a thwack to the side of his head. Hortense was still next to him. She mumbled, “12-8, what a lovely name that is. 12-8, perfect name. I love twos and fours and eights. So smooth.”
“Hortense,” Soren whispered softly. Her talons might have just vaguely begun to stir on the floor, but other than that, nothing. “Hort! Horty!” He tried, but the little Spotted Owl was lost in some dreamless sleep.
Finally, Soren was back under the arch and quickly moved over to the other side, which connected to the neighbouring glaucidium. The sleep monitors had just barked out the command, “Now, sleep!”
Suddenly, Gylfie was there. The tiny Elf Owl swung her head towards Soren. “They’re moon blinking us,” she whispered.
“What?” It felt so good to say a whh sound that Soren almost missed the answer.
“Didn’t your parents tell you about the dangers of sleeping under the full shine?”
“What is ‘full shine’?” Soren asked.
“When did you hatch out?”
“Three weeks ago, I think. Or so my parents told me.” But again, Soren was not really sure what a week was.
“Ah, that explains it. And in Tyto there are great trees, right?” Gylfie asked.
“Oh, yes. Many, and thick with beautiful fir needles and spruce cones and leaves that turn golden and red.” Again, Soren wasn’t sure about leaves turning for he had never seen them anything but golden and red. But his parents had told him that once they were green in a time called summer. Kludd had hatched out near the end of the green time.
“Well, you see, I hatched out more than three weeks ago.” They spoke softly, so softly, and managed to maintain the sleep position, but neither one of them was the least bit sleepy. “I was hatched after the time of newing.”
“The newing? When is that?” asked Soren.
“You see, the moon comes and the moon goes and at the time of the newing, when the moon is no thicker than one single thin, downy feather, well, that is the first glint of the new moon. Then, every day it grows thicker and fatter until there is full shine, like now. And it might stay that way for three or four days. Then comes the time of the dwenking. Instead of growing thicker and fatter, the moon dwenks and becomes thinner, until once more it is no thicker than the thinnest strand of down. And then it disappears for a while.”
“I never saw this. At least, I don’t think I have.”
“Oh, it was there but you probably didn’t really see because your family’s nest was in the hollow of a great tree in a thick forest. But Elf Owls like myself live in deserts. Not so many trees. And many of them are not very leafy. We can see the whole sky nearly all the time.”
“My!” Soren sighed softly.
“And that is why they teach all of us Elf Owls about full shine. Although most owls sleep during the day, sometimes, especially after a hunting expedition, one might be tired and sleep at night. This can be very dangerous if one sleeps out bald in the light of a full moon. It confuses one’s head.”
“How?” Soren asked.
“I’m not sure. My parents never really explained it but they did say that the old owl Rocmore had gone crazy from too much full shine.” Gylfie paused, then hesitating, went on. “They even said that he often did not know which was up and which was down and that finally he died of a broken neck when he thought he was lifting off from the top of a cactus.” Gylfie’s voice almost broke here. “He thought he was flying towards the stars and he slammed into the earth. That’s what moon blinking is all about. You no longer know what is for sure and what is not. What is truth and what are lies. What is real and what is false. That is being moon blinked.”
Soren gasped. “This is awful! Is this what is going to happen to us?”
“Not if we can help it, Soren.”
“What can we do?”
“I’m not sure. Let me think a while. Meanwhile, try to cock your head just a bit, so the moon does not shine straight down on it. And remember, when flying in full shine there is no problem. But sleeping in it is disastrous.”
“I can’t fly yet,” Soren said softly.
“Well, just be sure you don’t sleep.”
Soren cocked his head and while doing so tipped his beak down to look upon the little Elf Owl. How, he wondered, was such a tiny creature so smart? He hoped with all his might that Gylfie would come up with something. Some idea. Just as he was thinking this, there was a sharp bark. “12-1, head straight, beak up!” It was another sleep monitor. He felt a thwack to the side of his head. They did not fall asleep, and as soon as the patrolling owl left, they began whispering again. But then, all too soon, came the inevitable alarm for a sleep march to begin. It would be three more circuits before they could meet again under the arch.
“Remember what I told you. Don’t sleep.”
“I’m so tired. How can I help it?”
“Think of anything.”
“What?”
“Anything—” Gylfie hesitated before a sleep monitor shoved her along. “Think of flying!”
Flying, yes, thinking of flying would keep Soren awake. There was nothing more exciting. But in the meantime, all thoughts of flight were drowned out by the sound of his own voice repeating his own name.
“Soren … Soren … Soren … Soren …” There was also the sound of thousands of talons clicking on the hard stone surface as they marched in lines. Soren was between Hortense and a Horned Owl whose name blended into the drone of other names. Three Snowy Owls were directly in front of him. There were perhaps twenty or more owls to each group, all arranged in loose lines, but they moved in unison as one block of owls, each owl endlessly repeating his or her name. It was impossible to sort out an individual name from the babble and it was not long before, on the fourth sleep march, his own name began to sound odd to Soren. Within another one hundred or so times of repeating it, it seemed almost as if it was not a name at all. It was merely a noise. And he too was becoming a meaningless creature with no real name, no family, but … but … but maybe a friend?
Finally, they stopped again. And it was in the silence of that moment when they stopped that Soren suddenly realised what was happening. It all made sense, particularly when he thought of what Gylfie had explained to him about moon blinking. This alone would keep him awake until he met up with her again.
“They are moon blinking us with our names, Gylfie,” Soren gasped as he edged in close to the little owl under the stone arch. Only the stars twinkled above. Gylfie understood immediately. A name endlessly repeated became a meaningless sound. It completely lost its individuality, its significance. It would dissolve into nothingness. Soren continued, “Just move your beak or say your number, but don’t say your name. That way it will stay your name.”
