Exile (6 page)

I
was expecting you,” came the familiar voice. The vaporous scarves of swirling mist that had seconds before seemed so random sorted themselves into spots, patches of light and dark, and gradually into a shape, a shape not unlike that of a Spotted Owl. Before them, perched on the edge of the huge eagle’s nest, was the elusive, ethereal owl known as Mist by most, except for a very few who called her by her original name, Hortense.

“Hortense,” Soren blurted out. Gylfie and Soren had come to know her years before when they were both imprisoned in St. Aggie’s.

A glimmer shivered through the vapors. “Ooooh!” Hortense said. “It’s so nice to hear my real name. You know, no one calls me that anymore and yet there are all these little Hortenses flying about in Ambala.”

It was true, of course, that in Ambala the name Hortense was the most popular for either girl or boy
hatchlings. There was a saying in Ambala that a hero was known by only one name and that name was Hortense. Before the Pure Ones, St. Aggie’s had wreaked terror and havoc on the Southern Kingdoms, owl-napping hatch-lings and even eggs from nests. In that time, Hortense had infiltrated St. Aggie’s, posing as a young defenseless owl. She had succeeded in penetrating the eggorium and, with the help of two bald eagles, rescued countless eggs. As Hortense grew older, however, she seemed to grow dimmer, almost fading away. She attributed this to the large deposits of flecks in the streams and soil of Ambala, which she said could change the nature of an owl born there, proving to be either a blessing or a curse. But the Band had never seen another owl in Ambala that resembled this mysterious owl. She was a legend, but for the Band, in particular Soren and Gylfie, she was very real. Her presence was as compelling as it ever was.

“So you knew we were coming, Hortense?” Gylfie asked.

Always one to cut to the chase, Hortense replied, “It’s about the book burnings, isn’t it, and these Blue Brigades?” In that moment, two massive eagles plummeted out of the sky and landed on the opposite side of the immense nest. They were accompanied by two flying snakes.

“You said they’d come.” Streak, the smaller of the two eagles, spoke. His mate, Zan, was mute and merely nodded. Her tongue had been ripped out some years before in a brutal battle with the St. Aggie’s forces. “The book burnings, eh?”

Soren just shook his head. “We had no idea it was this widespread. We saw one, but that was way up in Silverveil, near the notch.”

“That’s where most of them have been,” Streak said. “But just now we saw a huge fire over in The Barrens.”

Then the two luminous bright green snakes hissed. Even after having met them on many occasions each one of the Band wilfed slightly upon seeing these two snakes. There was nothing quite like the flying snakes of Ambala. They possessed one of the deadliest venoms on Earth which, when used correctly, could cure instead of kill. Twilight’s life had been saved by these snakes when he had sustained what everyone thought was a mortal wound in battle. Now both Slynella and her mate, Stingyll, were hissing in an absolute fury. “And to think,” the words always seemed to slither off their tongue, “we were the ones to teach him how to read,” Stingyll said.

“Yesssss,” agreed Slynella. “It sssseemss ssso long ago. What happened?”

“What are you talking about?” Digger asked.

“The book burningsss,” Stingyll said.

“You taught the blue owl how to read?” Soren asked.

“No, no, never!” Slynella gave a scorching hiss. “Coryn…Coryn, when he was ssstill called Nyroc. We ssspelled out his name for him, like thisss, through our sssky writing.” Slynella immediately flew off the edge of the nest into the air, and Stingyll followed. They began scrolling themselves into myriad shapes and gradually letters began to form. “You sssee, it wasss all his idea. To reverse the ssspelling of his original name from Nyroc to Coryn!” Slynella paused. “That owl’sss a geniussss!”

“Yesss. Ssso why isss he ssso dumb now?” Stingyll asked.

The Band was bewildered. Soren flew straight up to them as they continued to slither out in midair. “It’s the Striga that is burning books. What does any of this book burning have to do with Coryn?”

“Why, he ordered it,” Slynella said. “The Ssstriga is acting on Coryn’s command.”

Soren felt himself wilf. Zan, the larger of the eagles, flew to him instantly.

“She’s got you, Soren. She’s got you,” Hortense called out.

“I’m fine, don’t worry.” But, indeed, Soren had started to go yeep.

The entire Band was stunned by this news. “I just simply can’t believe it.” Gylfie shook her head. “We all know that Coryn has been growing very close to the Striga, but I never thought he’d have that much influence.”

“Well, we came here for information and we got it,” Twilight said, looking across the eagle’s nest at Hortense, who was hovering near Streak.

“But what are we to do?” Soren asked. “This is not exactly war.”

“It could be,” Twilight said.

“But right now, it’s about books,” Soren said.

“Books and owls,” Hortense said. “This Striga and his Blue Brigade have been raiding nests, hollows, burrows, looking for books and the things they call vanities— – ripping apart owl homes.” The mist around Hortense seemed to quiver almost sadly. She continued, “There are rumors that a few from the great tree’s library were stolen right from under the librarian’s nose and brought to the mainland and burned.”

“No!” The four owls of the Band all wilfed.

“That sounds like war to me,” Twilight said.

“But the question, Twilight,” the vapors shimmered a bit as Hortense turned toward the Great Gray, “the
question is, how do you proceed if it is war?” Twilight started to answer, but Soren put out his wing and touched him lightly, a silent signal to wait, to listen, which was not first nature to Twilight. But Soren knew that Hortense was a subtle thinker. He wanted to hear her thoughts on this. “I don’t think it has come to war yet. The blue owl lives at the great tree, and is a close advisor to your king. Do you attack the tree? I think not. First, you must save the books before it is too late, and then stop this terrible destruction of art, the fripperies, as he calls anything pretty.” She looked at the Great Gray. “You see, Twilight, knowledge is more than equivalent to force.” Hortense paused. “I read that in a scrap from the
Fragmentum
, a part of a book by an Other named Doctor Sam. I began thinking about knowledge as force, and books as important as battle claws.”

“She’s got to be kidding!” Twilight muttered.

Soren gave him a swift kick. “Go on,” Soren urged.

“I have started a program here in Ambala.”

“A program,” Twilight said with more than a tinge of despair in his voice.

“Yes. You see we have been fearful of this for some time now and have established a place in Ambala that we call the Place of Living Books.”

“Tell us about it,” Digger said.

Hortense shimmered a bit as the beads of mist seemed to thicken, then re-sort themselves. “Since the printing press was built and began working the owls of Ambala have become passionate readers and book lovers. But not many books come our way. I think it is the lingering suspicions many owls still have of the flecks in our streams. Let’s just say we are sort of ‘back woods,’ not along the usual well-worn flight paths. Even Mags doesn’t venture here often. But the few books that come our way, we treasure. So when we began to hear about the book burnings, we wanted to do whatever we could to protect our books.”

“So what did you do?” Twilight asked. “What is this Place of Living Books?”

“Well, I cannot take all the credit, really. A young Whiskered Screech named Braithe thought up the idea. We could go there tonight, if you like, but there is not much left of this night and the distance is far. And you know I am a weak flier,” Hortense added.

Thus, the owls settled down into the immense aerie on the highest peak in Ambala. Silvery clouds scraped across the last remnants of the night. The snakes twined themselves through the branches of the aerie and glimmered in the rising sun like bright ribbons. They would
keep the day watch, for their sleeping habits were very different from those of owls.

Had they, however, kept a night watch and not frolicked so heartily performing their skywriting, they might have caught sight of a Burrowing Owl hiding in one of the thick cumulus clouds. Concealed under his coverts was a small blue feather. He was a spy and what he had seen was strange, very strange. But he knew it was good information, valuable information. He did not particularly like wearing the stupid blue feather, but compromises had to be made. He would be handsomely rewarded. One had to look out for one’s own self-interests, after all, and his future was uncertain since that last battle in the Middle Kingdom.

T
his can’t be so, can it, Mrs. Plithiver?” “I’m afraid it is.” Soren peeked into his hollow. Pelli was sobbing.

“Why? Why would he abandon us like this?” she was saying. “Why have they all left?”

“But I haven’t!” Soren exclaimed. “I am right here. Right here! Can’t you see me?” He flew into the hollow and alighted on his old perch, the one from which he often read to the three B’s. But Pelli and the three B’s stared right through him. Was it possible? Had he become like mist, some vaporous collection of insignificant water droplets in the air? His gizzard froze. “It’s me!” he cried out to them. “Me!”

“Wake up, Soren, You’re dreaming. Just dreaming,” Gylfie said, fluttering above her best friend. Her tiny wings beat madly in an attempt to fan him and bring Soren out of whatever terrible dream he was lost in.

“But it was so real!” Soren gasped.

“It was just a dream,” Gylfie said again. Digger and Twilight exchanged nervous glances. They all knew that for Soren there was no such thing as just a dream. Soren possessed a rare ability: starsight, which was a kind of dream vision in which he could see the future, or things that were happening in some distant place. The other members of the Band never asked him for the details of these visions. There was a silent understanding that it was best not to make such inquiries.

“Look,” said Digger, trying to quell any telltale quaver in his voice. “It’s almost tween time.” The sky was streaked with the deep purples of twilight. In another few minutes it would be completely black. “What do you say we get going to this book place?”

“What, no tweener? I’m starved,” Twilight said.

“I prefer to fly light,” Hortense said. It was all the Band could do to keep from bursting out in churrs of laughter. Light? What could be lighter than Hortense, who was not much more than a collection of dewdrops? “Don’t worry, Twilight,” Hortense added. “We’ll pass over a meadow that is crawling with voles. You can eat on the fly.” Eating on the fly was a skill that all Guardians had developed to a high degree, especially in time of war. It involved seizing the prey, then immediately taking off again and dismembering it to be shared as they flew.

They found a plump summer vole almost immediately. “Can’t believe how much fat this fellow still has on him,” Twilight said. “And here we are well into autumn.”

“He must have been lounging around in his hole,” Gylfie said.

“Must have been a tight fit for a chubby rodent like this,” Digger commented.

They all churred. Digger, being a Burrowing Owl and superb excavator for the construction of nesting burrows, was an expert in such matters.

“I’ll just take the tongue,” Hortense said.

“You sure?” Soren asked.

“Oh, yes. Fatty foods, yechhh! Just can’t eat them anymore.” Once again the Band was struck by the oddity of Hortense’s remarks on eating.

With his superb hearing, Soren could pick up all of the squeaks and grunts and grinds of their gizzards as they digested the bones and hair of the vole, organizing it into the tight packets that would soon be pellets. It seemed deafening to him. He flew off from the others for he wanted to be able to hear the first sounds of this Place of Living Books.

Hortense was soon beside him. Her own gizzard was almost perfectly silent. Whatever mechanisms turned
there were closer to the sounds of the fluttering wings of a moth than a gizzard packing pellets.

“You won’t hear anything, Soren, until we’re actually there,” Hortense said.

“Really?”

“Yes, you see, Braithe, who is somewhat of a genius, chose this place carefully. It’s what we used to call the moss hole. There’s a deep dip in this part of the forest, and the steep sides of it are lined with the thickest moss that you’ve ever seen. It absorbs every bit of sound.”

“You said you used to call it the moss hole. What do you call it now?”

“The Brad,” Hortense replied.

“The Brad?” Soren asked.

“Braithe will explain.” Hortense paused, just a beat. “All will be revealed.”

And, indeed, word by word, all began to be revealed. As they flew, the verdant landscape below them suddenly pitched steeply into a small valley.

“Are those the crowns of heartwoods?” Digger asked, pointing to the lush, dense canopy that capped the steep dell. “They don’t seem tall enough to be heartwood trees.”

“Oh, they are,” Mist replied. Heartwood trees grew to enormous heights. Had the grove of trees not been rooted
deep in the moss-lined dell, their lush crowns would have scratched the sky, towering above the surrounding trees. They were the only species that even came close to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree in size. Hortense now began a steep banking turn, and they followed her, losing altitude. As they drew closer to the trees, the dell appeared to widen. They could now see that the heartwoods were clustered in a dense grove in the bottom of a mossy bowl-like valley. As they spiraled into this bowl, the light changed. It seemed to glow with a dim shimmering amber radiance. They caught the sweet scent of mint on the light breezes that found their way into the bowl. It did seem to be a place of enchantment.

The Band swung their heads in wonder as they perched on something as puffed and cushiony as one of the velvet pillows from Trader Mags’ “interior collection,” as she called it. But it wasn’t a pillow or a cushion. It was a moss-covered rock. Hortense’s remarks about the moss were understated to say the least. Nothing could have prepared them for this thickly lined green place, so hidden, so insulated from the world around them that it might as well have been in the stars. And walking, perched, or flying in low orbits were two dozen or more owls. Words, countless words flowed from their beaks. An Elf Owl swooped by:

“‘Call me Grank. I am an old owl now as I set down these words but this story must be told, or at least begun before I pass on. Times are different now than they were when I was young. I was born into a time of chaos and everlasting wars.’”

The Band blinked and looked at one another in wonder. It was the first volume of the legends cycle, the story of the first collier.

“Amazing!” Digger said in a hushed voice. And at just that moment a burly Great Horned flew by. In a deep-throated voice that was almost a growl he recited:

“‘What were my feelings that night as I huddled with my faithful servant, Myrrthe, the Great Snowy, both of us trying to protect the egg that would be my first child if it was not seized by the hagsfiends? Though a queen, I do not think that my feelings were different from those of any other mother….’”

It did not sound the least bit odd to hear this deep male voice with a rough burr on its edges intoning
The Queen’s Tale
. This slim volume, the story of Queen Siv, the mother of Hoole, had been found recently, preserved intact in a niche deep in the Ice Cliff Palace where Siv
had hidden for a while during the terrible wars nearly a thousand years before.

Hortense seemed to be glimmering with a new intensity. “This is the Place of Living Books. Nowhere in all the owl kingdoms do I think books are as treasured as they are here in Ambala.” She shook her head and the vaporous drops seemed to blur for an instant. “I don’t know why. Blame it on the flecks!” She churred. “But each of these owls has devoted his or her life to memorizing at least one book, word by word, and passages of others.” A Snowy Owl now swept by, and Soren gasped as he caught the first words.

“‘It befell in the days of Uther Pendragon, when he was king of all England, and so reigned, that there was a mighty duke in Cornwall and he was called the duke of Tintagel and it was at this castle of Tintagel that Arthur was born of Igraine.’”

The Snowy was reciting the legends of King Arthur. This was one of his and Pelli’s favorite of all the Others’ books, even dearer to them than the Shakes plays. Soren thought again about what he had glimpsed in the torn fabric of his dream. His dear Pelli not recognizing him. It was too much for Soren.

“Ah, there’s Braithe!” Hortense waved one of her stubby wings.

The Whiskered Screech ceased his recitation and landed on a stump beside the rock where they were perched. He looked incredibly young to the Band.

“So you’re the young’un who organized all this,” Gylfie said.

“I love to read, that’s all,” the young Screech replied.

“He’s very modest,” Hortense offered. “Explain to my friends about this place and why we now call it the Brad.”

“Well.” Braithe sighed. “When the reports of these book burnings came in, our first thoughts were to hide the books. But then I thought better. Yes, we could hide the books, but what if they were found? Then what?”

The four owls of the Band blinked at each other.

“Precisely.” Braithe continued, “But what if each owl who loved to read
became
a book? Memorized every word on every page.” He paused. “That’s just what we did. Think of each of us as not a collection of feathers but book covers.” He puffed up his beautiful plumage. He was a handsome tawny gray with a generous sprinkling of white in his coverts. He looked in that instant so much like Ezylryb that it almost took the Band’s breath away. But they said nothing. “The idea is not mine. Not at all. You
see, I was inspired. My inspiration is, or rather was, an Other.”

“An Other?” they all gasped.

“Yes, a writer I discovered when the first volume of the
Fragmentum
was completed. Only scraps of his writings were found—wherever it is that they find these things.” The Band exchanged nervous looks. It was more important than ever that the whereabouts of the Palace of Mists be kept a secret.

Braithe continued, “The author’s full name is not known. We call him Ray Brad. We think it’s only scraps of his name but what is important is that he wrote about book burning. I think the Others went through a time similar to ours. To save their books, the Others began to memorize them. So that is how I got the idea. And that is why we call this place the Brad. It is the Place of Living Books, named for a dead author.”

“A dead species,” Twilight added.

Gylfie closed her eyes. “Twilight!” She was mortified. How did the Great Gray just come out with these things at such inappropriate moments?

“Extinct,” Digger said quietly.

“Well, gone is gone,” Twilight grumped.

“But you see, that’s just the point.” Braithe spoke with a new intensity. “Ray Brad isn’t gone. At least not
completely. His work remains, right here!” He raised his foot and tapped his handsome head with a talon. “And here.” He tapped his talon now lightly on his belly indicating roughly the spot of his gizzard.

“So welcome to the Brad. The books shall survive!” Braithe spread his wings and flew off. The Band strained to hear the words he was reciting, but fog swirled down into the Brad, and Braithe seemed to be swallowed by its vapors.

For Soren, the entire world suddenly felt very fragile. Did Digger, Gylfie, and Twilight feel this way, too? He must get back to the great tree. Punkie Night was just a short time off. The moon was almost full again. They had been gone for nearly an entire moon cycle. And what had they accomplished with their weather experiments? Practically nothing. But what had they seen? Something that they could have never imagined—the burning of books, a violation that struck at the very gizzard of the principles of the great tree, ordered by its king!