl once, a little owl like you and me, who was as smart as any owl I had ever met. She came from a place far away from here, a place called the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. It’s in the Southern Kingdoms…”

  “What are you trying to say, Da? Am I going away?” Fritha asked nervously.

  Of course Fritha figured out his meaning immediately. She began to wilf, making herself even tinier than she already was. The last thing Flinn wanted to do was to make his daughter sad, but he had made up his mind.

  “Yes, Fritha. I’m sending you away to a better place.” He girded his gizzard, and had answered emphatically.

  “Sending? Does that mean you won’t be coming with me?” She wilfed completely.

  Her sadness broke his heart. “No, dear, I won’t. I’m an old kraal. What would the Guardians want with the likes of me?” he said wistfully. “I’ve lived all my life at the Pirates’ Lair, and, maybe, despite living on the fringes as I do, this is where I belong. But you…you deserve better.” He knew she would find little comfort in his words now, but he was sure he was doing the right thing. He went on. “That little owl I knew from the Great Ga’Hoole Tree was named Gylfie. She was the smartest owl I had ever met until you came along. You’re smart, Fritha, and this,” he gestured to the tundra, “is not where you belong.”

  When Fritha was done washing the dye from her feathers, she and Flinn flew a little ways farther south and met an old gadfeather friend of Freya’s. Flinn introduced the Snowy to his daughter as “Aunt Bea.”

  Before father and daughter parted ways, Flinn gave Fritha a little dose of courage.

  “You’re going to do great things at the great tree, Fritha,” he added as she and Aunt Bea were about to take off. “Don’t forget where you came from. And remember that you can always come home.”

  Flinn was quiet for several moments after telling his long tale to his grown daughter. She was not a little owlet anymore, and deserved to hear the story from him.

  “So now you know. Do you forgive me for sending you away?” he asked, fixing his aged but still-bright eyes on her.

  “Forgive? There is nothing to forgive, Da,” she replied with the slightest tremor in her voice. “I thank you, from the bottom of my gizzard.”

  It was getting late. The sky was beginning to grow light above them. They both knew that it was almost time for Fritha to head back to the great tree—her home. She would need a good day’s rest for the long and arduous journey ahead. They bid each other goodlight and nestled down close for one last sleep before her departure.

  Fritha was on the final leg of her return journey; she needed only to cross the Sea of Hoolemere to reach home. She rested one more time. Funny how she thought of the tree as home now, despite having been hatched in the Pirates’ Lair. While it felt good to be heading back, Fritha dreaded having to tell all her friends and rybs about her “visit with Aunt Bea.” She wished she could just tell them about her da—about what a great owl he was, and how much fun she had visiting him. It occurred to Fritha then, too, that her da ought to be able to see how she lived as a Guardian at the great tree, that he ought to see for himself just how right he had been to send her away.

  No more hiding! Fritha made up her mind as the Great Ga’Hoole Tree came into view over the horizon. She shouldn’t be ashamed of who she was or where she came from. She shouldn’t have to sneak off to spend time with her da. Sure, he was a kraal, but he was a kraal whom she loved and was proud to call Da. Fritha would tell everyone at the tree where she came from and who she was. The very thought lifted her, and her flight seemed instantaneously effortless. She glided toward the light of her hollow.

  When Fritha returned to the tree, she told us all of the double life she had been leading. It initially came as a shock to many—our very own Fritha, a kraal! But it did not make anyone think less of her. I, for one, could not be more proud of her. She has reminded me that no matter where we come from, we can grow in knowledge, virtue, and wisdom.

  So far is Fritha from hiding her past that, one night, I spotted her with a single primary feather dyed pink. She told me it was to mark the anniversary of her arrival at the great tree.

  I am pleased to inform my fellow Guardians and reading creatures everywhere that I just placed the following announcement in The Evening Hoot:

  FLINN, A KRAAL OF THE NORTHERN KINGDOMS,

  TO GUEST LECTURE AT

  THE GREAT GA’HOOLE TREE

  THE SEARCH-AND-RESCUE CHAW HAS A YEARLY TRADITION OF HOSTING A SPECIAL GUEST LECTURE SERIES, GIVEN BY AN OWL ACCOMPLISHED IN THE FIELD OF SEARCH-AND-RESCUE SCIENCES. THIS YEAR, THE GUEST LECTURER WILL BE FLINN, A PYGMY OWL AND KRAAL FROM THE NORTHERN KINGDOMS. FLINN SPECIALIZES IN VACUUM-ASSISTED TRANSPORT, OR VAT, A METHOD OF TRANSPORTING INJURED OR OTHERWISE FLIGHT-CHALLENGED OWLS THROUGH THE MANIPULATION OF AIR CURRENTS. FLINN IS THE FIRST KRAAL INVITED TO LECTURE AT THE GREAT TREE. IN ADDITION TO HIS LECTURE ON VAT, HE WILL TEACH SMALLER SEMINARS ON KRAAL HISTORY AND CULTURE, INCLUDING THE ARTS OF DYE MAKING AND FEATHER PAINTING. THIS EVENT IS OPEN TO OWLS OF ALL CHAWS AND IS AN EXCELLENT OPPORTUNITY FOR KNOWLEDGE SHARING. ALL OWLS ARE ENCOURAGED TO ATTEND. FURTHER, IT HAS BEEN DECIDED BY UNANIMOUS VOTE OF THE PARLIAMENT THAT AFTER FINISHING HIS SERIES OF LECTURES, FLINN IS INVITED TO TAKE UP RESIDENCE AT THE GREAT TREE IN THE HOLLOW ADJOINING THAT OF HIS DAUGHTER, FRITHA.

  THREE

  Uglamore Redeemed

  As a Guardian, I have known my share of noble and great owls. Some followed the honorable way from their first ceremony to their last, but others took a meandering path, finding nobility and goodness only at the end.

  I knew almost nothing of the brave owl named Uglamore until the time of his death. There I was, in the Beyond, witnessing one of the most heroic sacrifices ever known to owlkind. Until then, I had thought Uglamore was a just simple thug from the abominable Tytonic Union of Pure Ones. It was only with the help of Coryn, Gwyndor, Doc Finebeak, and several dire wolves who I shall not name that I was able to piece together his story. In the last moon cycle of his life in the Beyond, Uglamore, alone, tired, full of revulsion at the course his life had taken, spoke his despair into the bonfires of those other lonely creatures—the gnaw wolves of the Sacred Watch. They heard his mutterings and monologues, and later related them to me. On returning to the great tree, I spent hours in Coryn’s hollow, listening to his recollection of “Uncle Uglamore.” Coryn spoke of him with love and admiration. I hope now that Uglamore’s story is known, the rest of the world’s free creatures will as well.

  He was tired. His feathers wer
e tattered. He no longer had the strength to preen himself, and had not the company of other owls to do it for him.

  The old Barn Owl named Uglamore was perched on an outcropping just beyond the dancing flames of the gnaw wolves’ bonfire. Thoughts, memories, regrets assailed him. He hardly knew when he was speaking aloud to the flames, and when his words sounded only in his mind. Some memories seared his gizzard with shame and he tried to veer from them. Others were merely annoying. A precious few were tender.

  Just now he was thinking about the name he was given at his hatching, as he often did these days when finding himself alone. He had almost forgotten it in all his years of soldiering. Bartholomew. How he had hated that name. Even worse was what his mother used to call him when he was a chick: Bartimoo. He shuddered as he remembered the sound of her voice as she said that word, and shook out his primaries reflexively. His father had also been Bartholomew, so had his grandfather, and his great-grandfather before that. As a young owl, he had always been disappointed that his parents couldn’t come up with something more creative, more original.

  When he and his mum first joined the Tytonic Union, he was still a fledgling. His father had just died, and his mum had told him how nice it would be to join other “like-minded” owls. Bartholomew was one of many young Barn Owls who were new to the Pure Ones. He had told all his new friends that his name was Shadow. After all, he had come from the southern edge of the Shadow Forest, where his family lived in a hollow of a pine tree on the bank of a pond. In fact, he had gotten to like the sound of the name—dark, mysterious, and formidable, perfect for a young ruffian such as himself, and perfect, too, for a newly pledged Pure One.

  But Bartholomew would soon find out for himself that it didn’t matter what name he came up with, he would be given a new one by the Tytonic Union. And that new name would define him as a full-fledged member of the Pure Ones. Whatever it is, it has to be better than Bartimoo, he had thought at the time.

  He thought long and hard about the perfect Tyto Alba name. It certainly wasn’t Bartholomew. Shadow was good, but not great. He wondered what the High Tyto’s real name was—owls only called him High Tyto or His Pureness. Whatever it was, Bartholomew decided, it must have been fierce-sounding and very pure. The perfect name for a Tyto Alba, Bartholomew decided, was Tytus—the ultimate name for a Barn Owl and a devoted Pure One such as himself. He considered Albus, too, but decided that it sounded too meek.

  As the occasion of his naming neared, he tried to drop hints, and he probably wasn’t too subtle about it. Once, when he knew the High Tyto to be within earshot, he said rather loudly to one of his fellow young recruits, “You know what I think is a fantastic name for a soldier of the Tytonic Union? Tytus. Wouldn’t it be a great honor to the High Tyto to have a loyal servant named Tytus?”

  His companion, another Barn Owl called Junior, looked at him like he was a warbling idiot. And His Pureness, the High Tyto, flew off without paying Bartholomew even a modicum of attention.

  The night of his naming finally came after Bartholomew and his mum had been with the Pure Ones for many seemingly endless moon cycles. He was as excited as a chick at his First-Meat-on-Bones ceremony and slept barely a wink the day before. He remembered some of his Firsts in the old days in the Shadow Forest, and how special those ceremonies made him feel. But to the Pure Ones, the naming warranted no ceremony, it was just another task to be carried out. As the moon rose in the sky, High Tyto and his mate appeared before the three owls who were to be named—Bartholomew, Junior, and one other young Barn Owl.

  “It is time for the three of you to begin your proper training as full-fledged Pure Ones,” the High Tyto began. “From now on, you will only be known by your Tytonic Union names and will forget any previous name you have ever had.” His mate gave a disinterested nod.

  The High Tyto approached the owl known as Junior. “You will henceforth be known as Stryker.”

  Junior nodded and bowed his head. “I will not let you down, High Tyto.”

  Stryker—a good name, a powerful name, thought Bartholomew.

  “You,” the High Tyto was now addressing the Barn Owl next to Bartholomew, “you will henceforth be known as Wortmore.”

  Wortmore?! What kind of name is Wortmore? Bartholomew almost let out a churr. Oh, it would have been a bad time to be caught churring, and he knew it. Wortmore bowed his head, just as Stryker had.

  At last, the High Tyto landed in front of Bartholomew. The young owl felt as if his gizzard was about to climb out of his body through his beak. This is it, he thought, I’ll finally be free of this horrid name. Good-bye Bartholomew! Good-bye Bartimoo! Come on, Tytus, say Tytus.…

  “And you,” the High Tyto leaned in. Bartholomew’s eyes widened with anticipation. “From this night forward, your name shall be Uglamore.”

  Bartholomew’s only response was to yarp a pellet right in front of the High Tyto. It almost hit His Pureness in the chest. The young Barn Owl was stunned. “Sorry, High Tyto…I mean, thank you. Thank you, High Tyto, I’m…I’m honored, Your Pureness.”

  If there was a name worse than Wortmore, worse than Bartholomew or even Bartimoo, the High Tyto had found it.

  Uglamore I was named, and Uglamore I became.

  Over the years, Uglamore had gotten used to being called by his Tytonic Union name. He even liked it some days, like when Nyroc said it. In fact, many things seemed to change after the little chick was born. When he was merely days old, he had tried to say “Uglamore,” except, in the garbled speech of the tiny owlet, it sounded more like “Oolamoo.” It brought warmth to Uglamore’s old gizzard.

  How carefully had the name Nyroc been chosen for him, Uglamore recalled. When Nyra had first laid the egg, the “Sacred Orb” as she had called it, she had desperately wanted the hatch day to fall on the night of an eclipse. Because then, the little chick would join a most exclusive group: the Nyrolian owls, those owls hatched during an eclipse.

  As the night of the eclipse neared, Nyra became fixated on the egg.

  Uglamore was sure that Nyra had pecked at that egg to cause it to hatch before it was truly ready—an act that only the worst of owl mothers would even consider. It was the first of many perversions she would practice, Uglamore thought grimly: hate instead of love; mindless obedience instead of free thought; murder instead of friendship. He had felt sorry for the little chick even back then.

  Just before the sun climbed over the horizon, Nyra announced that her son had hatched. Nyroc, she predictably called him, after herself. Maybe Uglamore shared a bond with Nyroc because they were both destined to their names—he after his father and his father’s father, the young chick after his mother. Or perhaps he felt the bond because he and Nyroc were both fatherless. Who can say for sure? What he was certain of was that he felt an attachment to this chick that he could not explain, an attachment that was stronger than any he had felt since he joined the Tytonic Union of Pure Ones. What was more peculiar was his sense that this chick was different from any others he had ever known. When Nyroc looked into Uglamore’s eyes, Uglamore felt as if his gizzard were being scoured, but it was a gentle scouring, so unlike the caustic gaze of the little one’s mother, Nyra. He felt like his truest self—whatever that was—whenever he was near the hatchling. These were strange thoughts for a Pure One, that he knew.

  Maybe because that connection was clear to all those who saw them, or maybe just because his best fighting days were behind him, Nyra began to entrust little Nyroc to Uglamore’s care. Nyroc needed a father figure, anyone could see that, and Uglamore was happy to take on that role. She even told the chick to call him “Uncle Uglamore”—a title he outwardly objected to among the lieutenants, but inwardly held dear. Stryker had mocked him, calling him “Colonel Broody.” He shook that off like rain on his feathers.

  Since the original Tytonic Union of Pure Ones was reduced to remnants through their defeat in the battle known as The Burning, his job as “Uncle Uglamore” became more important to him than even achieving the ran
k of colonel—a goal that he had had since before he got the name Uglamore. Thankfully, when Nyra wasn’t hags-bent on training Nyroc to be the perfect Pure One, she entrusted him to Uglamore without question.

  As the hatchling grew, it became abundantly clear that Uglamore was more like a father to him than his real father, Kludd, could ever have been. Uglamore’s own father had died before little Bartholomew’s First-Meat-on-Bones ceremony, and Uglamore scarcely remembered the owl these days. His mother had kept him fed and safe, but she didn’t do much beyond that.

  Nyra was a different breed of mother entirely. She saw her son as a weapon that needed to be forged and honed rather than as a little owl who needed love and caring.

  On the occasion of Nyroc’s first flying lesson, Nyra berated him for being too slow and too loud. Unbelievable, thought Uglamore, the chick had flown better on his first try than most owlets do after half a moon cycle of lessons. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for the little one, and he couldn’t help but grow weary of Nyra and her ways. Her expectations for Nyroc and the way she treated him made Ulgamore’s gizzard shudder. He remembered clearly the little one’s sadness.

  “I’ll never be as good as Mum…I mean, as General Mam wants me to be. And all these owls my own age think I’m a Goody Two-claws,” Nyroc had complained to Uglamore before lighting down in his nest.

  “Don’t mind them, Nyroc. There are owls other than these, owls who know better.”

  Nyroc looked at him questioningly. “What do you mean, Uncle Ulgamore?”

  What did I mean? Uglamore realized right then that he had been thinking about the Guardians of Ga’Hoole when he was speaking. Sure, there were owls other than the Pure Ones, but had he gone yoicks to be telling the little one that those owls—of whom it was forbidden even to speak—were better? Those owls, who had out smarted and practically obliterated the Pure Ones during the Battle of the Burning? Those owls, who did not have the rigid social structure that the Pure Ones had? But maybe, if Nyroc were being raised by those owls, he’d be all the better for it.