(GoG Book 02) The Journey (4 page)

“Battle claws!” she gasped. From inside the cave came a terrible moan. “Get out! Get out!”

But they couldn’t get out! They couldn’t move. Between them and the mouth of the cave, gleaming eyes, redder than any of the live coals, glowered and there was a horrible rank smell. Two curved white fangs sliced the darkness.

“Bobcat!” Twilight roared.

The four owls simultaneously lifted their eight wings in powerful upstrokes. The bobcat shrieked below, a terrible sky-shattering shriek. Soren had never heard anything like it. It had all happened so suddenly that Soren had even forgotten to drop the coal that he had in his beak.

“Good Glaux, Soren!” Gylfie said as she saw her dear friend’s face bathed in the red light of the radiant coal.

Soren dropped it immediately.

There was another shriek. A shadow blacker than the night seemed to leap into the air, then plummet to the ground, writhing and yowling in pain.

“Well, bust my gizzard!” Twilight shouted. “Soren, you dropped that coal right on the cat! What a shot!”

“I—what?”

“Come on, we’re going in for him—for the kill.”

“The kill?” Soren said blankly.

“Follow me. Aim for his eyes. Gylfie, stay clear of his tail. I’ll go for the throat. Digger, take a flank.”

The four owls flew down in a deadly wedge. Soren
aimed for the eyes, but one was already useless, as the coal had done its work and a still sizzling socket wept small embers. Digger sunk his talons into an exposed flank as the bobcat writhed on the ground, and Gylfie stuck one of her talons down the largest nostril that Soren had ever seen. Twilight made a quick slice at the throat and blood spattered the night. The cat was no longer howling. It lay in a heap on the forest floor, its face smoldering from the coal. The smell of singed fur filled the night as the bobcat’s pulse grew weaker and the blood poured out from the deep gash in its throat.

“Was he after the battle claws—a bobcat?” Soren turned to Gylfie.

When the two owls had been at St. Aggie’s, Grimble, the old Boreal Owl who had died helping them escape, had told them how the warriors of St. Aggie’s could not make their own battle claws so they scavenged them from battlefields. But a bobcat? Why would a bobcat need battle claws? They stared at the long sharp claws that extended from the paws of the cat and looked deadlier than any battle claws.

“No,” Twilight said quietly. He had flown over to the cave and now stood in its opening. “The cat was after what was in here.”

“What’s that?” the three other owls asked at once.

“A dying owl,” Mrs. Plithiver said as she slithered out from the cave where she had taken refuge. “Come in. I think he wants to speak, if he has any more breath in him.”

The owls moved into the cave opening. There was a mass of brown feathers collapsed by a shallow pit that still glowed with embers. It was a Barred Owl. Although that was hard to tell, for the white bars of his plumage were bloodstained and his beak seemed to jut out at a peculiar angle. “Don’t blame the cat.” The Barred Owl moaned. “Only here after…after…they—”

“After they what, sir?” Gylfie stepped closer to the skewed beak and bent her head to better hear the weak voice.

“They wanted the battle claws, didn’t they?” Soren bobbed his head down toward the dying owl. Did he move his head slightly as if to nod? But the Barred Owl’s breath was going, was growing shallower.

“Was it St. Aggie’s?” Glyfie spoke softly.

“I wish it had been St. Aggie’s. It was something far worse. Believe me—if St. Aggie’s—Oh! You only wish!” The owl sighed and was dead.

The four owls blinked at one another and were silent for several moments. “You only wish!” Digger repeated. “Does he mean there’s something worse than St. Aggie’s?”

“How could there be?” Soren said.

“What is this place?” Gylfie said. “Why are there battle claws here but it isn’t a battlefield? If it had been, we would have seen other owls, wounded or dead.”

They turned toward the Great Gray. “Twilight?” Soren asked.

But for once, Twilight seemed stumped. “I’m not sure. I’ve heard tell of owls—very clever owls that live apart, never mate, not really belonging to any kingdom. Do for themselves for the most part. Sometimes hire out for battles. Hireclaws, I think they call them. Maybe this was one. And the The Beaks is a funny place, you know. Not many forests. Mostly ridges like the ones we’ve been flying over the last day or so. A few woods in between. So not a lot of places for owls to fetch up. No really big trees with big hollows. Probably a real loner, this fellow.”

They looked down at the dead Barred Owl.

“What should we do with him?” Soren asked. “I hate to leave him here for the next bobcat to come along. He tried to warn us, after all. He said, ‘Get out! Get out!’”

It was Digger who spoke next in a quavery voice. “And, you know, I don’t think he was warning us about the bobcat.”

“You think,” Gylfie said in a quiet steady voice, “that it was about these others, the ones worse than St. Aggie’s?”

Digger nodded.

“But we can’t just leave him. This was a brave owl…A noble owl.” Soren spoke vehemently, “He was noble even if he didn’t live at the Great Tree as a knightly owl.”

Twilight stepped forward. “Soren’s right. He was a brave owl. I don’t want to leave him for dirty old scavengers. If it’s not the bobcats, it’ll be the crows; if not crows, vultures.”

“But what can we do with him?” Digger said.

“I’ve heard of burial hollows, high up in trees,” Twilight said. “When I was with a Whiskered Screech family in Ambala that’s what they did when their grandmother died.”

“It’s going to take too long to find a hollow in The Beaks,” Gylfie now spoke. “You said it yourself, Twilight—it’s a second-rate forest, no big trees.”

Soren was looking around. “This owl lived in this cave. Look, you can tell. There’s some fresh pellets just outside, and there’s a stash of nuts and over there, a vole killed not long ago—probably his next dinner…I think we should—”

“We can’t leave him in the cave,” Gylfie interrupted. “Even if it is his home. Another bobcat can come along and find him.”

“But Soren is right,” Digger said. “His spirit is here.” Digger was a very odd owl. Whereas most owls were consumed with the practical world of hunting, flying, and
nesting, Digger—with his legs better for running than his wings were for flying, with his inclination for burrows rather than hollows—was undeniably an impractical owl. But perhaps because he was not focused on the commonplace, the ordinary drudgeries and small joys of owl life, his mind was freer to range. And range it did into the sphere of the spiritual, of the meaning of life, of the possibilities of an afterlife. And it was the afterlife of the brave Barred Owl that seemed to concern him now. “His spirit is in this cave. I feel it.”

“So what do we do?” Twilight asked.

Soren looked around at the cave slowly. His dark eyes, like polished stones, studied the walls. “He had many fires in this cave. Look at the walls—as sooty as a Sooty Owl’s wings. I think he made things with fires in this pit right here. I think…” Soren spoke very slowly. “I think we should burn him.”

“Burn him?” the other three owls repeated quietly.

“Yes. Right here in this pit. The embers are still burning. It will be enough.” The owls nodded to one another in silent agreement. It seemed right.

So the four owls, as gently as they could, rolled the dead Barred Owl onto the coals with their talons.

“Do we have to stay and watch?” Gylfie asked as the first feathers began to ignite.

“No!” Soren said, and they all followed him out the cave entrance and flew into the night.

They rose on a series of updrafts and then circled the clearing where the cave had been. Three times they circled as they watched the smoke curl out from the mouth of the cave. Mrs. Plithiver moved forward through the thick feathers of Soren’s shoulders and leaned out toward one of his ears. “I am proud of you, Soren. You have protected a brave owl against the indignities of scavengers.” Soren wasn’t sure what the word “indignities” meant, but he hoped what they had done was right for an owl he believed to be noble. But would they ever find the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, where other noble owls lived? And now it was not doubt that began to prick at his gizzard, but the ominous words of the Barred Owl—
You only wish!

M
rs. Plithiver was worried. Yes, it was understandable that the owls had been unnerved by the Barred Owl’s ominous words. The very notion of something worse than St. Aggie’s was indeed a horrifying thought. They needed some time to rest, unwind. Twilight said that he had heard about this place that was so lovely, endless plump voles scampering about, no crows at all, tree hollows in which moss as soft as down grew. Why, it sounded irresistible. And it was! And now Mrs. Plithiver was nearly frantic in this resplendent place. It was perfectly clear to her that the owls would be content to stay here forever.

But life was too easy in this region on the edge of The Beaks, which was called the Mirror Lakes. She knew it wasn’t good for them and beneath the gleaming surfaces of the lakes, within the quiet verdant beauty of this crow-less place, she sensed something dangerous. She could have just swatted Twilight and his darned big mouth. The
four owls seemed to have forgotten their ordeal in the forest with the bobcat and the dying Barred Owl entirely. Shortly after they had turned to fly in the direction of the Mirror Lakes, they began to encounter the wonderful rolling drafts of air that curled up from the rippled landscape below and provided them with matchless flying. The sensation was sublime as they gently floated over the sculpted air currents without having to waggle a wing. The rhythm was mesmerizing and then, shortly before dawn, sparkling below between the ripples of the land, were several still lakes, so clear, so glistening that they reflected every single star and cloud in the sky.

The Mirror Lakes were like an oasis in the otherwise barren landscape of The Beaks. The owls had chosen trees near the lake that had perfect-sized hollows, all cushioned with the loveliest of mosses.

“It’s simply dreamy here,” Gylfie said for perhaps the hundredth time. And that, precisely, was the problem. It was dreamy. Not just dreamy—but a dream. It didn’t seem real with its plentiful game so easy to hunt, and the rolling drafts of warm air so tempting that, against Mrs. P.’s orders, the owls had begun to take playful flights in broad daylight. But perhaps worst of all were the tranquil gleaming lakes themselves. These owls had never been around such clear water. There was no silt, no mud, no muck and
bits swirling about in it. So they could see their reflections perfectly. Not one of these owls, except for Twilight, had ever seen its reflection. And even Twilight had never seen his so clearly.

It had all started with Soren, actually, when Gylfie pointed out to him that he had a smudge on his beak from the coal that he had picked up and dropped on the bobcat. Soren had flown a short distance from the tree where they had found a hollow, to the edge of the lake, to clean up. Until that time, Soren had thought that water was only for drinking and occasionally—very occasionally—for washing. But when he peered into the lake he nearly fainted.

“Da!” he gasped.

“It’s not your da. It’s you, dear,” Mrs. Plithiver said. For although she was blind, Mrs. P. knew about reflections in much the same way she knew so many other things that she could not see. “You’ve probably never seen your face fully fledged.”

“It’s all white, just like Da’s. I’m so, so—”

“Handsome?” Mrs. Plithiver said.

“Well, yeah.” Soren muffled a nervous churr, slightly embarrassed to admit it.

Slightly it had been, but no more! That was, indeed, the end of Soren’s embarrassment as well as his modesty, and
the end of the other owls’ as well. They were soon all nodding over the mirror of the lake, admiring themselves. And when they weren’t gazing at their reflections from the edge, they were flying above the lakes, marveling at their fabulous flight maneuvers and pitching “wingies,” as they called it when they rolled off rising drafts of air. Twilight was, of course, the worst of all because he was so boastful to begin with. Mrs. Plithiver could hear him out there now, hooting about his beauty, his muscular physique, the fluffiness of his feathers, while he tumbled over and under a roll of air.

“Look at me bounce off this cloud!” And then for the tenth time that day, Twilight sang his “I Am More Beautiful Than a Cloud” song.

What is as fleecy as a cloud,

As majestic and shimmering as the breaking dawn,

As gorgeous as the sun is strong?

Why, it’s ME!

Twilight, the Great Gray,

Tiger of the sky—

Light of the Night,

Most beautiful,

An avian delight.

I beam—

I gleam—

I’m a livin’ flying dream.

Watch me roll off this cloud and pop on back.

This is flying,

I ain’t no hack.

“But,” Mrs. Plithiver said with a hiss that sizzled, “you
ain’t,
as you say, ‘rolling off clouds’!” Because, as Mrs. Plithiver could sense, the clouds were too high that day, and Twilight was flying too low to reach them as he admired himself in the Mirror Lakes. In actuality, Twilight was flying off the reflections of clouds that quivered on the glasslike surface of the lake. And that, Mrs. Plithiver concluded, was the heart of the problem with all the owls. They were mistaking the world of image and reflection for the real world. The Mirror Lakes had transfixed them. And in their transfixed state they had forgotten all they had fought for and fought against. Had they once spoken of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree or its noble owls since they had arrived at this cursed place? Had they ever mentioned St. Aggie’s and its terrors? Had Soren even once thought of his dear family except the first time he caught his reflection in the lake? And what about Eglantine? Did he ever think of her and what might have happened to his poor sister?