The Capture

COPYRIGHT

HarperCollins Children’s Books An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the USA by Scholastic Inc 2003

First published in Great Britain as The Capture 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: 9780007215171

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780007369782

Version: 2016-12-02

To Ann Reit, Wise Owl, Great Flight Instructor

… and then the forest of the Kingdom of Tyto seemed to grow smaller and smaller and dimmer and dimmer in the night …

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: A Nest Remembered

Chapter Two: A Life Worth Two Pellets

Chapter Three: Snatched!

Chapter Four: St Aegolius Academy for Orphaned Owls

Chapter Five: Moon Blinking

Chapter Six: Separate Pits, One Mind

Chapter Seven: The Great Scheme

Chapter Eight: The Pelletorium

Chapter Nine: Good Nurse Finny

Chapter Ten: Right Side Up in an Upside-down World

Chapter Eleven: Gylfie’s Discovery

Chapter Twelve: Moon Scalding

Chapter Thirteen: Perfection!

Chapter Fourteen: The Eggorium

Chapter Fifteen: The Hatchery

Chapter Sixteen: Hortense’s Story

Chapter Seventeen: Save the Egg!

Chapter Eighteen: One Bloody Night

Chapter Nineteen: To Believe

Chapter Twenty: Grimble’s Story

Chapter Twenty-One: To Fly

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Shape of the Wind

Chapter Twenty-Three: Flying Free

Chapter Twenty-Four: Empty Hollows

Chapter Twenty-Five: Mrs P!

Chapter Twenty-Six: Desert Battle

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Hortense’s Eagles

Keep Reading

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

A Nest Remembered

“Noctus, can you spare a bit more down, darling? I think our third little one is about to arrive. That egg is beginning to crack.”

“Not again!” sighed Kludd.

“What do you mean, Kludd, not again? Don’t you want another little brother?” his father said. There was an edge to his voice.

“Or sister?” His mother sighed the low soft whistle Barn Owls sometimes used.

“I’d like a sister,” Soren peeped up.

“You just hatched out two weeks ago.” Kludd turned to Soren, his younger brother. “What do you know about sisters?”

Maybe, Soren thought to himself, they would be better than brothers. Kludd seemed to have resented him since the moment he had first hatched.

“You really wouldn’t want them arriving just when you’re about to begin branching,” Kludd said dully. Branching was the first step, literally, towards flight. The young owlets would begin by hopping from branch to branch and flapping their wings.

“Now, now, Kludd!” his father admonished. “Don’t be impatient. There’ll be time for branching. Remember, you won’t have your flight feathers for at least another month or more.”

Soren was just about to ask what a month was when he heard a crack. The owl family all seemed to freeze. To any other forest creature the sound would have been imperceptible. But Barn Owls were blessed with extraordinary hearing.

“It’s coming!” Soren’s mother gasped. “I’m so excited.” She sighed again and looked rapturously at the pure white egg as it rocked back and forth. A tiny hole appeared and from it protruded a small spur.

“The egg tooth, by Glaux!” Soren’s father exclaimed.

“Mine was bigger wasn’t it, Da?” Kludd shoved Soren aside for a better look, but Soren crept back up under his father’s wing.

“Oh, I don’t know, son. But isn’t it a pretty, glistening little point? Always gives me a thrill. Such a tiny little thing pecking its way into the big wide world. Ah! Bless my gizzard, the wonder of it all.”

It did indeed seem a wonder. Soren stared at the hole that now began to split into two or three cracks. The egg shuddered slightly and the cracks grew longer and wider. He had done this himself just two weeks ago. This was exciting.

“What happened to my egg tooth, Mum?”

“It dropped off, stupid,” Kludd said.

“Oh,” Soren said quietly. His parents were so absorbed in the hatching that they didn’t reprimand Kludd for his rudeness.

“Where’s Mrs P? Mrs P?” his mother said urgently.

“Right here, ma’am.” Mrs Plithiver, the old blind snake who had been with the owl family for years and years, slithered into the hollow. Blind snakes, born without eyes, served as nest-maids and were kept by many owls to make sure the nests were clean and free of maggots and various insects that found their way into the hollows.

“Mrs P, no maggots or vermin in that corner where Noctus put in fresh down.”

“’Course not, ma’am. Now, how many broods of owlets have I been through with you?”

“Oh, sorry, Mrs P. How could I have ever doubted you? I’m always nervous at the hatching. Each one is just like the first time. I never get used to it.”

“Don’t you apologise, ma’am. You think any other birds would care two whits if their nest was clean? The stories I’ve heard about seagulls! Oh, my goodness! Well, I won’t even go into it.”

Blind snakes prided themselves on working for owls, whom they considered the noblest of birds. Meticulous, the blind snakes had great disdain for other birds, which they felt were less clean due to the unfortunate digestive processes that caused them to excrete only sloppy wet droppings instead of nice neat bundles – the pellets that owls yarped, or coughed up. Although owls did digest the soft parts of their food in a manner similar to other birds, and indeed passed it in a liquid form, for some reason they were never associated by blind snakes with these lesser digestive processes. All the fur and bones and tiny teeth of their prey, like mice, that could not be digested in the ordinary way were pressed into little pellets just the shape and size of the owl’s gizzard. Several hours after eating, the owls would yarp them up. ‘Wet poopers’ is how many nest-maid snakes referred to other birds. Of course, Mrs Plithiver was much too proper to use such coarse language.

“Mum!” Soren gasped. “Look at that.” The nest suddenly seemed to reverberate with a huge cracking sound. Again, only huge to the sensitive ear slits of Barn Owls. Now the egg split. A pale slimy blob flopped out.

“It’s a girl!” A long shree call streamed from his mother’s throat. It was the shree of pure happiness. “Adorable!” Soren’s mother sighed.

“Enchanting!” said Soren’s father.

Kludd yawned and Soren stared dumbfounded at the wet naked thing with its huge bulging eyes sealed tightly shut.

“What’s wrong with her head, Mum?” Soren asked.

“Nothing, dear. Chicks just have very large heads. It takes a while for their bodies to catch up.”

“Not to mention their brains,” Kludd muttered.

“So they can’t hold their heads up right away,” said his mother. “You were the same way.”

“What shall we call the little dear?” Soren’s father asked.

“Eglantine,” Soren’s mother replied immediately. “I have always wanted a little Eglantine.”

“Oooh! Mum, I love that name,” Soren said. He softly repeated the name. Then he tipped towards the little pulsing mass of white. “Eglantine,” he whispered softly, and he thought he saw one little sealed eye open just a slit and a tiny voice seemed to say “hi”. Soren loved his little sister immediately.

One second Eglantine had been this quivering little wet blob, and then, minutes later, it seemed as if she had turned into a fluffy white ball of down. She grew stronger quickly, or so it appeared to Soren. His parents assured him that he too had done exactly the same. That evening it was time for her First Insect ceremony. Her eyes were fully open and she was bawling with hunger. Eglantine could hardly make it through her father’s “Welcome to Tyto” speech.

“Little Eglantine, welcome to the Forest of Tyto, forest of the Barn Owls, or Tyto alba, as we are more formally known. Once upon a time, long long ago, we did indeed live in barns. But now, we and other Tyto cousins live in this forest kingdom known as Tyto. We are rare indeed and we are perhaps the smallest of all the owl kingdoms. Although, in truth, it has been a long long time since we had a king. Someday when you grow up, when you enter your second year, you too will fly out from this hollow and find one of your own in which to live with a mate.”

This was the part of the speech that amazed and disturbed Soren. He simply could not imagine growing up and having a nest of his own. How could he be separated from his parents? And yet there was this urge to fly, even now with his stubby little wings that lacked even the smallest sign of true flight feathers. “And now,” Soren’s father continued, “it is time for your First Insect ceremony.” He turned to Soren’s mother. “Marella, my dear, can you bring forward the cricket?”

Soren’s mother stepped up. In her beak she held one of the summer’s last crickets. “Eat up, young’un! Headfirst. Yes, down the beak. Yes, always headfirst – that’s the proper way, be it cricket, mouse or vole.”

“Mmmm,” sighed Soren’s father as he watched his daughter swallow the cricket. “Dizzy in the gizzy, ain’t it so?!”

Kludd blinked and yawned. Sometimes his parents really embarrassed him, especially his da with his stupid jokes. “Wit of the wood!” muttered Kludd.

That dawn, after the owls had settled down, Soren was still so excited by his little sister’s arrival that he could not sleep. His parents had retired to the ledge above him where they slept, but he could hear their voices threading through the dim morning light that filtered into the hollow.

“Oh, Noctus, it is very strange – another owlet disappeared?”

“Yes, my dear, I’m afraid so.”

“How many is that now in the last few days?”

“Fifteen missing, I believe.”

“That is many more than can be accounted for by raccoons.”

“Yes,” Noctus replied grimly. “And there is something else.”

“What?” his wife replied in a lower wavering hoot.

“Eggs.”

“Eggs?”

“Eggs have disappeared.”

“Eggs from a nest?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“No!” Marella Alba gasped. “I have never heard of such a thing. It’s unspeakable.”

“I thought I must tell you in case we are blessed with another brood.”

“Oh, great Glaux,” his mother gasped. Soren’s eyes blinked wide. He had never heard his mother swear before. “But we so seldom leave the nest during broody times. Whoever it is must watch us.” She paused. “Watch us constantly.”

“Whoever it is can fly or climb,” Noctus Alba said darkly.

Soren felt a sense of dread seep into the hollow. How thankful he was that Eglantine had not been snatched while just an egg. He vowed he would never leave her alone.

It seemed to Soren that as soon as Eglantine ate her first insect she never stopped eating. His mother and father assured him that he had been the same. “And you still are, Soren! And it’s almost time for your first Fur-on-Meat ceremony!”

That was what life was like those first weeks in the nest – one ceremony after another. Each, it seemed in some way or another, led to the truly biggest, perhaps the most solemn yet joyous moment in a young owl’s life: First Flight.

“Fur!” whispered Soren. He couldn’t quite imagine what it was like. What it would feel like slipping down his throat. His mother always stripped off all the fur from the meat and then tore out the bones before offering the little tidbits of fresh mouse or squirrel to Soren. Kludd was almost ready for his First Bones ceremony when he would be allowed to eat “the whole bit” as Soren’s father said. And it was just before First Bones that a young owl began branching. And just after that, it would begin its first real flight under the watchful eyes of its parents.

“Hop! Hop! That’s it, Kludd! Now, up with the wings just as you begin the hop to that next branch. And remember, you are just branching now. No flying. And even after your first flight lessons, no flying by yourself until Mum and I say so.”

“Yes, Da!” Kludd said in a bored voice. Then he muttered, “How many times have I heard this lecture!”

Soren had heard it many many times too, even though he was nowhere near branching. The worst thing a young owl could do was to try to fly before it was ready. And, of course, young owls usually did this when their parents were out hunting. It was so tempting to try one’s newly fledged wings, but it would most likely end in a disastrous crash, leaving the little owlet nestless, perhaps badly injured, and on the ground exposed to dangerous predators. The lecture was brief this time, and the branching lesson resumed.

“Crisply! Crisply, boy! Keep the noise down. Owls are silent fliers.”

“But I’m not flying yet, Da! As you keep reminding me constantly! What’s it matter if I’m noisy now when I’m just branching?”

“Bad habit! Bad habit! Leads to noisy flight. Hard to outgrow noise habits started in branching.”

“Oh, bother!”

“Oh, I’ll bother you!” Noctus exploded, and gave his son a cuff on the head that nearly tipped him over. Soren had to admit that Kludd didn’t even whimper but just picked himself up and gave his da a glaring look and resumed hopping – slightly less noisily than before.

There was a series of soft short hisses from Mrs Plithiver. “Difficult one, that one! My! My! Glad your mum’s not here to see this. Eglantine!” Mrs Plithiver called out suddenly. Even though she was blind she seemed to know exactly what the young owlets were doing at any given moment. She now heard the crunch of a nest bug in Eglantine’s beak. “Put that nest bug down. Owls do not eat nest bugs. That’s what house snakes do. If you keep it up, you’ll just grow fat and squishy and won’t be prepared for your First Meat ceremony, and then no First Fur, and then no First Bones, and then no, well, you know what. Now your mum is just out looking for a nice chubby vole with soft fur for Soren’s First Fur ceremony. And she might even find a nice wriggly little centipede for you.”

“Ooh, they’re so much fun to eat!” Soren exclaimed. “All their little legs pittering down your gullet.”

“Oh, Soren, tell me that story about the first time you ate a centipede,” Eglantine begged.

Mrs Plithiver sighed softly. It was so sweet! Eglantine hung on every word of Soren’s. True sisterly love, and Soren loved her right back. She wasn’t sure what exactly had happened with their older brother, Kludd. There was always one difficult one in a brood, but Kludd was more than just difficult. There was something … something … Mrs Plithiver thought hard. Just something missing with Kludd. Something rather unnatural, un-owlish.

“Sing the centipede song, Soren! Sing it!”

Soren opened his beak wide and began to sing:

What gives a wriggle

And makes you giggle

When you eat ’em?

Whose weensy little feet

Make my heart really beat?

Why, it’s those little creepy crawlies

That make me feel so jolly.

For the darling centipede

My favourite buggy feed

I always want some more.

That’s the insect I adore

More than beetles, more than crickets,

Which at times give me the hiccups.

I crave only to feed

On a juicy centipede

And I shall be happy forevermore.

Just as Soren finished the song, his mother flew into the hollow and dropped a vole at her feet. “A nice fat one, my dear. Enough for your First Fur ceremony and Kludd’s First Bones.”

“I want my own!” Kludd said.

“Nonsense, dear, you could never eat a whole vole.”

“Whole vole!” squeaked Eglantine. “Oh, Mum, it rhymes. I love rhymes.”

“I want one all for myself,” Kludd persisted.

“Now, look here, Kludd.” Marella fixed her son in a dark steady gaze. “We do not waste food around here. This is a very large vole. There is enough for you to have your First Bones ceremony, Soren to have his First Fur ceremony, and Eglantine to have her First Meat.”

“Meat! I get to eat meat!” Eglantine gave a little hop of excitement. She seemed to have forgotten all about the joys of centipedes.

“And so, Kludd, when you want a vole all of your own, you can just go out and hunt it for yourself! I spent most of the night tracking down this one. Food is scarce in Tyto this time of year. I’m exhausted.” A huge orange moon sailed in the autumn sky. It seemed to hover just above the great fir tree where Soren and his family lived, and it cast a soft glow in through the opening of the hollow. It was indeed a perfect night for the ceremonies which these owls loved and that marked their growth and the passage of time.

And so that night, just before the dawn, the three little owlets had their First Meat, First Fur and First Bone ceremonies. And Kludd yarped his first real pellet. It was the exact shape of his gizzard, which had pressed it into the tight little bundle of bones and fur. “Oh, that’s a fine pellet, son,” Kludd’s father said.

“Yes, indeed,” his mother agreed. “Quite admirable.” And Kludd, for once, seemed satisfied. And Mrs Plithiver thought privately to herself how no bird could be really bad that had such a noble digestive system.

That night, from the time the big orange moon began to slip down in the sky until the first grey streaks of the new dawn, Noctus Alba told the stories that owls had loved to hear from the time of Glaux. Glaux was the most ancient order of owls from which all other owls descended.

So his father began:

“Once upon a very long time ago, in the time of Glaux, there was an order of knightly owls, from a kingdom called Ga’Hoole, who would rise each night into the blackness and perform noble deeds. They spoke no words but true ones, their purpose was to right all wrongs, to make strong the weak, mend the broken, vanquish the proud, and make powerless those who abused the frail. With hearts sublime they would take flight—”

Kludd yawned. “Is this a true story or what, Da?”

“It’s a legend, Kludd,” his father answered.

“But is it true?” Kludd whined. “I only like true stories.”

“A legend, Kludd, is a story that you begin to feel in your gizzard and then over time it becomes true in your heart. And perhaps makes you become a better owl.”

CHAPTER TWO

A Life Worth Two Pellets

True in your heart! Those words in the deep throaty hoot of his father were perhaps the last thing Soren remembered before he landed with a soft thud on a pile of moss. Shaking himself and feeling a bit dazed, he tried to stand up. Nothing seemed broken. But how had this happened? He certainly had not tried flying while his parents were out hunting. Good Glaux. He hadn’t even tried branching yet. He was still far from “flight readiness” as his mum called it. So how had this happened? All he knew was, one moment he was near the edge of the hollow, peering out, looking for his mum and da to come home from hunting, and the next minute he was tumbling through the air.

Soren tipped his head up. The fir tree was so tall and he knew that their hollow was near the very top. What had his father said – ninety feet, one hundred feet? But numbers had no meaning for Soren. Not only could he not fly, he couldn’t count either. Didn’t really know his numbers. But there was one thing that he did know: he was in trouble – deep, frightening, horrifying trouble. The boring lectures that Kludd had complained about came back to him. The weight of the terrible truth now pressed upon him in the darkness of the forest – those grim words, “an owlet that is separated from its parents before it has learned to fly and hunt cannot survive”.

And Soren’s parents were gone, gone on a long hunting flight. There had not been many since Eglantine had hatched out. But they needed more food, for winter was coming. So right now Soren was completely alone. He could not imagine being more completely alone as he gazed up at the tree that seemed to vanish into the clouds. He sighed and muttered, “So alone, so alone.”

And yet, deep inside him something flickered like a tiny smouldering spark of hope. When he had fallen, he must have done something with his nearly bald wings that “had captured the air” as his father would say. He tried now to recall that feeling. For a brief instant, falling had actually felt wonderful. Could he perhaps recapture that air? He tried to lift his wings and flutter them slightly. Nothing. His wings felt cold and bare in the crisp autumn breeze. He looked at the tree again. Could he climb, using his talons and beak? He had to do something fast or he would become some creature’s next meal – a rat, a raccoon. Soren felt faint at the very thought of a raccoon. He had seen them from the nest – bushy, masked, horrible creatures with sharp teeth. He must listen carefully. He must turn and tip his head as his parents had taught him. His parents could listen so carefully that, from high above in their tree hollow, they could hear the heartbeat of a mouse on the forest floor below. Surely he should be able to hear a raccoon. He cocked his head and nearly jumped. He did hear a sound. It was a small, raspy, familiar voice from high up in the fir tree. “Soren! Soren!” it called from the hollow where his brother and sister still nestled in the fluffy pure white down that their parents had plucked from beneath their flight feathers. But it was neither Kludd nor Eglantine.

“Mrs Plithiver!” Soren cried.