The Coming of Hoole (3 page)

I
t was useless trying to conceal Hoole in the hollow. The Glauxian Brother, a Boreal Owl who called himself Brother Berwyck, was a burly jolly bird. Not only had he spotted Grank and Theo, but he had seen Hoole peeking out of the hollow.

“Now, that’s a fine young lad. And just got your flight feathers, eh? Try any branching yet?”

“I was just about to.” Disappointment flooded Hoole’s eyes.

“Oh, and then I came along and spoiled all the fun. Well, why don’t you give it a try, young’un.”

It was hard not to like Berwyck and even harder to be suspicious of such a gregarious and glad-spirited owl. So after instructions from all three of them, Hoole began to branch. He stepped tentatively off the larger branch to a smaller one just below. Then another and another without the merest trace of hesitation. Soon, he was going for
the wider-spaced branches, feeling with delight that split second when there was nothing but air between him and the ground.

“I say, you’ve got yourself a fine lad, there. Going to be a real flier, that son of yours.”

Should I correct him?
Grank thought. But before he could even think of a reply, Hoole said, “He’s my uncle. Right, Uncle Grank?” This startled Grank for he had never told Hoole what had become of his parents or that he was not exactly his real uncle. He had always told him “just call me Uncle Grank.” As far as Grank knew, Hoole had no real sense of what a mum or da was, or a son for that matter, as opposed to a nephew.

“Yes, that’s right, Hoole. I am your uncle.” Then he gave a quick look to Brother Berwyck and whispered, “Sad story.”

“Oh, yes,” Berwyck whispered back. “So many chicks have lost parents in this fool war.”

Hoole was too busy trying the latest branching tricks to pay any attention to this grown-up talk.

While Hoole continued his branching practice under Theo’s watchful eye, Grank and Berwyck talked. Berwyck told Grank that he had seen the smoke some days before but hadn’t had time to come explore its source until now.

“Oh, yes…well, I keep some live coals about,” Grank was explaining. “Harvested them from a forest fire in the Southern Kingdoms some time back.”

“You collect coals, eh?” Berwyck responded with a puzzled look.

“Er…uh, yes, I do. Funny little habit I picked up. I find them amusing.”

“Amusing?” Berwyck lifted the dark feather tufts above his eyes. “Curious.”

“Yes, they are curious…or rather, I’m curious…er…uh…yes. I’m a bit…” Grank was no good in situations like this. And although it wasn’t outright lying, he wasn’t much of a fibber, either. He knew that this Boreal Owl was a fine and honest owl. He hated being devious with such a fellow.

“Well,” Brother Berwyck said, “maybe someday you will visit us at our retreat at the other end of the island and show us some of your amusing coals. You know we are determined to establish our retreat as a center for learning. Indeed, curiosity, in the best sense of the word, is what we as brothers celebrate. Everyone thinks of us as rather dull creatures, no fun at all, so much time spent in silence. But it is a loud silence for our heads are always buzzing with questions about the natural world. Yes,
indeed, we would be most curious about your preoccupation with coals and fire.”

“Well, perhaps someday, but for now I’ve got my talons full with this young’un.”

“Oh, yes. I can see that.”

It did not take long for Hoole to learn how to fly. In fact, it took him a spectacularly short time. He had begun his branching practice in the fragile lavender twilight and by the time the moon rose into the blackness of the night, Hoole was flying. They had made a lovely First Flight ceremony for him. Theo had tracked down a plump rabbit that Hoole tore into with great gusto. The white spots around his beak as well as the spots on his breast were now all red with blood. It was the first time he had ever eaten rabbit and he loved it. The fur was much finer than that of mice or vole and tickled pleasantly on its course to his gizzard. They had sung the First Flight song and then, as was the custom, took the snowy puff of the rabbit’s tail, which they had not eaten, and threaded it into Hoole’s head feathers. He was then required to fly once around the tree and return. Hoole felt a little bit stupid with the rabbit tail on his head and wished it had been a mouse or better yet a fox tail that would have streamed out behind
him. But he knew not to complain. Besides, he was simply too thrilled with this wonderful new sensation of flight. He felt as though he had stepped into another world. And, in fact, he had. He was part of the sky. As he sailed off into the moon-streaked night, he felt sorry for all those poor wingless creatures that were bound to the earth.

“Watch this, Uncle Grank! Watch, Theo!” Hoole carved a perfect turn above the forge where several embers now glowed and the first flames rose up since the fires had been dampened three nights before. There was no sense in quitting the fires now that Berwyck knew all about them and the “curiosity” of Grank.

It seemed to Grank and Theo that Hoole never wanted to quit flying. Night after night he practiced and strengthened his newly fledged wings with their lovely tawny-edged flight feathers.
Just like his mum’s,
Grank thought wistfully and wondered where Siv was. Siv, mother of Hoole, wife of the late King H’rath, friend of his own youth, and yes, he must admit it, love of his life. He was happy that Hoole had not asked him anything more about “parents” after Berwyck had referred to him as Grank’s son. In truth, Hoole was too intoxicated with his newfound powers to contemplate such questions. All the lad wanted to do was fly, fly, fly. And when Grank or Theo called him home to the hollow, as the dark of the
night thinned into the gray of dawn, he would always say, “Please, just five more minutes.” He had no idea what five minutes was exactly but it sounded like a good long time to skim across the silk of the night, to catch a bit of a rogue wind or a warm draft from the fires and soar upward in effortless flight. Oh, how he loved flying!

In addition to lessons in flying and hunting, there were other things of a less practical nature that Grank taught Hoole—less practical but certainly necessary for a young prince, even if that prince did not yet know that he was of royal blood. Grank began to give Hoole short lectures on the code of honor that Hoole’s grandfather had established for noblemen and their squires and knights, on and off the battlefield.

“One never attacks outside the field of battle, Hoole, and one never attacks an unarmed owl.”

Hoole nodded thoughtfully.

“An owl who violates this code violates himself in the end. He endangers those seeds of Ga’ that reside in every owl’s gizzard.”

“I don’t understand what Ga’ is, Uncle Grank.”

“Ga’ is difficult to explain, my boy. But I shall try.”

“Are they really seeds?”

“No, I don’t believe so. And if they were, they would be so infinitesimally small, one could never see them even
if one could look straight into a gizzard. Ga’ means great spirit; a spirit that somehow contains not just all that is noble but all that is humble as well. It flourishes in very few owls.”

“Only in owls?” Hoole asked.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Have you ever known an owl with Ga’, Uncle Grank?”

Grank looked hard at Hoole. “Not yet, lad. It’s very rare.” But his eyes grew misty as if he were remembering something. Only to himself would Grank admit that yes, he had met an owl that he suspected had great Ga’ and that owl was Siv, Hoole’s mother.

Unbeknownst to either Grank or Theo, Hoole did not confine his flying to just the night or the closest trees. Often after the two older owls were sound asleep, Hoole would sneak out of the hollow. Then one day, when the sun was the highest in the sky and he was returning to the hollow, Hoole spied something in the flames that licked up from the forge. What was it? It was real but not real. He could feel it. He could almost see it dancing on the edges of the flames. His gizzard clinched and for the first time in his short life he realized that there was something he missed. Something he missed terribly! But what could it be? He lighted down and peered harder into the flames.

S
iv watched Svenka playing with her two cubs, First and Second. Polar bears waited a long time to give their cubs real names. Svenka had explained the reason for this was that so often they died. Names made living creatures more lovable—or so the bears believed. Siv did not believe this for one minute. She had seen Svenka with her cubs almost since birth and knew that Svenka had always loved them, named or not named.

The cubs were using Svenka as a slide, slipping off her back into the water. This was how they learned to swim. “Look at me, Auntie!” One of them called out now just before she splashed into the water.

“No, watch me, Auntie,” the other bellowed.

Siv looked at the cubs and their mother with such yearning in her gizzard she thought it would break. She knew that at this very time, her own chick must be learning how to fly, or perhaps he already knew how. And she
had missed it! She hoped that Grank had given him a good First Flight ceremony. Then she chided herself immediately.
Of course he did. How could I ever doubt dear Grank?
She shook herself a bit. She didn’t want to appear sad in front of Svenka’s cubs. It was a bright sparkling day on the water. Spring was coming. The ice was beginning to clear and this made it safer for her, because hagsfiends would not come around when there was so much open water. Furthermore, she sensed that Lord Arrin did not travel far without his posse of hags surrounding him. But at the same time, the iceberg that had been her home for months now was melting, shrinking smaller with each day’s sun. Soon she would have to look for a new refuge. If only she knew where her chick was. But even if she did know, would she dare to go? It simply would be too dangerous. Then again, she thought, what if she could find him? She knew it was a male. Grank had told her so. He had seen it with that special vision of his that could read light and fire.
Yes, what if I really do find him? Then what? I cannot reveal myself as his mother. It would be too dangerous.

Once before, Siv had disguised herself as a gadfeather. But still that would not solve the problem of where her chick could be found. How could she find out?

That night as the cubs slept nestled in the deep fur of Svenka’s underbelly, their mouths all milky from nursing,
Siv told Svenka of her growing yearning for her hatchling, her son.

“The problem is I don’t know where in the N’yrthghar he is or might be.”

“What makes you think he’s even in the Northern Kingdoms?”

Siv blinked. She had never thought of this. But surely he was too young to fly out of the N’yrthghar and into the Southern Kingdoms. She paused in her thoughts.
Or the Beyond. Would Grank have actually taken the chick to the Beyond?
she wondered. It was his favorite place and he had a good friend there, a wonderful ally, the wolf Fengo. But it was so far away. And yes, she had to admit, so safe. Oh, if only she could read the shards of light, the flames of the fire as Grank could, she might then know where her son was.

“I must see him, Svenka.”

“But if you don’t know where he is, how will you know where to go?”

It always comes back to that question,
Siv thought wearily. How could she find out where he was? Then an idea burst upon her. “I must clad myself as a gadfeather again. Who knows more about where every creature in this N’yrthghar is but gadfeathers?” She did not wait for Svenka to reply. “They fly constantly. They are everywhere, all over the kingdom. They see everything. They hear everything.”

“But they are stingy with their information, Siv. I know that for a fact. Ask them about herring runs and they want payment for it—a tuft of my fur, a whisker, a tooth I might have shed. Greedy, they are.”

A sly sparkle glinted from Siv’s amber eyes. She cocked her head and looked at Svenka. Svenka was a quick study.

“Oh, no, Siv! Not you, too!”

“Just one little whisker, please, Svenka. And look at that fur ball Second coughed up this morning.”

“That disgusting thing! You’re welcome to it.”

“Oh, Svenka, thank you! Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me, thank Second. And yes, you can have a whisker. Step up and pluck it out yourself but be quick about it. I still don’t feel good about any of this, Siv.”

“I know. It’s probably all foolishness.”

Svenka’s eyes glistened. “No, Siv, it’s never foolish to love a child, even when you cannot see him. I do understand.” Svenka took her enormous paw and ever so gently touched Siv’s shoulder.

It did not take Siv long to collect a few more gadfeatherish trinkets with which to adorn herself. She found a rather fine blue-black cormorant feather and a dried-up fragment of a fishtail and with Svenka’s help wove them into her feathers. When they had finished, Siv stepped
gingerly to the edge of the berg and looked down at her gaudy reflection in the clear still water. “Great Glaux, what a sight!”

“You certainly look less than regal. No one would mistake you for a queen.”

“That’s just the point,” Siv replied.

“So you’re ready to go?”

“Almost.”

“What do you mean, almost? I told you that the gadfeathers always gather up at the mouth of the firthkin on that island this time of year. If you don’t want to miss them you had better fly soon.”

“There is one thing that I want to happen before I go,” Siv said, looking straight and unblinkingly into Svenka’s eyes. The polar bear was clearly puzzled.

“What is it, Siv?”

“I want you to name First and Second.”

“You do?” Now Svenka was completed bewildered. “But why?”

“Because you love them dearly, as do I, and you are not going to love them any more or any less if they are named or unnamed. I think you owe it to them. They are fine cubs. They put up with my dreary ways. They are already calling me ‘Auntie.’ You heard them the other day when they were sliding down your back.”

Svenka nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. Siv was right. The cubs deserved to have names of their own. “So we shall have to have a Naming ceremony,” Siv said.

Svenka chuckled to herself.
Oh, these owls and their ceremonies!
Was it simply not enough to give them a name? No, it never was enough with owls, especially Siv. The polar bear remembered that when Siv’s beloved servant, Myrrthe, had been slain by the hagsfiends, Siv had climbed atop Svenka’s head holding a white feather of Myrrthe’s and had sung a beautiful song into the night. She had told Svenka that this was part of what owls called the Final ceremony. When an owl died, a special song was composed and sung at this ceremony. The song celebrated the memory of the owl who had died and who had hopefully found glaumora, the heaven of owls. Now Svenka roused her sleepy milk-drunk cubs so the Naming ceremony might begin.

Second blinked her huge dark eyes. “Auntie, what did you do to yourself? You look so pretty!”

“Oh it’s just for fun, really, dear.”

“We’re going to give you names now,” Svenka said gently.

“Names? What are names?” First asked.

“They are what we call one another.”

“But I’m First and she’s Second.”

“Yeah, and I want to be First for a change.”

“But I don’t want to be Second.”

“Neither of you will be First or Second. You shall be Anka,” Svenka said nodding at Second. “And you”—she turned to First—“shall be Rolf.”

“Rolf!” Rolf said with great delight. “Rrrrrolf!” He growled his name now. “I like that.”

“Ahhhhnka!” Anka opened her jaw wide and let the sound roll around in her mouth and throat. “Ahhhhnkaaaa.”

“Now quiet, dears,” Siv said as she climbed atop Svenka’s head, “and I shall sing you the song we owls always sing at the Naming ceremony when we have chicks. I’ll change it a bit so it will fit for you cubs.

In the mighty roiling waters

of this cold and icy sea,

may you swim ’neath Ursa’s eyes

may you grow up strong and free.

May you be true to your nature,

swift in water and on land,

for you stand the tallest of the tall

in this white and icebound land.

The greatest of the great in stature

and in power,

there is nary a living thing a polar bear

cannot devour.

And like your mum be massive in matters of the heart.

Be of good cheer and loyal, dear Anka and dear Rolf.

Siv left at First Black and headed for the mouth of the firthkin where Svenka had told her the gadfeathers gathered each year as the time of the spring equinox approached.