The Journey. Kathryn Lasky

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