Capture (13 page)

"You'll know. What did I tell you? The still air has no shape. In the sky You won't need mass of air as it moves around your wings- You * will sense its speed, if it is bumpy or smooth, hot of cold- And you will know how to shape it and use it. Wind always has shape but there is no wind in St. Aggie's. It is too deep for the wind to reach. And in these small spaces it is hard to even feel the air. It is dead, unmoving air in here. So you must work extra hard to give it a shape with your power strokes, your flapping. Your downstroke is your most powerful. On your upstroke, you want the air to flow through easily. That is why both of you have those feathers with slots, tip slots at the end of your wings.

They separate and let you go up easily."

Grimble demonstrated. He pressed forward just a bit, extended his head, and lifted his wings. And that was it -- he was suddenly airborne. Twice Soren's size or more, yet Grimble seemed to float up effortlessly. Would they ever learn? Had they even improved?

Grimble almost seemed to read their minds. "This is just your third lesson. You've grown stronger. I can see that. But you must believe it."

And then, by their fourth lesson, it did seem easier and that was the first time they began to perhaps feel the belief in their gizzards. They could feel the air parting above them. They had each flown higher in the deep stone box of the inventorium than they ever had before. They tried to imagine bursting out of it into the welcoming blackness of the moonless night. They could begin to sense the contours of the bubble of air that formed beneath each

wing and buoyed them up into the darkness. The newing would last for another two nights and then their learning sessions would begin to dwindle as the moon swelled, and they would be required to stay in the glaucidium for longer and longer exposures to its light for moon blinking. Finally, after the moon had grown fat and full and the first phase of the dwenking began, they would leave. They must leave at that time, for the vampire bats would be returning. It would be their time, as fully fledged owls, to submit to the bats and then there would be no hope of escape.

Although they had not yet been in the library, they would go there on the night of their escape, for, indeed, it was located higher and closer to the sky than any other region aside from the hatchery.

Grimble planned to tell the library guard on duty for that night that he would relieve him for a few minutes as a disturbance had been reported in the pelletorium, in the very area that this guard supervised during the day. Grimble promised them that flying would seem easy after all their practice in the deep hole of the inventorium. They were curious about the library. Grimble had tried to explain what it looked like and how the books and the feathers and the teeth, the bones, the flecks, and all the bits that they picked out of the pellets

during the day were arranged and stored. It was also in the library that some of the best battle claws were kept. Gylfie and Soren were very curious about them.

"They don't make them here, do they?" Gylfie had asked.

"No. They don't know how. Oh, how they wish they did. I hear Spoorn and Skench talking about it all the time. It requires a deep knowledge of metals, I think. They steal them- They go on raids to various kingdoms where owl chiefs keep fighting owls. They go into fields after battles and collect them from dead warriors. But they don't know how to make them. You see, you think these owls are smart here at St. Aegolius, but Skench and Spoorn are so frightened of any owl being smarter than they are ... well, that is why they moon blink everyone. No one else really knows how to read here. No questions allowed. So how can anything be learned, be invented? It's impossible. They've been trying to figure out flecks for years, but I doubt they ever will. They never let anyone else study them and maybe find something out. Why, look at you, Gylfie. You, just through wondering and having feelings in your gizzard about flecks, probably know almost as much as they do -- because you're curious. But enough talk.

Come on you two, time to practice. I want you each to go for that highest chink in the stone wall tonight. Soren, you get five wing beats to do it. Gylfie, since you're smaller, I'll give you eight."

"You have to be kidding," Soren gasped.

"I am not kidding. You're first, Soren. Make every downstroke count. If you believe, you won't ever go yeep."

Soren closed his eyes as he stood on a low stone perch that jutted from the wall. He lifted his wings then, with all his might, powered down. I can do this! I can do this! He felt his body lift. He felt the air gather under his wings on the next upstroke. It was a big cushion of air.

"Good!" whispered Grimble. "Again. More powerful." Soren was halfway up the wall to the chink and he had used only two downstrokes.

J can do it, I can do it! I feel the air. I feel the force of my strokes. I am going up. I am going up. I shall fly....

Tonight? Grimble, you must be yoicks. It's not anywhere near the dwenking. It's too soon!" Gylfie cried.

"We're not ready," protested Soren.

"You are ready Soren, I gave you five strokes to get to the chink in the inventorium and you got there in four. Gylfie, I gave you eight and you got there in seven. Tonight is the night."

"Why?" they both said at once.

Grimble sighed. He was going to miss these two. He might miss their questions most of all. It felt so luxurious to be able to ask and answer questions. He had once thought the sweetest taste in the world was that of a freshly killed vole, but now he knew differently. The sweetest thing was a question on the tongue. A word beginning with that wonderful rush of air that w's made. Oh, how he would miss these two young owls. They were lovely to look at, too, in their coats of newly fledged feathers untouched by vampire bats. "The thermals are coming this evening. This is why you must go."

"Thermals? What are thermals?" Soren asked.

"Warm drafts of air. They've arrived earlier than usual. They'll make flying very easy for you once you get out of here. You should meet up with them within a short distance from here. You'll be able to soar."

"We don't know how to soar," Gylfie said. "All we know how to do is flap."

"Don't worry. You'll know exactly what to do when you meet the thermals. The shape of the wind will tell you."

"Who is on guard tonight?"

"I ' I "

Its Jatt.

"Jatt!" Soren gasped. "That's terrible. How will you get him to go to the pelletorium?"

"I'll think of something. Don't worry. I'll get him out of there. I've already got you a pass for tonight between the third and fourth sleep march."

The third sleep march had just finished. Soren and Gylfie sought out the sleep correction monitor in their area and showed them their passes. He blinked and told them to be off. They made their way silently through the stone corridors of St. Aegolius, alone with their thoughts.

Yet those thoughts were the same, for they were deep in concentration as they tried as hard as they ever had to believe in their own ability to fly. They tried not to let themselves be distracted by the fact that the sum total of their flight experience had covered only a very small range of the usual maneuvers a young and newly fledged owl practices. They had no real knowledge of gliding, soaring, or hovering.

"Words, words, words," Grimble would mutter if they ever brought up these notions that they had heard their parents discussing with older siblings. It was Gylfie who mostly asked such questions. And Grimble would always admonish her. "You're thinking too much. You don't need to know anything about hovering and soaring. All you need to know is rapid takeoff straight up -- THRUST! POWER FLAPPING!"

He poked his head forward as he said each word and fixed Soren and Gylfie in the fierce, uncompromising glare of his yellow eyes. "That's it! That is all you need to get out of here."

So that is what Soren and Gylfie thought of It filled their minds. The power downstroke. The bunching together of the slots on the leading edge of their primaries. The upstroke, the spacing of those same feathers so the air could pass through with no drag. They had become very muscular from all their practice. They were probably the

most muscular young owls in the entire academy of St. Aegolius. This alone should make them believe.

Had there ever been an Elf Owl as young as Gylfie who could power flap so strongly?

They arrived at last at the inventorium. Grimble could immediately tell that both owlets were concentrating fiercely. This was good. Now he just hoped that his ruse to get Jatt out would work.

Luckily, Grimble had detected that things were not perfect between the two brothers Jutt and Jatt.

Perhaps it was jealousy. It seemed as if Skench was paying more attention to Jutt than his brother, particularly on battle flights. There was always a bit of contention after a battle as to the dividing up of the battle claws left on a field from the defeated owls. Skench and Spoorn got first choice and then, when they returned to St. Aggie's, the rest of the claws were sorted and handed out according to rank or battle performance. There was an elderly owl, Tumak, who was the director of the main battle claw repository. But now Grimble was going to tell a bold lie that he hoped would get Jatt out of the library he was guarding. He began talking quite loudly. Soren and Gylfie couldnt imagine what he was doing, for he seemed to be speaking not to them but to some invisible owl.

"You don't say! My word. Trouble in the claw repository. Oh, Jatt's not going to like that at all. I think I better

tell him." By the time Grimble, and it was only a matter of seconds, got to the guardhouse of the library, Jatt's feathers were puffed and quivering with agitation. He seemed twice his size and was in obvious pain. If any creature could be swollen with questions it was Jatt. And that, of course, was Grimble's advantage that he planned to work to the fullest.

"Don't worry, Jatt. I shall tell you everything. At least all that I know. Now calm yourself. I had heard Jutt talking with Spoorn earlier, regarding those new battle claws and how he felt Tumak was not handling them correctly. Spoorn had said that she would take it up with Skench."

"Oh, no!" Jatt gasped. "Jutt's been wanting to be the director of the repository forever. And we all know what that means. He'll be the most powerful owl around here next to Skench and Spoorn."

"Well, it is my understanding that they are allowing Tumak and Jutt to fight it out. There's a duel about to begin and Jutt has his forces assembled. Go get your troops, Jatt. Quick -- there's still time. I'll stand guard."

"Thank you, Grimble. Thank you. And don't worry. When I am head of the repository, you shall get first choice for battle claws."

"I'm not worried, Jatt. Now, just go while there is still time."

As soon as Jatt turned the corner and disappeared down the long stone crack, Grimble called to Soren and Gylfie. "Come on, you two. There's not a minute to waste." The two owlets raced into the library.

They gasped when they entered the room. It was not the books they noticed or the small array of polished battle claws hanging off one wall. It was the sky, black, chinked with stars, stars that seemed so close that an owl could have reached out with a talon and plucked one. Memories rushed back.

Memories of sky and breezes -- yes, indeed, they did feel a wind, even here. Oh, they were so close. Yes, they believed! Yes, they could do this and, then, just as Soren and Gylfie swung their wings up into their first stroke, Skench burst in. She was ferocious looking in full war regalia. Immense battle claws made her talons twice their size. A metallic needle extended from the tip of her beak and glimmered in the slice of the new moon that hung like a blade over the library.

"Flap!" screeched Grimble. "Flap. You will do it! You will do it! Believe! Power stroke! Power! Two wing beats and you're up." But the two little owls seemed frozen in their fear. Their wings hung like stones at their sides. They were doomed.

Soren and Gylfie watched transfixed as Skench advanced toward them, and then something very peculiar

happened. Skench, moved by a power unseen, suddenly slammed into the wall, the wall that had the notches that Grimble had described in which the flecks were stored.

"Go! This is your chance!" Grimble shouted.

An indeed it was. Skench seemed to have been immobilized, paralyzed.

Soren and Gylfie began to pump their wings. They felt themselves rise.

"You can do it! You believe! Feel it in your gizzard. You are a creature of flight. Fly, my children. Fly!" And then there was a terrible shriek and the night was splattered with blood.

"Don't look back! Don't look back, Soren! Believe!" But this time it was not Grimble calling. It was Gylfie.

Just as they reached the stone rim, they felt a curl of warm air. And it was as if vast and gentle wings had reached out of the night, and swept them up into the sky. They did not look back. They did not see the torn owl on the library floor. They did not hear Grimble, as he lay dying, chant in the true voice of the Boreal Owl, in tones like chimes in the night, an ancient owl prayer: "I have redeemed myself by giving belief to the wings of the young. Blessed are those who believe, for indeed they shall fly'.'

Flying Free

In the dark soul of that night, Soren and Gylfie only saw the stars and the moon on its silvery path into the infinite blackness of this new heaven through which they wheeled in flight. So once more the world spiraled. But this time there was a difference. It was Soren who was carving these spirals and loops.

With his wings he scooped air, shaped it. There was not the desperate need for flapping and pumping now. Instinctively, he stilled his wings and rode the thermal updrafts, rising higher without even stirring a feather. He looked down at Gylfie, who was a few feet below him, catching the lower layer of the same updraft. Grimble was right. They knew exactly what to do. Instinct and belief flowed through the hollow bones of the two owls as they flew into the night.