скачать книгу бесплатно
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 (#ulink_e65bd2d5-5481-5041-bd9a-32646f3a1c59)
In the Company of Sooty Owls (#ulink_e65bd2d5-5481-5041-bd9a-32646f3a1c59)
“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.”
