The Capture Page 7

  “I’m sorry. But I still don’t see how we’re going to avoid the moonlight in here.”

  “We have to think.”

  “But that is just what it is impossible to do when one is moon blinked, Gylfie. I think this is it for us.” Soren looked down at Gylfie and, even as he said it, he felt a strange numbness stealing over him. And Gylfie’s eyes began to blink in an odd manner.

  In the blaze of the moon’s light, the two young owls felt their essence departing. Soren’s brain swam with confusion. His gizzard seemed to grow still. He looked at the moon-blasted walls of the stone cell and they appeared slippery, slippery as ice, and on this ice of the moon’s light he felt his memories slip, slip, slipping away. He wanted to grab on to them with his talons, hold them, but he was simply too tired. He was about to fall asleep and when he awoke he knew he would be a changed owl. He would be unrecognizable to himself. He would truly have become 12-1 and Gylfie, too, would no longer be Gylfie but a number, 25-2—rhymes with Ga’Hoole!

  There was a click inside Soren’s head. The moment he had thought of the word Ga’Hoole something seemed to clear in his brain. His gizzard stirred. Ga’Hoole. The mere mention of the Ga’Hoole legends had made Auntie Finny faint, but the mere thought of the word crashed like thunder and seemed to wake Soren up.

  “Gylfie! Gylfie!” He nudged the tiny owl with one of his talons. “Gylfie, have you ever heard of the legends of Ga’Hoole?” Gylfie, whose movements seemed thick and slow, suddenly twitched. Soren could almost see a pulse course through the little owl, jerking her into alertness.

  “Ga’Hoole—why, yes. My mother and father would often tell us tales. Tales of Yore we called them.”

  “We called them legends—the Ga’Hoolian legends.” With each mention of the word, the young owls seemed to grow slightly more alert, something within them quickening.

  “I think,” said Soren, “that we should tell those Tales of Yore until the moon goes down, and maybe these words will thin the full shine and be our shield against this scalding.”

  Gylfie looked at Soren in wonder. However did this Barn Owl come upon these ideas?!

  And so Soren began…

  “Once upon a time, before there were kingdoms of owls, in a time of ever-raging wars, there was an owl born in the country of the Great North Waters and his name was Hoole. Some say there was an enchantment cast upon him at the time of his hatching, that he was given natural gifts of extraordinary power. But what was known of this owl was that he inspired other owls to great and noble deeds and that, although he wore no crown of gold, the owls knew him as a king, for indeed his good grace and conscience anointed him and his spirit was his crown. In a wood of straight tall trees he had hatched, in a glimmering time when the seconds slow between the last minute of the old year and the first of the new, and the forest on this night was sheathed in ice.”

  Soren’s voice was hushed and lovely as he told the tale of the first legend of Ga’Hoole, the “Coming of Hoole.” The two little owls’ hearts grew strong, their brains cleared, and their gizzards once again quickened.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Perfection!

  I think it’s working,” the Screech Owl Spoorn said to the Ablah General, Skench. From their stone perches high above the moon blaze cell, Skench and Spoorn looked down on Soren and Gylfie. They could not hear the hushed tale that Soren was repeating and the two young owls were careful to stand very still. When the moon finally slipped down in the night sky, Skench and Spoorn alighted onto the floor of the moon blaze cell and peered into each of the owl’s eyes.

  “Perfect!” Spoorn declared.

  “We are perfect,” Gylfie replied. “We are so pleased to be perfect for our masters. Number 25-2 feels quite perfect and complete.”

  Soren picked up the cue. “Number 12-1 also feels perfect. We await your commands.”

  “Come along, little ones. I knew you could do it,” Spoorn said. This was the most kindly tone either Soren or Gylfie had ever heard Spoorn use.

  “Next thing you know, you’ll be having your Specialness ceremony.”

  Racdrops! thought Gylfie.

  “You know, Spoorn,” Skench was saying, “these two were marked as haggards from the start, or at least the Barn Owl was, and sometimes I think that a haggard once scalded actually makes a better servant to our cause.”

  Dream on, you addle-brained idiot bird. The words roared silently in Soren’s head.

  “I am thinking of the little one for battle claw maintenance and the Barn Owl for the eggorium.”

  “Or maybe even the hatchery for the little one.”

  Hatchery! Eggorium! Battle claws! Soren and Gylfie were suddenly very alert. Yet they managed to walk in the dazed manner of the perfectly moon blinked.

  “You know,” Skench continued, “I think we need to put them in the same stone pit and the same glaucidium—reinforced moon scalding. If they look into each other’s eyes, I think it has been proven that it reinforces the effects of the scalding.”

  Ha! Gylfie nearly laughed out loud.

  So the two young owls were returned to Soren’s glaucidium, and Jatt and Jutt were duly informed that these two were to be together and periodically made to gaze into each other’s eyes. “All right, you two!” barked Jutt. “Face off!”

  And neither Jatt nor Jutt could see the twinkle deep within each of the young owl’s eyes, nor did they hear Soren say, as they turned their backs, “We did it, Gylfie. We did it.”

  So once more the days slipped into the nights, and the nights became dark links in the silver chain of the moon as it cycled through its dwenkings and full shines, sometimes appearing as an immense, throbbing, bright globe, at other times as thin as the finest thread of down filament from an owl’s breast. Patiently, they waited for their flight feathers to grow in. Each day, Soren would do a quick inventory of what he had, what showed promise. His flight feathers were definitely advancing, perhaps not fully fledged, but definitely out there. When he flipped his head back, as owls could do, and rotated it, he could get a good view of his tail feathers, and when no one was looking, he would practice rotating and ruddering maneuvers. There would, of course, be no First Flight ceremonies. In fact, Soren lived in perpetual dread of being informed in a most unceremonious way that he was not “destined” for flight as, apparently, the Spotted Owl, 12-8, formerly Hortense, had been. This, she always said, was due to her top secret status that had something to do with being a broody.

  “Think of all we’ve learned, Soren,” Gylfie said one day, after having served in the battle claws chamber. She seemed blithely confident that when the time came for them to fly they would, and that it was much more important to survey the entire range of canyons and gulches that composed St. Aggie’s, so that when they were ready they could escape, never be caught again, and warn others. “Let me tell you what I’ve learned today in the battle claws chamber…”

  Soren indulged Gylfie and let her run on. “Well,” she began, “they have the battle claws that fit over their talons but they don’t make them themselves. They can sort of repair them but basically they have to scavenge them from other places, other battlefields.”

  “But what other battlefields? Look, Gylfie, I didn’t live long in Tyto but I never saw or heard my parents talk about any battles. Did you ever hear your parents talk of any?”

  Gylfie thought hard. “No. No, I didn’t,” she said slowly. “And when we were snatched they weren’t wearing them.”

  “They would hardly need them for us. We were nestlings. Our own talons were not even hardened off.” Gylfie blinked at Soren as if he had just said something astonishing. She remained silent for a moment.

  “That’s just it, isn’t it, Soren? They didn’t need them for us. No. But they needed us and these battle claws for something bigger…much bigger. Remember in the third legend of the Ga’Hoolian cycle when the sea serpents that could walk upon the land and swim in the sea started to form their plan? Remember how they wanted to drag the entire w
orld of owls and birds into the sea, so that they could reign on both land and sea?”

  “Yes,” Soren said quietly.

  “I think they are planning something big like that.”

  Soren started to say that the story of the serpents was just a legend and not true, that such sea creatures did not exist. But then he realized deep within himself it didn’t really matter. These owls did exist and maybe they wanted just what the imaginary creatures of the legends wanted. Soren had a horrible vision of the entire forest kingdom of Tyto and the desert kingdom of Kuneer and all the owl kingdoms being swirled into this stone world of St. Aggie’s.

  “So,” Gylfie continued, “when we do escape, Soren, we must know as much as we can. We must know about flecks and why they are more precious than gold, and what they plan to do to the kingdoms of owls. It is going to be our duty to warn the rest of the owl kingdoms. Don’t worry about flying now. Think about how much we are learning. Look, we know the pelletorium inside out, we’ve been on cricket detail, now battle claws; the last area we have to crack—pardon the pun—is the eggorium and that broody place.”

  “Top secret. Remember.”

  “As if 12-8 would ever let us forget. Oh, Glaux, here she comes now. Hang on, Soren, I’m going to try some of my charm.” Gylfie winked and then the dull light of a moon-blinked owl stole into her eyes.

  Soren watched as Gylfie, in the semblance of the perfectly moon-blinked owl, trotted up to Hortense. “12-8, you appear calm and satisfied from the perfection of performing your duty well. I cannot imagine that your Specialness ceremony is far off.”

  “I do not need a ceremony to feel special. For you see, 25-2, I am entrusted with the most sacred and vital of tasks for our beloved St. Aggie’s community.”

  “Yes, that must be so. 12-1 and I would feel it an honor to serve in such a manner. But then again we do not have the qualifications, the obvious talents of you, 12-8. Ah, to be the vessel of such trust.”

  12-8 seemed to swell with pride before their eyes. A pit monitor suddenly swooped down. “Humbleness correction, humility check, dear.” It was a smallish, whiskered Screech Owl. Her amber eyes blinked a warning out of her bristly face. 12-8 seemed to shrink to half her size instantly. “Oh, I beg your pardon. It is pride in my work, not pride in myself. I remain a humble servant to a great cause.”

  “Yes, a great cause.” Gylfie repeated the words, and although it was a statement, Soren really heard a question at the center. What was this great cause?

  “Yes, that’s better, dear.” The whiskered Screech Owl nodded and floated off to a higher perch in the stone pit.

  Gylfie felt that the moment was right. “You are the last owl in the world that I would ever say lacked humility, 12-8. You are for my friend and myself a perfect example of humility. You are beyond humbleness! You are…” Gylfie was madly searching for a word. What’s she going to say next? Soren couldn’t imagine. He had never seen such a demonstration of outrageous fawning. “You are subglaucious.” 12-8 blinked at the word as did Soren, who had no idea what subglaucious meant. “We, my friend and I, only wish that we could serve in the eggorium and thus attain such humbleness as yourself.”

  “Your words are kind, 25-2. I shall hope that they might encourage me in my continuing quest for humility while in service to a great cause.” She wandered off looking a tad more moon blinked than before, if that was possible.

  “What in Glaux’s name is subglaucious?” Soren said as soon as she was out of earshot.

  “No idea. I made it up. We’ve got to get into that eggorium and the hatchery,” Gylfie replied, and the twinkle returned to her eyes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Eggorium

  The following day, Soren was back at his post in the pelletorium. Indeed, he had been promoted to a second-degree picker and was now appalled to find himself reciting the exact same words to a new owlet that 47-2 had said to him upon arriving. “I am 12-1. I am to be your guide for the pelletorium. Follow me.” He spoke in the same peculiar manner. The hollow, clipped sounds came naturally to him now. So when Gylfie came up with a tray of fresh pellets, he was perhaps more than ready to listen to her suggestions of a possible new worksite.

  “The eggorium. I think I found us an entry-level position. Egg sorting. Fellow in the pellet storage area told me about it. Mite blight in the hatchery.”

  “So what does that mean?” Soren asked.

  “I’m not sure. All I know is that they had to take owls off duty in the eggorium and put them in the hatchery.”

  “I still don’t really understand what they do in either one of those places. Not to mention, what are these flecks that the first-degree pickers pick? It’s like a puzzle that never seems to quite come together. It’s as if we have all these pieces of things, but are we any closer to knowing what this place is about and how to get out of it, or if we’ll ever learn to fly?” Soren was getting more and more agitated as he spoke.

  “Try to keep calm, Soren. I just have a feeling that we’re close to something.”

  Soren and Gylfie stood in a small antechamber. Above them perched a large Snowy Owl.

  “Welcome to the eggorium!” the Snowy hooted deeply. “To work in the eggorium and the hatchery is the highest of honors. You have been given temporary top secret clearance. We are in a bit of a bind these days as we have had an epidemic of mite blight. For this reason you shall not be given a DNF, or Destined Not to Fly ranking, but you shall have to undergo a procedure at the end of your term, which, although not painful, shall make you forget the information that you shall be exposed to here.”

  “Moon scalding,” Gylfie whispered. “But we know how to handle that.”

  “Right.” Soren was still weak with relief over not being a DNF.

  “And now into the eggorium. Please follow me.” The Snowy hooted softly.

  There was a collective gasp from all the owls. For even a perfectly moon-blinked owl could not help but be stunned by the scene before them. Thousands upon thousands of eggs were being sorted, eggs of all sizes and all pure white, glistening now in the moonlight. And as they sorted, they sang a song.

  By these eggs we set a store

  We sort them out and ask for more.

  Pygmy, Elf, Spotted, and Snowy

  Make our gizzards get all glowie.

  Barn Owls, Great Grays, Barred, and Screech

  Give our hearts an extra beat.

  The work’s top secret, that is true,

  But we are the best—the eggorium crew!

  Don’t give a hoot that no one flies

  For upon these eggs the future relies.

  Such is our noble destiny

  To guard St. Aggie’s through eternity!

  The instructions were simple. For this first phase, each of them was to look for eggs of their own species, as these would be the easiest for them to identify. Thus Soren was to sort out Barn Owl eggs and Gylfie was to sort out Elf Owl eggs. They were to roll the eggs into a designated area. From there, they would be transported by larger and more experienced owls to the hatchery.

  Soren was simply aghast. This was exactly what he had overheard his mother and father talking about—egg snatching. “Unspeakable!” That was the word his mother had used. Unspeakable. But here it was, right before his very eyes. He began to tremble. There was a sickening feeling in his gizzard.

  “Don’t go yeep on me,” Gylfie hissed.

  “How can I go yeep? I don’t even know how to fly yet.”

  Going yeep, as every owl and bird knew, was a term for when one’s wings seemed to lock, when a bird lost its instincts and could no longer fly and would suddenly plummet to the ground.

  As loathsome as the work was, it was pretty easy. However, Soren could not help but wonder with each Barn Owl egg he found where it had come from in Tyto. Did his parents know this owl egg’s parents? Luckily, the Barn Owl egg station and the Elf Owl station were not that far apart. So as Soren and Gylfie arrived at their respective stations, rolling their
eggs, they would exchange a word or two. “I haven’t seen 12-8, Hortense,” Soren said.

  “She’s not here. She’s in the hatchery. That’s where the broodies are—they sit on the eggs. We’ve got to get in there.”

  “How do you plan to do that?” Soren asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll think of something,” Gylfie said.

  Just before their shift ended, Gylfie thought of something.

  “You!”

  “Me what?” Soren asked.

  “You’re a perfect broody.”

  “What? Me a broody? Have you gone yoicks? I’m a male owl. Male owls don’t sit nests.”

  “They do occasionally—in very cold climates sometimes.”

  “Well, this isn’t an especially cold climate. Why not you?”

  “They don’t need an Elf Owl now but they do need a Barn Owl. I heard them talking and, by the way, they have plenty of male owls up there sitting on nests.”

  “What do you mean by ‘up there’? Up where?”

  “Up there, Soren. I think it’s higher than the library…I think it’s very close to the sky. I think…” Gylfie paused for dramatic effect. “We could fly from up there.”

  Soren felt his gizzard give a lurch. “I’ll go!”

  “Good fella!” Gylfie gave Soren a friendly cuff, although she was so short she could hardly reach his wing. But it seemed like a really male owl thing to do and she wanted to assure Soren that, although he was going to be a broody, he was still one tough little owl. “And I myself plan on getting promoted to moss tender.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Hatchery

  It was Soren’s second night on the job. He actually worked a shift with three other Barn Owls, one of whom was male. When it was a night shift, he did not have to report to the glaucidium. It wasn’t quite as humiliating as he had thought. There certainly was a constant stream of food. Broodies were well tended. Someone was always coming by, clucking, “How about a nice fat worm, just flown in from Tyto, a bit of snake, a vole, red squirrel.” No, the eating was definitely good in the hatchery. Gylfie did manage to get herself in as a moss tender. And if their shifts coincided, there was plenty of time to talk, as Gylfie made extra trips to tuck moss and bits of fluff into Soren’s nest. Soren had four eggs in his nest, which seemed a tad crammed. He thought mostly there were two or three eggs to a Barn Owl’s nest. But then again, what did he know? Just as he was beginning to think on this, the second night, that it wasn’t so bad, the Barn Owl on the nest next to him spoke in that empty moon-blinked voice, “Crack alert! Crack alert. Egg tooth visible.”