SIX
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
