The Journey. Kathryn Lasky

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