COPYRIGHT

HarperCollins Children’s Books An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

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London SE1 9GF

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First published in the USA by Scholastic Inc 2003

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2006

Text copyright © Kathryn Lasky 2003

Kathryn Lasky asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007215188

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008226800

Version: 2016-12-06

DEDICATION

To Max, who imagines universes

…the four owls looked below and saw the vast sea glinting with silver spangles from the moon’s light and then, directly ahead, spreading into the night, were the twisting branches of the largest tree they had ever seen, the Great Ga’Hoole Tree…

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: A Mobbing of Crows

Chapter Two: In the Company of Sooty Owls

Chapter Three: Twilight Shows Off

Chapter Four: Get Out! Get Out!

Chapter Five: The Mirror Lakes

Chapter Six: The Ice Narrows

Chapter Seven: This Side of Yonder

Chapter Eight: First Night to First Light

Chapter Nine: A Parliament of Owls

Chapter Ten: Twilight on the Brink

Chapter Eleven: The Golden Talons

Chapter Twelve: Hukla, Hukla and Hope

Chapter Thirteen: Books of the Yonder

Chapter Fourteen: Night Flight

Chapter Fifteen: A Visit to Bubo

Chapter Sixteen: The Voices in the Roots

Chapter Seventeen: Weather Chaw

Chapter Eighteen: Mrs Plithiver’s Dilemma

Chapter Nineteen: A Visit to Madame Plonk

Chapter Twenty: Fire!

Chapter Twenty-One: “A Coal in My Beak!”

Chapter Twenty-Two: Owlets Down!

Chapter Twenty-Three: At Last!

Chapter Twenty-Four: Trader Mags

Chapter Twenty-Five: In the Folds of the Night

Keep Reading

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
A Mobbing of Crows

Soren felt the blind snake shift in the deep feathers between his shoulders as he and the three other owls flew through the buffeting winds. They had been flying for hours now and it seemed as if in the last minutes the darkness had begun to dissolve drop by drop, and they were now passing from the full black of the night into the first light of the morning. Beneath them a river slid like a dark ribbon over the earth.

“Let’s keep flying even though it’s getting light,” said Twilight, the immense Great Grey Owl who flew downwind of Soren. “We’re getting nearer. I just feel it.”

It was to the Sea of Hoolemere they flew, and in the middle of that sea was an island and on that island there was a tree called the Great Ga’Hoole Tree and in this tree there was an order of owls. It was said that these owls would rise each night into the blackness and perform noble deeds. The universe of owls was desperately in need of such deeds. For with its many kingdoms it was about to be destroyed by a terrible evil.

Hidden away in a maze of stone canyons and ravines there was a violent nation of deadly owls known as St Aegolius. The evil of St Aggie’s, as it was often called, had touched almost every owl kingdom in some way or another. Soren and his best friend Gylfie, the tiny Elf Owl, had both been captured by St Aggie’s patrols when they were young nestlings unable to fly. Twilight too had been snatched but, unlike Soren and Gylfie, he had managed to escape before being imprisoned. Digger’s youngest brother had been eaten by a St Aggie’s patrol and his parents later killed. Soren and Gylfie had met Twilight and Digger, a Burrowing Owl, shortly after their own daring escape from the stone canyons of St Aggie’s.

Although the four owls had met as orphans, they had become so much more. In a desert still stained with the blood of two of the fiercest of St Aggie’s elite warrior owls, whom they had defeated, they had discovered a knowledge, along with a feeling deep in their gizzards, where all owls felt their strongest emotions. And this knowledge was that they were a band for evermore, one for all and all for one, bound by the deepest loyalty and dedicated to the survival of the kingdoms of all owls. They had sworn an oath in that desert drenched with blood and tinged with the silver light of the moon. They would go to Hoolemere. It was as a band that they knew they must go and find its great tree, which loomed now as the heart of wisdom and nobility in a world that was becoming insane and ignoble. They must warn of the evil that threatened. They must become part of this ancient kingdom of guardian knights on silent wings.

They hoped they were drawing near even though the river they now followed was not the River Hoole, the one that led to Hoolemere. Still, Twilight said he was sure that this river would lead to the Hoole and on to Hoolemere, and the very thought of this legendary island in the sea made the four owls stroke even harder against the confusing winds. But Soren felt Mrs Plithiver stir again in his feathers. Mrs P, as he called her, had been the old nest-maid in the hollow where Soren’s parents had made their home. These blind snakes had been born without eyes, and where their eyes should have been there were only two slight indentations. The rosy-scaled reptiles were kept by many owls to tend the nests and make sure they were clean and free of maggots and various vermin that found their way into the hollows. Soren had thought that he would never see Mrs P again, and yet they had found each other just days after his escape from St Aggie’s. She had told him what Soren had long suspected – that it was his older brother, Kludd, who had pushed him from the nest when his parents were out hunting. Although he had survived the fall, still being flightless he was prey to any ground animal. Ground animal! Who would have ever thought another owl would be the greatest danger? Until that moment when he was snatched and felt himself being carried into the night sky by a pair of talons, Soren had thought that the worst predator in the forest, from an owl’s point of view, was a raccoon. And then Mrs P told him that she suspected Kludd had done the same thing to Eglantine, his baby sister. When Mrs P had protested, Kludd had threatened to eat her. So the poor old snake had no choice but to leave – very quickly.

Now Mrs P slithered towards Soren’s left ear, the higher ear and the easiest for her to reach. “Soren,” she whispered, “I’m not sure if it is a good idea to keep flying with all this light. We don’t want to get mobbed.”

“Mobbed?” Soren asked.

“You know, crows.”

Soren felt a chill run through his gizzard.

Perhaps if Mrs Plithiver had not been whispering her warning in his ear he might have heard the chuffing sound of wings, and not owl wings, overhead.

“Crow to windward!” Gylfie cried. And then suddenly the rosy dawn sky turned black.

“We’re being mobbed!” shrieked Twilight.

Oh Glaux! thought Soren. This was the worst thing that could befall any owl flying in the daytime. But it was still very early. Crows at night were fine. Owls were crows’ worst enemies at night. They could attack them as they slept, but crows during the day were something else. Crows in daylight were terrible. If a crow discovered an owl during the daytime, even if it was just one crow, that bird had a way of signalling others and soon an entire flock would arrive and mob the owls, diving at their heads with their sharp beaks, trying to tear out their eyes.

“Scatter!” Gylfie cried out.

“Scatter and loop.” Suddenly, Gylfie seemed to be everywhere at once. She was like a crazed insect, zipping through the air. Soren, Digger and Twilight began to follow her lead. Soren quickly noticed that Gylfie would swoop up from her loops and spiralling dives to just beneath the crows, stabbing them on the underside of their wings. This made the crows drop their wings down close to their bodies and lose altitude.

“I feel one coming up behind,” hissed Mrs P. “Off your windward tail feathers.”

Mrs P carefully began to crawl backwards on Soren. He adjusted his wings. For even with her light weight, as she moved he could feel his balance shift. Mrs P could smell the crow’s stinky breath as it closed in. Soren began to dive. Mrs P continued to make her way towards the stiffer and coarser tail feathers. A great whiff of crow stench engulfed her. Mrs Plithiver raised her head in the direction of the foul odour and began screaming, “Scum of the sky, curse of the earth, riffraff of the Yonder. Scurrilous crowilous,” she ranted.

The Yonder was what all blind snakes called the sky because it was so far away, about as far away as anything could be for a snake. But Mrs P saved her most poisonous insult for last – “Wet pooper!” Blind snakes were especially impressed by owls’ digestive systems, which allowed them to compress certain parts of waste into neat pellets that they yarped up through their mouths, as opposed to other disgusting birds whom they referred to as ‘wet poopers’. The crow seemed to brake mid-flight. His beak fell open, his wings folded.

Crows are simple birds. And what this crow had just seen and heard – a snake hissing curses and rising from the back feathers of an owl – stunned him. He went ‘yeep’, which meant that he simply froze in flight and began to plummet to earth.

The crows by this time had begun to disappear. Twilight flew up to Soren’s windward side. “Digger’s hurt,” he said.

Indeed, when Soren looked in the direction of Digger, he saw the Burrowing Owl tipping dangerously to one side. “We’ve got to find a place to land.”

Gylfie flew up breathlessly. “I don’t know how much longer Digger can last. He’s not flying straight at all.”

“Which way is he tipping?” Mrs P asked.

“Downwind,” said Twilight.

“Quick!” she ordered. “Let’s get over there. I might be able to help.”

“You?” Twilight asked somewhat incredulously.

“Remember, dear, how Digger had been asking me to ride on his back in the desert? This might just be the time.”

A few seconds later they were coming in on Digger’s upwind wing.

“Digger,” Soren said, “we know you’re hurt.”

“I don’t know if I can make it,” the Burrowing Owl groaned. “Oh, if I could only walk.”

“There’s a stand of trees really close,” Soren said. “Mrs P has an idea that might help you.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s going to get on your good wing. That will tip your injured wing up again, lighten the drag on it. Gylfie meanwhile will fly under your bad wing and create a little updraft for it. It might work.”

“I don’t know,” Digger moaned miserably.

“Faith, boy! Faith!” exhorted Mrs Plithiver. “Now let’s get on with it.”

“I really don’t think I can make it,” Digger gasped.

“You can, boy! You can!” said Mrs P. Her voice grew amazingly strong. “You shall go on to the finish. You shall fly to the forests, to the trees, to Hoolemere. You have defended yourself against these crows. You have strode across deserts. You shall defend yourself now by flying. You shall fly into the wind, into the light, into this new day. Whatever the cost, you shall fly on. You shall not fail or falter. You shall not weaken. You shall finish the flight.” Mrs P’s voice swelled in the growing light of the morning and somehow it filled them all with new courage.

Now Soren flew in so close to Digger that his wing was touching the tip of Digger’s good wing. They were ready for the transfer. “Now, Mrs P! Go!”

The old nest snake began to slither out on to Soren’s wing. Soren felt the pressure of air around his body and the cushions of wind under his wings shift. The air surrounding him seemed to fray. He had to concentrate hard not to go into a roll. But if he was frightened, he could not imagine what Mrs P was feeling as she blindly slithered out to the tip of his wing and began the precarious transfer to Digger.

“Almost there, dear, almost there. Steady now. Steady.”

Suddenly, she was gone. His wing felt light. Soren turned his head. She had made it. She was now crawling up towards the base of Digger’s wing. It was working. Digger’s flight grew even.

“We’re bringin’ him in! We’re bringin’ him in!” Twilight shouted triumphantly. Creating direct updrafts that supported Digger’s flight, Twilight flew below, along with Gylfie who, under the injured wing, was doing the same.

Finally, they landed in a large spruce tree. There was a perfect hollow for them to spend the day in, and Mrs Plithiver immediately launched into a frenzy of action. “I need worms! Big fat ones, and leeches. Quick – all of you! Go out and get me what I need. I’ll stay here with Digger.”

Mrs Plithiver crawled on to Digger’s back. “Now, this won’t hurt, dear, but I just want to feel what those awful crows did to you.” Gently, she began flicking her forked tongue over his wound. “It’s not deep. The best thing I can do is to curl up right on the wound until they come back. A snake’s skin can be very healing in many cases. We’re a little too dry for the long run, however. That’s why I want the worms.”

Soon the owls were back with the worms and leeches that Mrs P had ordered. She directed Soren to place two leeches on the wound. “That will cleanse it. I can’t tell you how filthy crows are!”

After the leeches had done their work, Mrs Plithiver pulled them off and gently replaced them with two fat worms.

Digger sighed. “That feels so good.”

“Yes, there’s nothing like a fat slimy worm for relief of a wound. You’ll be fit to fly by tomorrow night.”

“Thank you, Mrs P. Thank you so much.” Digger blinked at Mrs P, and there was a look in his large yellow eyes of disbelief that he could have ever considered such a snake a meal – which, as a desert owl, Digger often did.

Within the spruce tree where they perched, there was another hollow that housed a family of Masked Owls.

“They look almost exactly like you, Soren,” Gylfie said. “And they’re coming to visit.”

“Masked Owls look nothing like me,” Soren replied. Everyone was always saying this. He had heard his parents complain about it. Yes, they had white faces and buff-coloured wings, but they had many more spots on their breasts and head.

“They’re coming here to visit?” Mrs P said. “Oh dear, the place is a mess. We can’t receive company now. I’m nursing this poor owl.”

“They heard about the mobbing,” Gylfie said. “We’re even a little bit famous.”

“Why’s that?” asked Soren.

“I guess that gang of crows is really bad. They couldn’t believe we battled back and survived,” Gylfie replied.

Soon, they heard the Masked Owls arriving. One poked her head in. “Mind if we visit?” It was the female owl. And although Masked Owls belonged to the same species of owls as Soren’s family, which were Barn Owls, and they were all known as Tytos, they were hardly identical.

“See what I mean?” Soren whispered to Gylfie. “They are completely different. Look at how much bigger and darker they are.” The point was lost on Gylfie.

“We wanted to meet the brave owls who battled the crows,” said the owl’s mate.

“Yeah, how’d you ever do that?” a very young owlet who had barely fledged peeped up.

“Oh, it wasn’t all that hard,” Twilight said and dipped his head almost modestly.

“Not that hard!” Mrs Plithiver piped up. “Hardest thing I’ve ever done!”

“You!” the male Masked Owl exclaimed.

“She certainly had nothing to do with the defeat of the crows. She’s a nest-maid,” his mate said in a haughty voice.

Mrs Plithiver seemed to fade a bit. She nudged one of the worms that had begun to crawl off Digger’s wing.

“She had everything to do with it!” Soren bristled up and suddenly seemed almost as big as the Masked Owls. “If it hadn’t been for Mrs P, I would have been dive-bombed from the rear and poor Digger would have never made it back.”

The Masked Owls blinked. “Well, well.” The large female chuffed and stepped nervously from one talon to another. “We just aren’t used to such aggressive behaviour from our nest-maids. Ours are rather meek, I guess, compared to this … what do you call her?”

“Her name is Mrs Plithiver,” Soren said slowly and distinctly, with the contempt in his voice poorly concealed.

“Yes, yes,” the female replied nervously. “Well, we discourage our nest-maids from socially mingling with us at any time, really.”

“That was hardly a party, what happened up there in the sky, ma’am,” Twilight said hotly.

“Well, now tell me, young’uns,” said the male as if he was desperately trying to change the subject. “Where are you heading? What are your plans?”

“We’re going to Hoolemere and the Great Ga’Hoole Tree,” Soren said.

“Oh, how interesting,” the female replied in a voice that had a sneer embedded in it.

“Oh, Mummy,” said the young owlet. “That’s the place I was telling you about. Can’t we go?”

“Nonsense. You know how we feel about make-believe.”

The little owlet dipped his head in embarrassment.

“It’s not make-believe,” said Gylfie.

“Oh, you can’t be serious, young’un,” said the male. “It’s just a story, an old legend.”

“Let me tell you something,” said the female, whom Soren disliked more and more by the second. “It does not do any good to believe in things you cannot see, touch or feel. It is a waste of time. From the look of your flight feathers’ development, not to mention your talons, it is apparent that you are either fly-aways or orphans. Why else would you be out cavorting about the skies at such dangerous hours of the morning? I think your parents would be ashamed of you. I can tell you have good breeding.” She looked directly at Soren and blinked.

Soren thought he might explode with anger. How did this owl know what his parents might think? How dare she suggest that she knew them so well that she knew they would be ashamed of him?

And then there was a small soft, hissing voice. “I am ashamed of anyone who has eyes and still cannot see.” It was Mrs Plithiver. She slithered from the corner in the hollow. “But, of course, to see with two eyes is a very common thing.”

“What is she talking about?” said the male.

“What happened to the old days when servants served and were quiet? Imagine a nest-maid going on like this,” said the female.

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs Plithiver. “And I shall go on a bit more, if you permit me.” She proceeded to arrange herself in a lovely coil and swung her head towards Soren.

“Of course, Mrs Plithiver. Please go on,” Soren said.

“I am a blind snake, but who says I cannot see as much as you?” And then she swung her head sharply towards the female Masked Owl, who seemed startled, and it did appear indeed as if Mrs Plithiver was looking directly at her with her two small eye dents. “Who says I cannot see? To see with eyes is so ordinary. I see with my whole body – my skin, my bones, the coiling of my spine. And between the slow beats of my very slow heart, I sense the world here and beyond. I know the Yonder. Oh, yes. I have known it even before I ever flew in it. But before that day did I say it did not exist? What a fool you would have called me, milady, had I said your sky does not exist because I cannot see it nor can I fly. And what a fool you are to believe that Hoolemere does not exist.”

“Well, I never!” gasped the Masked Owl. She looked at her mate in astonishment. “She called me a fool!”

But Mrs Plithiver continued. “Sky does not exist merely in the wings of birds, an impulse in their feathers and blood and bone. Sky becomes the Yonder for all creatures if they free their hearts and their brains to feel, to know in the deepest ways. And when the Yonder calls, it speaks to all of us, be it sky, be it Hoolemere, be it heaven or glaumora.” Glaumora was the special heaven where the souls of owls went. “So perhaps,” Mrs Plithiver continued, “there are some who need to lose their eyes to discover their sight.” Mrs P nodded her head gracefully and slithered back into the corner. A stunned silence fell upon the hollow.

The four young owls waited until First Black to leave. “No more flying during light,” Mrs Plithiver said as she coiled into Soren’s neck feathers. “Agreed?”

“Agreed,” the owls replied at once.

They were now skirting the edges of the Kingdom of Tyto, the kingdom from which Soren’s family came. Although he was as alert as ever and flying most skilfully, Mrs Plithiver could sense a quietness in him. He did not join in the others’ flight chatter. She knew he must have been thinking of his parents, his lost family and, in particular, his sister, Eglantine, whom he loved most dearly. The chances of finding any of them were almost zero and she knew that Soren knew this, but still she could feel his pain. Yet he had not exactly described it as pain. He had once said to Mrs P shortly after they had been reunited that he had felt as if there were a hole in his gizzard, and that when he and Mrs P had found each other again, it was as if a little bit of the hole had been mended. But Mrs P knew that despite the patch she had provided there was still a hole.

When the first stars began to fade, they looked for a place to land and settle in before morning. It was Gylfie who spotted an old sycamore, silvery in this moonless night. The full moon had begun its dwenking many nights before, growing slimmer and slimmer until it dwenked and disappeared entirely, and there would not be a trace of it for another night or so until the newing began.

CHAPTER TWO
In the Company of Sooty Owls

“Oh yes, dear. I’ve heard of it, but you know they say it’s just a story, a legend.”

“Well, it’s not exactly that, Sweetums,” said the Sooty Owl’s mate.

The four owls had been warmly welcomed into the large and spacious hollow in the sycamore by a family of Sooty Owls. These two owls were much nicer than the Masked Owls. Indeed very, very nice and, Soren thought, very, very boring. They called each other by nicknames – Sweetums and Swatums. They never said a cross word. Everything was just perfect. The children had all grown up.

“Left the nest a year ago. Still nearby,” said Swatums, the male. “But who knows, Sweetums might come up with another clutch of eggs in the new breeding season. And if she doesn’t, well, we two are enough company for each other.” Then they began preening each other.

It seemed to Soren and Gylfie that they preened incessantly. They always had their beaks in each other’s feathers, except, of course, when they were hunting. And when they were hunting they were exceptional killers. It was as predators that these Sooty Owls became the most interesting. Sweetums and Swatums were simply deadly, and Soren had to admit he had never eaten so well. Twilight had told them to watch carefully, for Sooty Owls were among the rare owls that went after tree prey and not just ground prey.

So tonight they were all feasting on three of a type of possum that they called sugar gliders. They were the sweetest things that any of the young band of owls had ever tasted. Maybe that was why the two Sooties called each other Sweetums and Swatums. They had simply eaten too many sweet things. Perhaps eating a steady diet of sugar gliders made an owl ooze with gooiness. Soren thought he was going to go stark raving yoicks if he had to listen to their gooey talk a moment longer, but luckily they were now, in their own boring way, discussing the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.

Sweetums was questioning her mate. “Well, what do you mean, Swatums, by ‘not exactly’? Isn’t it either a legend or not? I mean, it’s not really real.”

“Well, Sweetums, some say it’s simply invisible.”

“What’s simple about being invisible?” Gylfie asked.

“Ohh, hooo-hooo.” The two Sooty Owls were convulsed with laughter. “Doesn’t she remind you of Tibby, Swatums?” Then there was more cooing and giggling and disgusting preening. Soren felt that Gylfie’s question was a perfectly sensible one. What, indeed, was simple about invisibleness?

“Well, young’uns,” Swatums answered, “there is nothing simple. It’s just that it has been said that the Great Ga’Hoole Tree is invisible. That it grows on the island in the middle of a vast sea, a sea called Hoolemere that is nearly as wide as an ocean. A sea that is always wrapped in fog, an island feathered in blizzards and a tree veiled in mist.”

“So,” said Twilight, “it’s not really invisible, it’s just bad weather.”

“Not exactly,” replied Swatums. Twilight cocked his head. “It seems that for some the fog lifts, the blizzards stop and the mist blows away.”

“For some?” asked Gylfie.

“For those who believe.” Swatums paused and then sniffed in disdain. “But do they say what? Believe in what? No. You see, that is the problem. Owls with fancy ideas – ridiculous! That’s how you get into trouble. Sweetums and I don’t believe in fancy ideas. Fancy ideas don’t keep the belly full and the gizzard grinding. Sugar gliders, plump rats, voles – that’s what counts.” Sweetums nodded and Swatums went over and began preening her for the millionth time that day.

Soren knew in that moment that even if he were starving to death, he would still find Sweetums and Swatums the most boring owls on Earth.

That late afternoon as they nestled in the hollow, waiting for First Black, Gylfie stirred sleepily. “You awake, Soren?”

“Yeah. I can’t wait to get to Hoolemere.”

“Me neither. But I was wondering,” Gylfie said.

“Wondering what?”

“Do you think that Streak and Zan love each other as much as Sweetums and Swatums?” Streak and Zan were two Bald Eagles who had helped them in the desert when Digger had been attacked by the lieutenants from St Aggie’s – the very ones who had earlier eaten Digger’s brother, Flick. The two eagles had seemed deeply devoted to each other. Yet Zan could not utter a sound. Her tongue had been torn out in battle.

What an interesting question, Soren thought. His own parents never preened each other as constantly as Sweetums and Swatums, and they hadn’t called each other gooey names, but he had never doubted their love for each other. “I don’t know,” he replied. “It’s hard thinking about mates. I mean, can you imagine ever having a mate or what he might be like?”

There was a long pause. “Honestly, no,” replied Gylfie.

They heard Twilight stir in his sleep.

“If I never taste another sugar glider it will be too soon.” Digger belched softly. “They keep repeating on me.”

The four owls had left at First Black and bid their farewells to the Sooties. They had now alighted on a tree limb with a good view down the valley. They were looking for a creek – any creek that could feed into a river that hopefully would be the River Hoole, which they could follow to the Sea of Hoolemere.

“What do you mean ‘keep repeating on you’?” Soren asked, imagining little possums gliding in and out of Digger’s beak.

“Just an expression. My dad used to say that after he ate centipedes.” Digger sighed. “And then Ma would say, ‘Well, of course they keep repeating on you, dear. You eat something that has all those legs, they’re probably still running around inside you’.”

Gylfie, Twilight and Soren burst out laughing.

Digger sighed again. “My mum was really funny. I miss her jokes.”

“Come on,” said Gylfie. “You’ll be OK.”

“But everything is so different here. I don’t live in trees. Never have in my life. I’m a Burrowing Owl. I lived in desert burrows. I don’t hunt these silly creatures that glide and fly about through the limbs. I miss the taste of snake and crawly things that pick up the dirt. Whoops, sorry, Mrs P.”

“Don’t apologise, Digger. Most owls do eat snakes – not usually blind snakes, since we tend their nests – but other snakes. Soren’s parents were particularly sensitive and, out of respect for me, would not eat any snake.”

Twilight had hopped to a higher limb to see if he could see any trace of a creek that might lead to a river.

“He’s not going to be able to see anything in this light. I don’t care how good his eyes are. A black trickle of a creek in a dark forest – forget it,” Gylfie said.

Suddenly, Soren cocked his head, first one way, then the other.

“What is it, Soren?” Digger asked.

“You hear something?” Twilight flew down and landed on a thin branch that creaked under his weight.

“Hush!” Soren said.

They all fell silent and watched as the Barn Owl tipped, cocked and pivoted his head in a series of small movements. And, finally, Soren heard something. “There is a trickle. I hear it. It’s not a lot of water, but I can hear that it begins in reeds and then it starts to slide over stones.”

Barn Owls were known for their extremely sensitive hearing. They could contract and expand the muscles of their facial disks to funnel the sound source to their unevenly placed earholes. The other owls were in awe of their friend’s abilities.

“Let’s go. I’ll lead,” Soren said.

It was one of the few times anyone except Twilight had flown in the point position.

As Soren flew, he kept angling his head so that his two ears, one lower and one higher, could precisely locate the source of the water. Within a few minutes, they had found a trickle and that trickle turned into a stream, a stream full of the music of gently tumbling water. Then by dawn that stream had become a river – the River Hoole.

“A masterful job of triangulation,” Gylfie cried. “Simply masterful, Soren. You are a premier navigator.”

“What’s she saying?” Digger asked.

“She’s saying that Soren got us here. Big words, little owl.” But it was evident that Twilight was impressed.

“So now what do we do?” Digger asked.

“Follow the river to the Sea of Hoolemere,” Twilight said. “Come on. We still have a few hours until First Light.”

“More flying?” Digger asked.

“What? You want to walk?” Twilight replied.

“I wouldn’t mind. My wings are tired. And it’s not just my wound. It’s healed.”

The three other owls stared at Digger in dismay. Gylfie hopped out on the tree branch they had landed on and peered intently at Digger. “Wings don’t get tired. That’s impossible.”

“Well, mine do. Can’t we rest up a bit?” Burrowing Owls, like Digger, were in fact known for their running abilities. Blessed with long, featherless legs, they could stride across the deserts as well as fly over them. But their flight skills were not as strong as those of other owls.

“I’m hungry, anyway,” said Soren. “Let me see if I can catch us something.”

“Please, no sugar gliders,” Digger added.

CHAPTER THREE
Twilight Shows Off

They had settled into the hollow of a fir tree and were eating some voles that Soren had brought back from his hunting expedition.

“Refreshing, isn’t it, after sugar gliders?” Gylfie said.

“Hmmm!” Digger smacked his beak and made a satisfied sound.

“What do you think the Great Ga’Hoole Tree will be like?” Soren said dreamily, as a little bit of vole tail hung from his beak.

“Different from St Aggie’s, that’s for sure,” Gylfie offered.

“Do you think they know about St Aggie’s – the raids, the egg snatching, the … the …” Soren hesitated.

“The cannibalism,” Digger said. “You might as well say it, Soren. Don’t try to protect me. I’ve seen the worst and I know it.”

They had all seen the worst.

Twilight, who was huge to start with, was beginning to swell up in fury. Soren knew what was coming. Twilight was not thinking about the owls of Ga’Hoole, those noble guardian knights of the sky. He was thinking about those ignoble, contemptible, basest of the base, monstrous owls of St Aggie’s. Twilight had been orphaned so young that he had not the slightest scrap of memory of his parents. For a long time, he had led a kind of vagabond, orphan life. Indeed, Twilight had lived with all sorts of odd animals, even a fox at one point, which was why he never hunted fox.

Like all Great Greys, he was considered a powerful and ruthless predator, but Twilight prided himself on being, as he called it, an owl from the Orphan School of Tough Learning. He was completely self-taught. He had lived in burrows with foxes, flown with eagles. He was strong and a real fighter. And there was not a modest hollow bone in Twilight’s body. He was powerful, a brilliant flier, and he was fast. As fast with his talons as with his beak. In a minute they all knew that the air would become shrill as he sang his own praises and jabbed and stabbed at an imaginary foe. Twilight’s shadow began to flicker in the dim light of the hollow as his voice, deep and thrumming, started to chant.

We’re going to bash them birds,

Them rat-feathered birds.

Them bad-butt owls ain’t never heard

’Bout Gylfie, Soren, Dig and Twilight.

Just let them get to feel my bite

Their li’l ol’ gizzards gonna turn to pus

And our feathers hardly mussed.

Oh me. Oh my. They gonna cry.

One look at Twilight,

They know they’re gonna die.

I see fear in their eyes

And that ain’t all.

They know that Twilight’s got the gall.

Gizzard with gall that makes him great

And every bad owl gonna turn to bait.

Jab, jab – then a swipe and hook with the right talon. Twilight danced around the hollow. The air churned with his shadow fight, and Gylfie, the tiniest of them all, had to hang on tight. It was like a small hurricane in the hollow. Then, finally, his movements slowed and he pranced off into a corner.

“Got that out of your system, Twilight?” Gylfie asked.

“What do you mean ‘out of my system’?”

“Your aggression.”

Twilight made a slightly contemptuous sound that came from the back of his throat. “Big words, little owl.” This was something Twilight often said to Gylfie. Gylfie did have a tendency to use big words.

“Well now, young’uns,” Mrs P was speaking up. “Let’s not get into it. I think, Gylfie, that in the face of cannibalism, aggression or going stark raving yoicks and absolutely annihilating the cannibals is perfectly appropriate.”

“More big words but I like them. I like them, Mrs P,” Twilight hooted his delight.

Soren, however, remained quiet. He was thinking. He was still wondering what the Great Ga’Hoole Tree would be like. What would those noble owls think of an owl like Twilight – so unrefined, yet powerful. So cheeky, but loyal – so angry, but true?

CHAPTER FOUR
Get Out! Get Out!

They had left the hollow of the fir tree at First Black. The night was racing with ragged clouds. The forest covering was thick beneath them so they flew low to keep the River Hoole in sight, which sometimes narrowed and only appeared as the smallest glimmer of a thread of water. The trees thinned and Twilight said that he thought the region below was known as The Beaks. For a while, they seemed to lose the strand of the river, and there appeared to be many other small threadlike creeks or tributaries. They were, of course, worried they might have lost the Hoole, but if they had their doubts they dared not even think about them for a sliver of a second. For doubts, each one feared in the deepest parts of their quivering gizzards, might be like an owl sickness – like greyscale or beak rot – contagious and able to spread from owl to owl.

How many false creeks, streams and even rivers had they followed so far, only to be disappointed? But now Digger called out, “I see something!” All of their gizzards quickened. “It’s, it’s … whitish … well, greyish.”

“Ish? What in Glaux’s name is ‘ish’?” Twilight hooted.

“It means,” Gylfie said in her clear voice, “that it’s not exactly white, and it’s not exactly grey.”

“I’ll have a look. Hold your flight pattern until I get back.”

The huge Great Grey Owl began a power dive. He was not gone long before he returned. “And you know why it’s not exactly grey and not exactly white?” Twilight did not wait for an answer. “Because it’s smoke.”

“Smoke?” The other three seemed dumbfounded.

“You do know what smoke is?” Twilight asked. He tried to remember to be patient with these owls who had seen and experienced so much less than he had.

“Sort of,” Soren replied. “You mean there’s a forest fire down there? I’ve heard of those.”

“Oh, no. Nothing that big. Maybe once it was. But, really, the forests of The Beaks are minor ones. Second-rate. Few and far between and not much to catch fire.”

“Spontaneous combustion – no doubt,” Gylfie said. Twilight gave the little Elf Owl a withering look. Always trying to steal his show with the big words. He had no idea what spontaneous combustion was and he doubted if Gylfie did, either. But he let it go for the moment. “Come on, let’s go explore.”

They alighted on the forest floor at the edge of where the smoke was the thickest. It seemed to be coming out of a cave beneath a stone outcropping. There was a scattering of a few glowing coals on the ground and charred pieces of wood. “Digger,” Twilight said, “can you dig as well as you can walk with those naked legs of yours?”

“You bet. How do you think we fix up our burrows or make them bigger? We don’t just settle for what we happen upon.”

“Well, start digging and show the rest of us how. We’ve got to bury these coals before a wind comes up and carries them off and really gets a fire going.”

It was hard work burying the coals, especially for Gylfie, who was the tiniest and had the shortest legs of all. “I wonder what happened here?” Gylfie said as she paused to look around. Her eyes settled on what she thought was a charred piece of wood, but something glinted through the blackness of the moonless night. Glinted and curved into a familiar shape. Gylfie blinked. Her gizzard gave a little twitch and as if in a trance she walked over towards the object.

“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 smouldering 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 towards 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 towards the Great Grey. “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 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 end 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 forwards. “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 could 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 slowly at the cave. 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 on to 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 of 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 forwards through the thick feathers of Soren’s shoulders and leaned out towards 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!”

CHAPTER FIVE
The Mirror Lakes

Mrs 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, to 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 crowless place, she sensed something dangerous. She could have just swatted Twilight and his 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 mesmerising 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, 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 all soon 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, marvelling at their fabulous flight manoeuvres 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 Grey,

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?

This was a very strange place. It was not just the Mirror Lakes and the thick soft moss and the perfect tree hollows and the plentiful game. Suddenly, Mrs Plithiver realised that in the rest of the kingdoms they had flown through it was becoming early winter, but here it was still summer, full summer. She could smell it. The leaves were still green, the grasses supple, the earth warm. But it was poisonous! They had to get out of here. This place was as dangerous as St Aggie’s.

“Come here this instant! All of you!” It was the closest a hissing snake ever got to a snarl.

Soren jerked his head up from admiring his beak in the surface of the pond. He rather liked the smudge on it. He thought it added ‘character’ to his face, as Gylfie said.

“Mrs P, what in Glaux’s name?”

“I’ll Glaux you!” she hissed.

Soren nearly fainted. He never had heard Mrs P swear, and at him, no less. It was like venom curling out into the air. The other owls alighted next to Soren.

“Hey,” Twilight said, “did you catch that curled wingie I just did?”

“Racdrops on your curled wingie.”

Now a deep hush fell upon the owls. Had Mrs Plithiver lost her mind? Racdrops. She had actually said racdrops!

“What’s wrong, Mrs P?” Soren asked in a trembling voice.

“What’s wrong? Look at me. Stop looking at yourselves in the lake this instant. I’ll tell you what’s wrong. You are a disgrace to your families.”

“I have no family if you’ll recall, Mrs P.” Twilight yawned.

“Worse then! You are a disgrace to your species. The Great Grey Owls.”

This really took Twilight aback. “My species?”

“Yes, indeed. All of you are, for that matter. You have all grown fat, lazy and vain, the lot of you. Why … why …” Mrs Plithiver stammered.

Soren felt something really bad was coming.

“You’re no better than a bunch of wet poopers!” With that, there was a raucous outburst from a branch overhanging where they stood at the lake’s edge, on which a dozen or more seagulls had alighted. The harsh gull laughter ricocheted off the lake and the reflections of the owls on its surface quivered and then seemed to shatter.

“We’re getting out of here NOW!” Mrs Plithiver said in a near roar for a snake.

“What about crows? It’s not dark yet.”

“Tough!” she spat.

“Are you going to sacrifice us to crows?” Gylfie said in a very small voice.

“You’re sacrificing yourself right here on the shores of this lake.” And something sharper than the fiercest gaze of eyes bore into Gylfie’s gizzard. Indeed, all the owls felt their gizzards twist and lurch.

“Get ready to fly! And Twilight—”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll fly point with you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The Great Grey stooped down so that Mrs Plithiver could slither on to his broad shoulders.

Of all the owls, Twilight had been the most transfixed by Mrs P’s outburst. And if Twilight was to fly point, as he usually did, Mrs P felt she was going to have to be there to keep him on course. He was a ‘special needs’ case if there ever was one. What, indeed, had the world come to if an old blind nest-maid snake had to navigate for a Great Grey Owl? Some sky tiger!

But she had to navigate as Twilight began to circle the lake a second time and dip his downwind wing, no doubt for a better look at himself, and, yes, singing under his breath his next favourite tune –

Oh, wings of silver spread on high,

Fierce eyes of golden light,

Across the clouds of purple hue

In sheer majestic flight –

Oh, Twilight!

Oh, Twilight, most beautiful of owls,

Who sculpts the air

Beyond compare.

With feathers so sublime,

An owl for now –

An owl for then –

An owl for all of time.

Mrs Plithiver had coiled up and was waving her head as a signal to a gull she sensed overhead. Suddenly, there was a big white splat that landed on the silver wings sublime.

“What in Glaux’s name?” Twilight said.

“They like you, Twilight. Blessed, I dare say!”

Twilight flew straight out across the lake and never looked back.

CHAPTER SIX
The Ice Narrows

It seemed as if winter had been waiting for them as soon as the Mirror Lakes dropped behind them. Blasts of frigid air, swirling with ice, sleet and often hail, smacked into them. The rolling ridges of The Beaks had become sharper and steeper, sending up confusing currents. Ice began to form on their own beaks and, in a few minutes, Soren saw Gylfie spin out of control. Luckily, Twilight accelerated and managed to help her.

“Fly in my wake, Gylfie,” he shouted over the roar of the wind. And then he swivelled his head back to the others. “Her wings have started to ice. Ours will too – soon. It’s too dangerous to continue. We have to look for a place to land.”

Almost as soon as Twilight had spoken of iced wings, Soren felt his own suddenly grow heavy. He turned his head and nearly gasped when he saw his plummels, the silkiest of all his feathers, that fringed the outer edges of his primaries. They were stiff with frost and the wind was whistling through them. Great Glaux, I’m flying like a gull!

It was not long before they found a tree. The hollow was a rather miserable little one. They could barely cram into it, and it was crawling with vermin.

“This is appalling!” Mrs Plithiver said. “I’ve never seen such an infestation.”

“Isn’t there some moss someplace?” Twilight asked, remembering the extraordinarily soft, thick moss of the Mirror Lakes.

“Well, if someone wants to go out and look, they can,” Mrs P said. “In the meantime, I’ll try and eat as many of these maggotty little creatures as possible.”

Soren peeked out the hollow. “The wind’s picked up. You can’t even see out there. Snow’s so thick on the ground, I doubt if we could find any moss if we did look.”

“We can always pulp some of the pine needles,” Gylfie said. “First, you beak them hard enough, then let them slide down to your first stomach – the one before the gizzard. Hold it there for just a while, and then yarp it all back up. The pine needles come out all mushy and when they dry they’re almost as soft as moss. Actually, technically speaking, it is not called yarping. It’s burping when its wet and not a pellet.”

“Who cares – as long as it’s soft?” Twilight muttered.

“I suppose it’s worth a try,” Digger said. “The thought of going out there into that blizzard is not appealing in the least.”

So the owls leaned out from the protection of the hollow only far enough to snatch a beakful of pine needles. They all began beaking, then swallowing the wads down to their first stomachs and then burping. All the while, Mrs Plithiver busied herself with sucking up maggots and pinch beetles, and one or two small worms known as feather raiders – all of which were most unhygienic to the health of owls.

“I don’t think I could eat another pinch beetle if my life depended on it,” Mrs P groaned after more than an hour.

There was a huge watery gurgle that rippled through the hollow.

“What was that?” Digger said.

“Yours truly, burping here,” Twilight said and opened his beak and let go with another hollow-shaking burp.

“Oh, I’ve got to try that!” Digger said. In no time the four owls were having a burping contest. They were laughing and hooting and having a grand old time as the blizzard outside raged. They had figured out prizes as well. There was a prize, of course, for the loudest, but then one for the most watery sound, and one for the most disgusting, and one for the prettiest and most refined. Although everyone expected Gylfie to win with the prettiest, Soren did, and Gylfie won for the most disgusting.

“Absolutely vulgar,” muttered Mrs P.

But soon they became bored with that and they began to wonder when the blizzard would let up. And although not one of them would admit it, secretly their thoughts turned to the Mirror Lakes and they grew quieter and quieter as they tried to remember their lazy beautiful days, flying in spectacular arcs over the lakes’ gleaming surface. And the food, the food was so good!

“Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a nice vole,” Soren sighed.

“You know, young’un, I think the wind is lessening. I think maybe we should take off.” Mrs Plithiver sensed the four owls’ thoughts turning to the Mirror Lakes. She simply couldn’t allow that. So even though she did not truly believe that the wind was lessening, it was essential to get them flying again.

“You call this less?” Digger hooted from his downwind position.

“A bit, and believe me, dear, sitting there burping pine needles isn’t going to get you any closer to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.”

But what would? thought Soren. They could barely see ahead, behind was thick with swirling snow, below was dense fog that not even a treetop could poke through, and, off to windward, sheets of frigid air seemed to tumble from somewhere.

“There are cliffs to windward.” Twilight drifted back from his point position. “I think that if we could get under the lee of them we might be protected and able to fly better.”

“Sounds like it’s worth a try. We’d better get Gylfie between us,” Soren said.

The owls had become adept at creating a still place for Gylfie in the centre of their flying wedge formation when the winds became too tumultuous for the Elf Owl. Gylfie moved into that spot now. “All right, let’s crab upwind,” Twilight hooted over the fury of the blizzard.

Crabbing was a flight manoeuvre in which the owls flew slightly sideways into the wind at an oblique angle so as not to hit it head on. The owls scuttled across the wind in much the same way a crab moves – not directly forwards but in this case taking the best advantage of a wind that was determined to smack them back. But now, by stealing a bit off the wind’s edges, the owls could move forwards, although slowly. They had been doing a lot of crabbing since they had left the last hollow and something they thought could never happen had happened. Their windward wings had actually grown tired and even sore. But at least their wings weren’t icing up.

Suddenly, there was a terrible roar. The owls felt themselves sucked sideways as if an icy claw had reached out to drag them. There was another roar and they felt themselves smash into a wall of ice. Soren began sliding down a cold, slick surface. “Hang on, Mrs Plithiver,” he called, but he had no sense of her nestling in her usual place. It was impossible to grab anything with his talons. His wings simply would not work. He felt himself going faster than he had ever flown. But something huge and grey and faster whizzed by him. Was it Twilight? No time to think. No time to feel. It was as if his gizzard had been sucked right out of him along with every hollow bone. But then he finally stopped. He was dazed, breathless, but mercifully not moving, on the slightly curved glistening white ledge on which he had landed.

“Lucky for you and you and you and what?” came a low gurgling sound from above.

“Who? Who’s that talking?” Soren asked.

“Oh, great Glaux!” Gylfie whispered as she slid next to Soren. “What in the …”

Then Soren saw what she was looking at. The four owls and, luckily, Mrs Plithiver had survived. They were all flat on their backs looking up a sheer white wall of ice and, poking their noses out of a hole in the ice above, were the faces of three of the most preposterous creatures any of them had ever seen.

Gylfie whispered, “What are they? Not birds.”

“No, never,” Twilight said.

“Do you think they’re part of the animal kingdom?” Gylfie asked.

“What other kingdoms are there?” Twilight said.

“Plant kingdom – I heard my father speak of the plant kingdom,” Gylfie said.

“They do look kind of planty. Don’t they?” said Digger.

“What do you mean? Planty?” asked Soren.

“I know what Digger’s talking about. That bright orange thing growing from the middle of its, I guess, face?”

“What do you mean – you guess, face?” the creature hollered. “I mean, we’re pretty dumb, but you must be dumber if you can’t tell a face from a plant.”

“Well, you look a bit like a cactus in bloom – the kind we have in the desert,” Digger said.

“That’s my beak, idiot. I can assure you that neither I nor anyone in my family is a cactus in bloom – whatever a cactus is and whatever a desert is.”

“Well, what are you?” Mrs Plithiver finally spoke up.

“Well, what in the name of ice are you?” the creature retorted.

“I’m a snake … a nest-maid snake. I serve these most noble of birds, owls.”

“Well,” said the creature who was not a cactus, “we’re just a bunch of puffins.”

“Puffins!” Twilight hooted. “Puffins are northern birds, far northern birds.”

“Duh!” said one of the little ones. “Gee, Pop, I’m feeling smarter all the time.”

“But if you’re puffins,” Gylfie continued, “we must be in the North.”

“Ta-da!” said one of the puffins. “Gee, you owls are getting smarter every minute!”

“Does she get a prize, Mummy, for answering the question right?” Another little chick, with an immense beak almost as long as it was tall, poked its head out of the hole.

“Oh, we’re just having fun with them, Dumpy.”

“But how did we get so far north?” Soren asked.

“Must have been blown off course,” said the female. “Where you come from?”

“The Beaks,” Twilight said.

“Where you headed?”

“The island in the Sea of Hoolemere.”

“Great Ice! You’ve passed it by. Overshot it by five hundred leagues.”

“What! We flew over it and didn’t even see it?” Digger said, his voice barely audible.

“Where are we exactly?” Gylfie asked.

“You’re in the Ice Narrows, far side of Hoolemere, edge of the Northern Kingdoms.”

“What!” All four owls gasped.

“Don’t feel too dumb,” the male said. “Bad weather conditions.”

“When do we ever have good ones, dear?” his mate mused.

“Well, true. But with the wind coming from that direction, they just got sucked up into the Narrows and then that williwaw came.”

“What’s a williwaw?” Soren asked.

“You get a big tumble, like an avalanche. Suppose you don’t know what that is – an avalanche.”

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