The Capture Page 8

  Two Barred Owls came hustling over. Soren felt his gizzard twinge with excitement. He leaned out of his nest to take a peek. The egg was giving those familiar shudders—just like Eglantine’s egg had, which now seemed so long ago. But no one seemed at all excited. No one was gasping with joy, saying, “It’s coming! It’s coming!”

  The egg was rocking now. Soren could see the little hole and the egg tooth, pale and glistening, poking out.

  “All right,” said the first Barred Owl in a cool voice. “Enough with that egg tooth. Let’s crack it.” And with that, the two Barred Owls gave solid thwacks with their talons. The egg split. Then one of the Barred Owls hooked the slimy white blob with its talon and firmly pulled it out while the other one turned the shell up. “Bottoms up!” the owl said crisply, and she dumped out the hatchling.

  Soren was so shocked he could barely breathe. No one exclaimed “It’s a girl!” No one said “adorable” or “enchanting.” No one said anything except “Number 401-2.”

  The other Barred Owl nodded in response. “So we’re into the four hundred sequence with the Barn Owls, now.”

  “Yes, what an accomplishment,” sighed the one who had numbered this little owlet. Soren felt a rage. Accomplishment! This was the most horrid, despicable thing he had ever witnessed. A coldness that began in his gizzard seemed to creep through Soren from his new tail feathers up to his wing tips and down to his talons. He realized that he would rather see this little owl dead than alive in St. Aggie’s. They had to get out. He and Gylfie had to get out. They must learn to fly. Where was Gylfie? She was on this shift. He wished she could come by and see this. He craned his head about but there was no sign of the little Elf Owl.

  It was the stillest time of the moonless night, and on break Gylfie had stepped into a large crack in the rock, perfect for hiding an Elf Owl. She was watching Hortense. Hortense had proven herself to be such an exceptional broody that she had been given a big nest on a large outcropping of stone somewhat away from the others, where there was more room. She had become very adept at spreading herself over several eggs at a time. It was a change in shift for moss tenders in Gylfie’s area so it would be a while before any came by.

  And now the Spotted Owl, who was indeed large for an owl her age, was doing something rather odd. She had actually stepped off her nest, and it appeared to Gylfie as if she were trying to dislodge an egg from the nest. Gylfie blinked and blinked again. Gylfie nearly gasped out loud as she saw 12-8 gently roll the egg to the edge of the stone outcropping. Then, out of the blackness of this moonless night, there appeared a spot of dazzling white—just a spot like a tiny moon floating in the darkness, a tiny feathered moon! Gylfie’s eyes widened. It was the head of a bald eagle. She had seen them in the desert. This one was huge and had a wingspan that was immense. It alighted on the ledge and silently picked up the egg in its talons. Not a word was exchanged. Indeed, the only thing that Gylfie heard was a soft sigh in the night as 12-8 climbed back on her nest.

  Gylfie and Soren finally met up at dawn when they were both due to go off their shifts. They each were so eager to talk about their experiences that they began to argue as to who would go first. Finally, Gylfie hissed her news. “12-8! She’s an infiltrator!”

  “What?” Soren was stunned. His beak dropped open. The story of the horrific hatching seemed like nothing compared to this.

  “A spy,” Gylfie said in a throaty voice.

  “Wait. Are we talking about the same owl? Hortense? Number 12-8?”

  “She’s no more 12-8 than I’m 25-2 or you’re—what’s your number? I keep forgetting.”

  “12-1,” Soren said dimly. “Hush, here she comes now.”

  Hortense walked by and then stopped. “I hear, number 12-1, that you are doing an admirable job as a broody. It is the most rewarding work. Each little egg that I bring to hatching makes me feel satisfied in a most humble way.”

  “Thank you, 12-8,” Soren replied numbly. Then the Spotted Owl turned to Gylfie. “And I understand that you are an excellent moss tender. You, too, might advance to become a broody for small eggs. I am sure you shall find complete fulfillment in this task.”

  Gylfie nodded mutely.

  What an actress!

  For the next two nights, Soren and Gylfie argued about how they would confront Hortense.

  “I think we should just go up to her when she’s alone,” Gylfie said. “And we say, ‘Hortense, it has come to our attention…’”

  “What do you mean ‘come to our attention’? You spied on her, Gylfie. That could make her nervous, ‘the come to our attention’ bit. She might think a lot of owls have seen her.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Why do we have to confront her at all?”

  “Why? Well, what if she’s part of something here? What if there are twenty Hortenses in St. Aggie’s? What if there is some hidden network of…of disgruntled unmoon-blinked owls? Maybe they’re planning a revolution.”

  “What’s a revolution?” Soren asked, and Gylfie blinked.

  “It’s kind of like war but the sides aren’t exactly equal. It’s like the little fellows rising up against the big baddies,” Gylfie said.

  “Oh,” said Soren.

  “Look,” Gylfie said, “we have to make friends, real friends, with Hortense. Her nest is in the highest place in St. Aggie’s. That’s where we’re going to leave from.” Gylfie paused and walked right under Soren’s beak. “Look down at me, Soren.”

  “What?”

  “Soren, we’ve got to learn how to fly. Now!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Hortense’s Story

  But first, they had to talk to Hortense. It was not, of course, just a question of picking the right moment but the right words. The moment was easy enough. The following evening, Soren and Gylfie managed to synchronize their schedules so that Soren had a break from his broody chores while Gylfie was still on moss-tending duty. Soren requested permission to help his friend deliver moss, which was granted, as there were still shortages in both the hatchery and the eggorium. Together, the two owls made their way up to the distant outcropping where Hortense sat this evening on a large nest with at least eight eggs in it.

  “Phew!” Soren sighed. “Some hike up here.”

  “Nothing to it.” Gylfie hopped along. “You get used to it. All right, now, you know the drill. You begin.”

  It was Soren who had thought of the opening words—or word. The opening word was a name: “Hortense.” And the speech was simple.

  They were now approaching the top of the outcrop. The wind was strong. Indeed, it was the first time that Soren had felt the wind since he had arrived at St. Aggie’s. Silvery dark clouds raced against the sky. This was where owls belonged—up high with the wind and the sky and the stars that swirled in the night. He felt invigorated and confident.

  “Welcome 25-2 and 12-1 to my humble abode.”

  Soren dropped the moss from his beak onto the nest, and Hortense began tucking it into the niches and gaps. “Hortense!”

  Hortense looked up and blinked at him. Her yellow eyes thickened with the moon-blink gaze.

  “Hortense, this is not humble, this is where owls belong—high, near the wind, near the sky, close to the heartbeat of the night.” Amazing, Gylfie thought. Soren might not know the word “revolution” but this owl could talk. “Hortense, you are an owl, a Spotted Owl.”

  “I am number 12-8.”

  “No you’re not, Hortense,” Soren said, and this was Gylfie’s cue.

  “Hortense, cut the pellets. You are Hortense and I saw you acting not as 12-8 but as Hortense, the brave, imaginative Spotted Owl. I saw you deliver an egg from this nest to an eagle.”

  At that moment, Hortense blinked again and the daze lifted from her eyes, simply evaporated like fog on a sunny day. “You saw?”

  “I saw, Hortense,” Gylfie said gently. “You are no more moon blinked than we are.”

  “I had my suspicions about you two,” Hortense said softly. H
er eyes seemed to lose their brittle stare. Indeed, Soren thought they were the loveliest owl eyes he had ever seen. Deep brown like the still pool in the forest that he had seen from his family’s nest in the fir tree. But there was also a kind of flickering light in them. Speckles of white dotted the crown of her head and her entire body seemed dappled in shades of amber and brown, shot through with spots of white like blurry stars.

  “We never suspected you,” Soren added quickly. “That is, until Gylfie saw you that night.”

  “Are there any other owls here that are un-moon blinked?” Gylfie asked.

  “We’re the only three, I think.”

  “How did you get here? How did you resist moon blinking?”

  “It’s a long story how I got here. And, as to how I resisted moon blinking, well, I’m not sure. You see, where I come from there is a stream, and the flecks that they pick from pellets run heavily in that stream.”

  “What are the flecks?” Gylfie asked.

  “I’m not sure of that, either. They can be found in rocks and soil and water. They seem to occur everywhere, but in our part of the Kingdom of Ambala there is a large deposit that runs through the creeks and rivers. It is both a blessing and a curse. Some of us have unusual powers because of the flecks, we think, but for others it disrupts their navigational abilities to fly true courses. I had a grandmother who eventually lost her wits entirely, but before that she hatched my father, who could see through rock.”

  “What? Impossible!”

  “No, it’s true, yet my brother went blind at an early age. So one never knew how it might affect them. I think in my case it perhaps made me resistant to moon blinking. But that doesn’t explain how I got here. It was no accident. I chose to come.”

  “You chose to come?” Gylfie and Soren both gasped.

  “I told you it’s a long story.”

  “I’m on break,” Soren said.

  “And they’re short on monitors. I won’t be missed,” Gylfie added.

  “Well, first of all, I am much older than I appear. I am a fully mature owl.”

  “What?!” Soren and Gylfie both said with complete disbelief.

  “Yes, it’s true. I hatched almost four years ago.”

  “Four years ago!” Soren said.

  “Yes, indeed, but perhaps one of the effects of the flecks on me was that I was always small, small as an owlet, and never really grew to be much bigger than owlet size. My feathers were delayed coming in, and, of course, I have further delayed them.” At this point, Hortense stuck her beak into the nest and pulled out a lovely brown-andwhite Spotted Owl feather.

  “Is that from a molt?” Soren asked. He had molted when he had shed his first down. There had been a First Molting ceremony, and his mother had saved those baby feathers in a special place.

  “No, not a molt. I pull them out myself.”

  “You pluck yourself?!” Soren and Gylfie gasped in horror.

  “Well,” she laughed, and the churr sound of a Spotted Owl’s laughter was indeed a lovely sound that no moon-blinked owl could ever make. “I am,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “a DNF.”

  “Destined Not to Fly.” Soren said the words softly.

  “Yes, because of my top secret work, but also because of my delayed feather development. So I was a natural.”

  “A natural for what?” Gylfie asked.

  “To come here. To find out what was going on. You see, in the Forest of Ambala, our losses due to St. Aggie’s patrols had become increasingly heavy. We had been losing baby owlets and eggs at an astonishing rate. Something had to be done. And this, of course, meant sacrifices. One of our bravest owls had followed a St. Aggie’s patrol and discovered this maze of stone canyons in which they lived. That particular owl, Cedric, had sacrificed an egg from his and his mate’s nest just so he could follow them.

  “I volunteered for service as well. I figured that I probably wouldn’t have much of a normal life, what with my delayed feather development, and then when my feathers finally did come in, they just didn’t seem to work that well. No power, no lift, shaky drag capabilities. I could hardly manage anything but the shortest of flights. Who would have me as a mate? What kind of mother would I make, not being able to hunt or teach my babies to fly? How should I put it? I was bound to be one of those odd single owls, always dependent on relatives’ charity, given the wormy, maggoty, down-the-trunk hollow. I hated the idea of being the pathetic dependent owl, the one the owlets were always forced to visit. I decided that it was contrary to my nature to lead such a life and that if I could not live like a normal owl, I would, in fact, use my disability for some noble purpose. Thus, I chose to go to St. Aggie’s and do whatever I could to stop them in their horrible quest for power and control of the kingdoms of owls. For that is what they want to do. You realize this, don’t you?”

  Soren and Gylfie nodded numbly.

  “The eggs are part of it. I do what I can here. Since my arrival I have saved more than twenty eggs. The owls of Ambala work with the big bald eagles. It’s safest that way. Eagles can get closest to this place most freely. Rock crevices are the natural nesting places for many eagles. So they know the territory. The eagle is the one bird that really strikes fear into the gizzard of these owls. That scar on Skench’s wing—that was the talon work of an eagle.”

  “But how did you get here if you can’t fly long distances?” Soren asked.

  “HALO,” Hortense replied.

  “HALO?” Gylfie and Soren both said at once.

  “High Altitude Low Opening situation. You see, you wait for a day with thick cloud cover. I had plucked myself to owlet status.” Soren winced. “Two big Snowies who blended in perfectly with the cloud cover flew me to the boulders just before the entrance of the canyons of St. Aggie’s. There is a grove of trees there with a lot of moss under them. It’s where the moss that is used in these nests comes from. No owls live there anymore but that is where they dropped me on that cloudy day.”

  “You say you’ve saved twenty eggs?”

  “Yes, indeed. And back in Ambala they now tell stories of me. I, who had no stories, am now the hero of stories,” Hortense said with no pretense of humility.

  “But Hortense,” Soren said, “there must be more to your life than this. You cannot remain here forever.”

  “The eagles promise to come and get me. But I always say, ‘oh, just another dozen more or so.’ I have become rather addicted to what I am doing.”

  “But there are risks,” Gylfie said.

  “Anything worth doing has risks.” Hortense paused. “And believe me, this is worth doing.”

  “We want to get out of here. Won’t you come with us?” Soren said.

  “How can I? I can’t fly. Nor can you, for that matter.”

  “But we’re going to learn,” Soren said fiercely.

  “Good,” Hortense replied softly, and there was a quaver in her voice that gave both Soren and Gylfie a very creepy feeling. Then, realizing that perhaps she had frightened them, Hortense spoke cheerfully. “Oh, don’t worry. I am sure you shall. Where there’s a wing there’s a way! Now let me see those wings of yours.”

  Gylfie and Soren both spread their wings for Hortense to examine. “Lovely, lovely,” she said softly. “Coverts coming in nicely, Soren. Very nice tip slots developing between the primaries. Essential for drag control, especially during turbulent conditions. Your barbs, both of you, are still soft but they’ll stiffen up. And I am sure you will both make splendid fliers.”

  “Any chance we could see the eagles when they come in?” Soren asked.

  “Well…they fly in just before first light.”

  “I’ll work a double shift so I can come up here,” Gylfie said quickly. “And Soren, try to arrange for a break then for yourself.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Save the Egg!

  Number 32-9 reporting for broody duty.” An extremely large Barn Owl stood at the edge of the nest. Soren scrambled down and set off to find Gylfie. He met
her on the rubbly path leading up to the outcropping where Hortense was.

  “You realize, of course,” Soren was saying as the winds began to buffet them on their ascent, “that when we learn to fly, the outcropping will make the ideal takeoff spot. Always a breeze to bounce you up. Perfect.”

  By the time they arrived, Hortense already had the egg out of the nest and was pushing it toward the edge of the rock.

  “Can we help?” Soren asked.

  “Thank you both, but it is really better if I do it by myself. The fewer birds to touch this egg, the less confused the hatchling will be when it comes out.”

  “Ah, here she comes. No mate with her tonight again. Must be busy elsewhere,” Hortense said. “Gives me such a thrill every time I spot those wings. Magnificent, aren’t they?”

  Soren saw the white head, brighter than any star, melt from the dim pearly gray of the dawn. The immensity of the eagle wings was incredible. Soren was enraptured. So enraptured that he didn’t hear Gylfie’s desperate hiss. Finally, a sharp beak poked him in the knees.

  “Soren, quick! I hear someone coming up the path.” Then Soren heard it, too. Gylfie dived into a narrow slot. The slot was much too skinny for a fat Barn Owl like Soren.

  “Come in. Come in. We’ll squeeze up. It’s wider inside.” Gylfie was desperate and Soren was nearly frozen with fear to the rock beneath his talons. When owls are frightened, their feathers lie flat and they do become slimmer. So, with fear pumping through him, Soren indeed seemed to shrink. He pressed himself into the crack that, in fact, did widen as it deepened in the rock. He hoped he was not crushing Gylfie. They both were barely breathing as the horrifying scene began to unfold on the outcropping.