The Siege (11 page)

T
he wind had died and the snare waved languidly in the occasional remnant gusts. Soren scanned the vines. One severely wounded owl had been extricated and flown off in an airborne hammock between two Boreal Owls who worked as matrons in the infirmary. It was odd. Soren thought that the very vines that had caused injury and death could also be woven to make rescue transports. Nine owls hung in macabre configurations of death with their wings twisted and their heads askew. There was nothing particularly glorious or heroic about war, Soren realized. It was really nothing more than a grubby, vile task to vanquish a foul tyranny led by his own brother. Even Twilight seemed subdued in the face of the sheer ugliness that had now been woven into the snare. It seemed so strange to Soren that the same motions that wove beautiful music from the harp of Madame Plonk or the beautiful tapestries and laces that hung in the Great Ga’Hoole Tree had now been used to weave this cloth of death. He
could not wait to leave the snare. The relief snare rippers were expected soon. Soren was completely exhausted.

Back in the tree there were no victory speeches or celebrations over the repulsion of this first attack. Instead there was an uneasy quiet that seemed to flow through the tangle of corridors in the tree. The enemy’s forces had been decimated, but they were said to have thousands, and there were rumors of hireclaws, rogue owls belonging to no kingdom, who could be hired to go into battle for the price of a good set of battle claws.

“Where’s Otulissa?” Gylfie said. “She must be back.”

“Up in the infirmary,” Digger said as he dropped onto a pile of down and stuck his legs straight out in the peculiar posture that he used for sleeping.

“The infirmary!” they all exclaimed.

“Don’t worry. It’s just a scratch. She didn’t even want to go, but they made her,” he said.

“We should go visit her,” Soren said. “But I’m just too tired.”

“We can all go later,” Digger replied.

They were all so exhausted that they thought they would fall asleep immediately. But they didn’t. Perhaps it was the unease that seemed to pervade the great tree.

“They must know about the snares now,” Twilight mused out loud.

“They’ll be more careful next time, won’t they?” Soren said.

“You can’t keep something like that a secret forever,” Gylfie said.

“I heard that the secret was already out in some parts of the western quadrant,” Digger said.

“What?” Gylfie asked.

“Yes, and Sylvana is worried that some of those caches we’ve buried have already been disturbed.”

“Which ones?” Twilight asked.

“The ones with the coals,” he replied.

“Our firepower?” Twilight had lofted to his perch in great alarm. “That’s us!” Twilight meant the Chaw of Chaws. They had been recruited for the Flame Squadron, or as they were sometimes called, the Bonk Brigade. Bonk flames were blue with a flicker of yellow in the center and a tinge of green at the edges. They were intensely hot. These were the same flames that made the fires in Bubo’s forge full of bonk, the best fires for forging metals.

All this news was very disturbing. But finally the owls fell asleep.

“You can go in only if you promise to be very quiet,” the burly Short-eared matron said as she led Soren, Gylfie, Twilight, and Digger into the infirmary which she supervised.
“And no talking to that Barn Owl, she’s an official prisoner of war.”

Soren, Digger, Gylfie, and Twilight exchanged glances.

That must be the one who got caught in our snare,
Soren thought.

Otulissa was tucked into a downy croft, as they called the beds of the infirmary. She looked perfectly fine to Soren.

“You don’t look hurt at all,” Gylfie said.

“I’m not!” Otulissa snapped. “It’s simply ridiculous that I’m being kept in here.”

“What happened?” Soren asked.

“I took a very light hit on my port side. They insisted I come here for observation because Strix Struma thought I was flying funny.”

“Funny?” Gylfie asked.

“Out of balance, that’s all. I’m flying fine now. I straightened out on the way back. I think they are being awfully cautious.”

“What was it like?” Twilight said. “Out there you flew straight into the first wedge of the enemy. How did you do it?”

Otulissa twisted her head almost entirely around to indicate the Barn Owl in the other croft. “Supposedly she’s
unconscious, but you never can tell. So I can’t talk about anything having to do with the war. Nor should you.”

“Oh,” Twilight said.

“What else is there to talk about?” Digger offered.

It was true, of course. Soren was observing Otulissa. She seemed different somehow. Maybe this was what flying straight against the enemy did to an owl.

At just that moment, Dewlap stuck her head into the infirmary hollow. “Oh, great Glaux, Otulissa, what are you doing here?” She seemed stunned to find the Spotted Owl in the infirmary.

“She’s been hurt,” Gylfie said. “That’s why she’s here.”

Stupid old owl!
Soren thought.
Why else would she be here?

“Why are you here, Dewlap?” Digger asked.

“Well, I’m…I’m…” she began to stammer, then snapped, “I am here visiting the wounded.”

Otulissa swung her head directly at the Ga’Hoolology ryb. Her amber gaze bore into Dewlap. “That’s so kind of you to come, even if you didn’t know I was here. Thank you very much. I’m sure the others wounded will be touched by your gesture.”

Dewlap seemed to have recovered her poise. “Yes. I, of course, wasn’t sure who would be here, but I felt a visit was one very small kindness I could bestow in these troubled
times.” And then she seemed distracted and her eyes grew misty and seemed to focus on something very far away. “Who would have ever thought it would all come to this?” she said softly, more to herself than anyone else. “To war,” she said in a low whisper.

Soren, Twilight, and Gylfie spent two more nights on the snares but they caught very few owls. There was, in fact, very little action. Again, there was a disturbing silence. The winterlies had abated, although the temperatures had dropped dramatically. Ice floes were beginning to form in the Sea of Hoolemere. Rations were running short, for food had to be conserved. And although hunting units went out, it was so cold it seemed as if all the prey had taken to their burrows and were locked beneath the frozen earth. The nights were long and black, as the moon had dwenked and would not be back for several days.

One night just before dawn as Soren, Gylfie, and Twilight finished snare detail, they sensed that something had changed within the tree. There was an anxious buzz but they could catch only fragments of hasty exchanges. Every time they passed one of the older owls, beaks seemed to clamp shut.

“I heard something about a skirmish on the far side of the island,” Digger said, slipping into his place at Mrs.

Plithiver’s table. She had stretched her body to its maximum length so more of the owls could be accommodated. Primrose, Eglantine, and Martin crowded around the rosy-scaled table that Mrs. P. provided with her wonderfully pliant body. Ga’Hoole nut cups filled with watered-down milkberry tea were placed next to minced mouse. It was not the fare they were accustomed to, but no one dared complain. A month from now they might be looking back on this as a magnificent repast. The winters on the Island of Hoole were normally long and harsh, and now with war, even harsher.

“Attention!” It was the booming voice of Boron. “Ezylryb, our minister of war, has requested to address us at this breaklight meal.”

Ezylryb, looking quite haggard, flew to the top perch in the dining hall. “I shall be direct and concise. I am afraid the news is not good. Many days have passed since this war began. We have met with great successes on the western front. But on the northeastern shores, in a quadrant where we thought ourselves invulnerable because of the fierceness of the winter seas combined with the wrathful winds out of the Ice Narrows, we have sustained harsh losses in an unexpected enemy attack. You have heard rumors of a skirmish. I fear it was more than that. A substantial number of enemy troops have broken through our defenses.

While our own troops were diverted by this action in the northeastern quadrant, other forces attacked in the southwest. An invading force has landed and more may come. What we have thus far called the Battle of the Coasts is over, and I expect that the Battle of Hoole is about to begin. Our civilization of owlkind depends upon this battle, as the whole fury of these base and most ignoble owls who call themselves the Pure Ones is turned upon us.

“But we must not fear. We have on this island today some of the finest fighters in owlkind. We have our Strix Struma Strikers, our Flame Squadron, our squadrons of Burrowing Owls who, with their long legs and talons sublime, can dig like the best of any burrowing animal on earth. And they can fight, too, I might add! With these fine owls, we shall defend our island. You shall not, however, be called upon immediately for offensive action. First, we shall try a defensive strategy. We shall not be very mobile, but we will be strong. We shall fortify ourselves within the massive trunk of this, our great tree, so lovingly cared for through the centuries. It continues to be cared for under the guidance of our invaluable ryb of Ga’Hoolology, Dewlap.”

Ezylryb nodded to the Burrowing Owl, and she lowered her head shyly. Soren felt Otulissa, who had been released
from the infirmary, grow smaller. In truth, she had not diminished, but her fear had grown huge. It rattled through her hollow bones.

What is going on here?
Soren wondered. He listened as Ezylryb continued to explain the defensive strategy. “We have enough food to hold out, more than they will have in these coming months. Yes, there will be rough times ahead, but we can bear the discomfort with patience and with fortitude. We shall never surrender to these false ideals, to these twisted notions of superiority, to this tyranny of purity.”

Otulissa looked at Soren. “I can’t stand it!” she whispered.

“Can’t stand what?” Soren asked.

“How Ezylryb was going on about Dewlap. Look at her gloating up there.”

“Let her gloat, Otulissa,” Digger said.

“What do you mean?” Soren asked. Otulissa looked equally surprised by Digger’s remark.

“Think about this: Dewlap is the only Burrowing Owl who has not been put on a digging unit. We are all burrowing something. I’m doing cache holes for embers. Hubert over there is caching food supplies. Muriel and three others are excavating the existing storage areas under the tree
to make them larger. If Ezylryb thinks Dewlap is so great, why isn’t she working in a unit?” Digger asked.

“Isn’t she supervising?” Soren asked.

“Not really,” Digger says. “Supposedly she is overseeing the storage area excavations under the tree, but it’s sort of a fake job. We all know how to do it. She just arranges the shifts we dig in and keeps the inventory lists. So don’t get that upset, Otulissa. I don’t think Ezylryb is sincerely ‘going on about Dewlap.’”

“Then what’s he doing?” Soren asked.

“Now that’s the real question,” Digger said. “And I can’t answer it.” He paused. “Yet.”

There was no doubt in Soren’s mind that, of himself, Digger, Twilight, and Gylfie, Digger was the deepest thinker and the most reflective. Gylfie might be considered the smartest because she was a quick learner, and she knew a lot. Twilight was too impulsive to be considered a deep thinker, although he was brilliant at perceiving small gradations of light as night shifted to day and day to night. And Soren himself—well, Soren wasn’t really sure how he would describe his own mental activities. But Digger made connections that others might not ever think about. And the connections he was making now both fascinated and alarmed Soren.

T
he great old tree creaked in the winter gales that lashed the island. Bitter cold air niggled through the cracks and crevices. In Soren’s hollow, they hung the furry hide of a possum that Twilight had once killed to block the drafts. It did block the draft, but none of them could quite believe they had ever feasted on possum. There was no fresh meat left, only cured, dried meat that was bloodless and about as tasty to eat as tree bark. It was rumored that even the Ga’Hoole nuts were running low. Soren and his friends had all grown thinner. There was no doubt about it. Their feathers were less lustrous, their eyes somewhat dimmer. When the portions in the dining hollow had first started to dwindle, they would recall past meals they had eaten.

“Oh, remember the milkberry tart, the one Cook made with the maple syrup?” someone would say.

“I’d settle for just the maple syrup,” someone else would say. And so it would go. But now no one talked
about such things. They were still hungry—hungrier than ever—but they had somehow grown used to the gnawing in their stomachs. To wish for a milkberry tart seemed frivolous. They now only wished to live and not starve to death.

And when the backbone of winter broke, as it would in a few weeks, when the ground began to thaw and the owls’ prey began to emerge from their burrows and holes, would they even be able to hunt? The enemy was out with their reinforcements of hireclaws, and they had encircled the great tree. They would be the first to pounce on the emerging prey. They were tightening the noose around the tree to cause starvation. If the Guardians could not fly over their usual hunting grounds, they would surely starve and the enemy would grow fat.

“What are you doing, Soren?” Twilight asked. “Hoping for a bug to eat?” Soren had been scratching in the dirt beneath the perches of their hollow. He had felt too weak to even loft himself to his usual perch, which was much better for holding conversations than staying on the floor. But no one talked much these days. He had begun by scratching idly with his talon. But a design seemed to emerge.

“What is that?” Gylfie said, coming over to look.

Soren blinked. “It’s us.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“You see, here’s the tree and we are all in the tree, and here is the enemy, all around us. They can’t get in, because we don’t have any weak points in the tree, but we can’t get out. As Ezylryb said, this defensive strategy isn’t very mobile.”

“In other words, we’re stuck,” Twilight said. “So what else is new?”

“But what if we could get out?” Soren asked. Soren felt Digger stir beside him.

“Digger,” said Soren. “What if we could dig out? Could we burrow out with our forces and then deploy our troops to two points, and catch them between us?” Soren lifted his foot in the air and snapped his two front talons together in the same quick movement used to catch bats on the wing. Their gizzards all began to twitch with nervous excitement. Then Gylfie said the word, the name that made it all seem possible.

“Octavia!”

“A pincer movement! Of course, I think it might be possible,” the old snake who tended the nests of both Madame Plonk and Ezylryb spoke in her slow ponderous manner with the inflections of the Northern Kingdoms. Octavia, unlike the other snakes who all had rosy to pale
pink scales, had a greenish-blue hue. She was a Kielian snake from Stormfast Island in the Bay of Kiel. Kielian snakes were known for their incredible musculature. They could actually dig holes.

It was Ezylryb who had seen how useful these snakes, who were not blind like the rosy-scaled nest-maid snakes, could be in battle. He had come up with the idea for a stealth force of Kielian snakes that could tunnel into enemy territory. This was during a period when the War of the Ice Claws was raging in the Northern Kingdoms. On one of her missions in the stealth force, Octavia was blinded and Ezylryb lost not only his mate, but one talon. Ezylryb and Octavia, both maimed by war, had withdrawn from the military life and sought refuge for many years on an island in the Bitter Sea where the Glauxian Brothers had a retreat. Now, however, it was war again.

“Would Ezylryb think this could work?” Soren asked tentatively.

“You’ll never know until you ask him. I could be of help in the tunneling, even though I’m not quite as fit as I used to be,” said Octavia.

“Well, there are all the digging units, the Burrowing Owls,” Digger said excitedly.

“Yes, yes,” Octavia said slowly. But she seemed to hesitate as if there were something more she wanted to say.

“Should we go to Ezylryb now and ask him? Should we ask the parliament?” Digger asked.

“No!” Octavia spoke abruptly, then coiled up and swung her head. “Now listen carefully. Say nothing of this to anybody, not even Otulissa or Martin or any of your other Chaw of Chaw mates. I’m glad you found me in the corridor and asked me to your hollow. I think Ezylryb should come here as well to listen to this plan. I don’t know how to say this exactly, but there have been certain breeches in security. There have been information leaks. It is suspected that the parliament hollow is not completely secure.”

Soren and the three others tried not to gasp. They were the only ones who knew about the strange phenomenon that allowed the roots to transmit sound beneath the parliament chamber, or at least they thought they were. Had they been discovered? Had their listening post been discovered?

“Wait here,” Octavia said. “I’ll be back with Ezylryb soon. There’s not a minute to waste.” And the old Kielian snake slithered out of their hollow, her green scales glowing in the dim light.