The Journey. Kathryn Lasky

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