The Journey

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 the tranquil gleaming lakes themselves. These owls had never been around such clear water. There was no silt, no mud, no muck and bits swirling about in it. So they could see their reflections perfectly. Not one of these owls, except 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 majestic flight –

Oh, Twilight!

Oh, Twilight, most beautiful of owls,

Who sculpts the air

Beyond compare.

With feathers so sublime,

An owl for now –

An owl for then –

An owl for all of time.

Mrs Plithiver had coiled up and was waving her head as a signal to a gull she sensed overhead. Suddenly, there was a big white splat that landed on the silver wings sublime.

“What in Glaux’s name?” Twilight said.

“They like you, Twilight. Blessed, I dare say!”

Twilight flew straight out across the lake and never looked back.

CHAPTER SIX

The Ice Narrows

It seemed as if winter had been waiting for them as soon as the Mirror Lakes dropped behind them. Blasts of frigid air, swirling with ice, sleet and often hail, smacked into them. The rolling ridges of The Beaks had become sharper and steeper, sending up confusing currents. Ice began to form on their own beaks and, in a few minutes, Soren saw Gylfie spin out of control. Luckily, Twilight accelerated and managed to help her.

“Fly in my wake, Gylfie,” he shouted over the roar of the wind. And then he swivelled his head back to the others. “Her wings have started to ice. Ours will too – soon. It’s too dangerous to continue. We have to look for a place to land.”

Almost as soon as Twilight had spoken of iced wings, Soren felt his own suddenly grow heavy. He turned his head and nearly gasped when he saw his plummels, the silkiest of all his feathers, that fringed the outer edges of his primaries. They were stiff with frost and the wind was whistling through them. Great Glaux, I’m flying like a gull!

It was not long before they found a tree. The hollow was a rather miserable little one. They could barely cram into it, and it was crawling with vermin.

“This is appalling!” Mrs Plithiver said. “I’ve never seen such an infestation.”

“Isn’t there some moss someplace?” Twilight asked, remembering the extraordinarily soft, thick moss of the Mirror Lakes.

“Well, if someone wants to go out and look, they can,” Mrs P said. “In the meantime, I’ll try and eat as many of these maggotty little creatures as possible.”

Soren peeked out the hollow. “The wind’s picked up. You can’t even see out there. Snow’s so thick on the ground, I doubt if we could find any moss if we did look.”

“We can always pulp some of the pine needles,” Gylfie said. “First, you beak them hard enough, then let them slide down to your first stomach – the one before the gizzard. Hold it there for just a while, and then yarp it all back up. The pine needles come out all mushy and when they dry they’re almost as soft as moss. Actually, technically speaking, it is not called yarping. It’s burping when its wet and not a pellet.”

“Who cares – as long as it’s soft?” Twilight muttered.

“I suppose it’s worth a try,” Digger said. “The thought of going out there into that blizzard is not appealing in the least.”

So the owls leaned out from the protection of the hollow only far enough to snatch a beakful of pine needles. They all began beaking, then swallowing the wads down to their first stomachs and then burping. All the while, Mrs Plithiver busied herself with sucking up maggots and pinch beetles, and one or two small worms known as feather raiders – all of which were most unhygienic to the health of owls.

“I don’t think I could eat another pinch beetle if my life depended on it,” Mrs P groaned after more than an hour.

There was a huge watery gurgle that rippled through the hollow.

“What was that?” Digger said.

“Yours truly, burping here,” Twilight said and opened his beak and let go with another hollow-shaking burp.

“Oh, I’ve got to try that!” Digger said. In no time the four owls were having a burping contest. They were laughing and hooting and having a grand old time as the blizzard outside raged. They had figured out prizes as well. There was a prize, of course, for the loudest, but then one for the most watery sound, and one for the most disgusting, and one for the prettiest and most refined. Although everyone expected Gylfie to win with the prettiest, Soren did, and Gylfie won for the most disgusting.

“Absolutely vulgar,” muttered Mrs P.

But soon they became bored with that and they began to wonder when the blizzard would let up. And although not one of them would admit it, secretly their thoughts turned to the Mirror Lakes and they grew quieter and quieter as they tried to remember their lazy beautiful days, flying in spectacular arcs over the lakes’ gleaming surface. And the food, the food was so good!

“Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a nice vole,” Soren sighed.

“You know, young’un, I think the wind is lessening. I think maybe we should take off.” Mrs Plithiver sensed the four owls’ thoughts turning to the Mirror Lakes. She simply couldn’t allow that. So even though she did not truly believe that the wind was lessening, it was essential to get them flying again.

“You call this less?” Digger hooted from his downwind position.

“A bit, and believe me, dear, sitting there burping pine needles isn’t going to get you any closer to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.”

But what would? thought Soren. They could barely see ahead, behind was thick with swirling snow, below was dense fog that not even a treetop could poke through, and, off to windward, sheets of frigid air seemed to tumble from somewhere.

“There are cliffs to windward.” Twilight drifted back from his point position. “I think that if we could get under the lee of them we might be protected and able to fly better.”

“Sounds like it’s worth a try. We’d better get Gylfie between us,” Soren said.

The owls had become adept at creating a still place for Gylfie in the centre of their flying wedge formation when the winds became too tumultuous for the Elf Owl. Gylfie moved into that spot now. “All right, let’s crab upwind,” Twilight hooted over the fury of the blizzard.

Crabbing was a flight manoeuvre in which the owls flew slightly sideways into the wind at an oblique angle so as not to hit it head on. The owls scuttled across the wind in much the same way a crab moves – not directly forwards but in this case taking the best advantage of a wind that was determined to smack them back. But now, by stealing a bit off the wind’s edges, the owls could move forwards, although slowly. They had been doing a lot of crabbing since they had left the last hollow and something they thought could never happen had happened. Their windward wings had actually grown tired and even sore. But at least their wings weren’t icing up.

Suddenly, there was a terrible roar. The owls felt themselves sucked sideways as if an icy claw had reached out to drag them. There was another roar and they felt themselves smash into a wall of ice. Soren began sliding down a cold, slick surface. “Hang on, Mrs Plithiver,” he called, but he had no sense of her nestling in her usual place. It was impossible to grab anything with his talons. His wings simply would not work. He felt himself going faster than he had ever flown. But something huge and grey and faster whizzed by him. Was it Twilight? No time to think. No time to feel. It was as if his gizzard had been sucked right out of him along with every hollow bone. But then he finally stopped. He was dazed, breathless, but mercifully not moving, on the slightly curved glistening white ledge on which he had landed.

“Lucky for you and you and you and what?” came a low gurgling sound from above.

“Who? Who’s that talking?” Soren asked.

“Oh, great Glaux!” Gylfie whispered as she slid next to Soren. “What in the …”

Then Soren saw what she was looking at. The four owls and, luckily, Mrs Plithiver had survived. They were all flat on their backs looking up a sheer white wall of ice and, poking their noses out of a hole in the ice above, were the faces of three of the most preposterous creatures any of them had ever seen.

Gylfie whispered, “What are they? Not birds.”

“No, never,” Twilight said.

“Do you think they’re part of the animal kingdom?” Gylfie asked.

“What other kingdoms are there?” Twilight said.

“Plant kingdom – I heard my father speak of the plant kingdom,” Gylfie said.

“They do look kind of planty. Don’t they?” said Digger.

“What do you mean? Planty?” asked Soren.

“I know what Digger’s talking about. That bright orange thing growing from the middle of its, I guess, face?”

“What do you mean – you guess, face?” the creature hollered. “I mean, we’re pretty dumb, but you must be dumber if you can’t tell a face from a plant.”

“Well, you look a bit like a cactus in bloom – the kind we have in the desert,” Digger said.

“That’s my beak, idiot. I can assure you that neither I nor anyone in my family is a cactus in bloom – whatever a cactus is and whatever a desert is.”

“Well, what are you?” Mrs Plithiver finally spoke up.

“Well, what in the name of ice are you?” the creature retorted.

“I’m a snake … a nest-maid snake. I serve these most noble of birds, owls.”

“Well,” said the creature who was not a cactus, “we’re just a bunch of puffins.”

“Puffins!” Twilight hooted. “Puffins are northern birds, far northern birds.”

“Duh!” said one of the little ones. “Gee, Pop, I’m feeling smarter all the time.”

“But if you’re puffins,” Gylfie continued, “we must be in the North.”

“Ta-da!” said one of the puffins. “Gee, you owls are getting smarter every minute!”

“Does she get a prize, Mummy, for answering the question right?” Another little chick, with an immense beak almost as long as it was tall, poked its head out of the hole.

“Oh, we’re just having fun with them, Dumpy.”

“But how did we get so far north?” Soren asked.

“Must have been blown off course,” said the female. “Where you come from?”

“The Beaks,” Twilight said.

“Where you headed?”

“The island in the Sea of Hoolemere.”

“Great Ice! You’ve passed it by. Overshot it by five hundred leagues.”

“What! We flew over it and didn’t even see it?” Digger said, his voice barely audible.

“Where are we exactly?” Gylfie asked.

“You’re in the Ice Narrows, far side of Hoolemere, edge of the Northern Kingdoms.”

“What!” All four owls gasped.

“Don’t feel too dumb,” the male said. “Bad weather conditions.”

“When do we ever have good ones, dear?” his mate mused.

“Well, true. But with the wind coming from that direction, they just got sucked up into the Narrows and then that williwaw came.”

“What’s a williwaw?” Soren asked.

“You get a big tumble, like an avalanche. Suppose you don’t know what that is – an avalanche.”

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