The Rescue

“Now don’cha go worry too much. We just got to be vigi-ful,” Poot continued.

“You mean ‘vigilant’?” Otulissa said.

“Don’t smart-beak me, lassie. We’s gonna set up a watch. I’ll take the first one with Martin. Otulissa and Ruby you take the next. And Soren you take the last. You have to do it alone, but it be the shortest one, lad. So nothin’ to fear.”

Nothing to fear? Then why doesn’t he take it? Soren thought, but he knew that the one thing a chaw owl never did was question a command. All of the owls turned their heads towards Soren.

Martin stepped forwards. “I’ll stay up with you, Soren.”

Soren blinked at the little Northern Saw-whet. “No, no – that’s very kind of you, Martin, but you’ll be tired. You must already be tired. I mean you’ve fallen into the sea. Don’t worry, Martin. I’ll be fine.”

“No, Soren, I mean it.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Soren said firmly.

The truth was that during that first watch they were all too nervous to sleep and the ground was a terrible place to even try to sleep to begin with. But as the dark faded and the white of the trees melted into the lightness of the morning, they did grow sleepier and sleepier. The owls’ heads began to droop lower and lower until they were resting on their breasts or on their backs, as it was the habit of very young owls to twist their heads around and rest them just between their shoulders.

“Your watch, Soren,” Ruby said.

His eyes blinked open. He lifted his head.

“Don’t worry. There is nothing out here. Not a raccoon, not a scroom, not a scroom of a raccoon.” Otulissa churred softly, which was the sound that owls made when they laughed.

Soren walked over to the watch mound that was in a small clearing. He spread his wings and, in one brief upstroke, rose to settle on the top of the mound. The fog in the forest had thickened again. A soft breeze swirled through the woods, stirring and spinning the mist into fluffy shapes. Some of the mist clouds were long and skinny, others puffy. Soren thought of the silly jabber of the young owlets when they had been flying earlier, before encountering the hurricane. The owlets were sort of cute, he guessed, in their own annoying little way. It was hard to believe, however, that he had ever been that young. He had barely known his parents before he had been snatched, and he had never known his grandparents. There had been no time.

He blinked his eyes at the mist that was now whirling into new shapes. It was strange how one could start to read this ground mist like clouds, find pictures in them – a raccoon, a deer bounding over a tree stump, a fish leaping from a river. Soren had tried sometimes to make up stories about cloud pictures when he was flying. The vapours just ahead of him had clumped together into one large shapeless mass, but now they seemed to be pulling apart again into two clumps. There was something vaguely familiar about the shapes that these clumps were becoming. What was it? A lovely downy bundle that looked so soft and warm. Something seemed to call to him and yet there was no sound. How could that be?

Soren grew very still. Something was happening. He was not frightened. No, not frightened at all. But sad, yes, deeply and terribly sad. He felt himself drawn to these two shapes. They were fluffy and their heads were cocked in such a familiar way as if they were listening to him. And they were calling to him, and they were saying things but there were no sounds. It was as if the voices were sealed inside his head. Just then, he felt himself step out of his body. He felt his wings spread. He was lifting, and yet he was still there on the mound. He could see his talons planted on the mossy top with the tangle of ivy. But, at the same time, he could see something moving out of him. It was him – but not him. It was his shape, pale and misty and swirling like the other shapes. The thing that was him but not him was lifting, rising, and spreading its wings in flight to perch in the big white tree at the edge of the clearing where the two other misty figures perched.

False light?

No, not false light, Soren.

Scrooms?

If you must.

Mum? Da?

The mist seemed to shiver and glint like moonlight scattered on water.

He floated over the mound but when he looked back he saw his own figure still standing there. He extended a talon but it was transparent! And then he lighted down on the branch. In that instant, Soren realised he felt in a strange way complete. It was as if there had been a hole in his gizzard and now it had been filled and closed. He reached out with his talon to touch his mum but it simply passed through her.

Am I dying? Am I becoming a scroom?

No dearest. No one had called him ‘dearest’ like that since he had been snatched.

Soren cocked his head and tried to look at his parents, but the mist was continually shifting, sliding and recomposing itself into their shapes. They were recognisable but yet it was not images he was seeing. It was more like a foggy shadow. Still, he knew without a doubt it was them. But why, why after all this time were they here, seeking him out?

Unfinished business? Is that what it is?

We think so. It was the voice of his father in his head.

You don’t know?

Not exactly, dear. We’re never sure. We know something isn’t right. We have feelings, but no real answers to these feelings.

Are you trying to warn me of something?

Yes, yes. But the hard part is we don’t know what it is we should warn you about.

Soren wondered if they knew about Kludd. He wanted to tell them how Kludd had pushed him from the nest, but he couldn’t. Something stopped in his brain. Words began to tumble out of his mouth, and now he could actually hear those words. He was telling them about Kludd, but his mum and da were unmoved. They were not hearing anything of what he was saying. And there was a blankness now in his head. This was all very weird. When he could hear his own voice, the words in the normal way, his parents could not. Their only way of speaking to one another was this silent language that seemed to exist only in their heads. And yet Soren could not form the ideas in his head to tell them about Kludd, and they could not tell him about the danger.

Metal! Beware Metal Beak! The words exploded in Soren’s head. It was the voice of his father but it seemed to have taken all his energy to do this. His father was dissolving before his eyes. His mother as well. The mists that had been their shapes were swirling, seeping away. Soren reached out with his talons to hold them. “Don’t go! Don’t go. Don’t leave me! Come back.”

“What’s you yelling about, lad? Wake us all up, will you?” Soren was suddenly on the ground and Poot was standing in front of him, blinking. How had he got on the ground? He had been in that tree a second ago but he had no memory of flying down from it. And there was no mist now. None at all.

“I’m sorry, Poot. I flew up into that tree there. I thought I saw something.” Soren nodded.

“No, you didn’t,” Poot said. “I woke a few minutes ago. You were standing right here on the mound. Perfectly alert – being a good lookout. Believe me, I would have had your tail feathers if you hadn’t been.”

“I was right here?” Soren was incredulous.

“Course you were, young’un,” Poot said and looked at him curiously as if he’d gone yoicks. “Right here you were. I would have noticed you up in the tree, believe me.”

Was it just a dream? Soren thought. But it felt so real. I heard Mum’s and Da’s voices in my head. It was real.

“Time we be takin’ off.” Poot looked at the sky that was turning a dusky purple. Pink clouds sliding against it. “Wind’s going our way,” Poot remarked, after studying the clouds for a minute. “We’ll catch a westerly and come in on a nice reach.” A reach was easy flying with the wind being not on the beak or on the tail feathers directly, but a little aft of the wing, giving a nice steady boost to their flight. The others were beginning to stir from their daytime slumbers.

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