Digger said.
“I’ve heard of burial hollows, high up in trees,” Twilight said. “When I was with a Whiskered Screech family in Ambala that’s what they did when their grandmother died.”
“It’s going to take too long to find a hollow in The Beaks,” Gylfie now spoke. “You said it yourself, Twilight – it’s a second-rate forest, no big trees.”
Soren was looking around. “This owl lived in this cave. Look, you can tell. There’s some fresh pellets just outside, and there’s a stash of nuts and over there, a vole killed not long ago – probably his next dinner … I think we should—”
“We can’t leave him in the cave,” Gylfie interrupted. “Even if it is his home. Another bobcat could come along and find him.”
“But Soren is right,” Digger said. “His spirit is here.” Digger was a very odd owl. Whereas most owls were consumed with the practical world of hunting, flying and nesting, Digger – with his legs better for running than his wings were for flying, with his inclination for burrows rather than hollows – was undeniably an impractical owl. But perhaps because he was not focused on the commonplace, the ordinary drudgeries and small joys of owl life, his mind was freer to range. And range it did into the sphere of the spiritual, of the meaning of life, of the possibilities of an afterlife. And it was the afterlife of the brave Barred Owl that seemed to concern him now. “His spirit is in this cave. I feel it.”
“So what do we do?” Twilight asked.
Soren looked around slowly at the cave. His dark eyes, like polished stones, studied the walls. “He had many fires in this cave. Look at the walls – as sooty as a Sooty Owl’s wings. I think he made things with fires in this pit right here. I think …” Soren spoke very slowly. “I think we should burn him.”
“Burn him?” the other three owls repeated quietly.
“Yes. Right here in this pit. The embers are still burning. It will be enough.” The owls nodded to one another in silent agreement. It seemed right.
So the four owls, as gently as they could, rolled the dead Barred Owl on to the coals with their talons.
“Do we have to stay and watch?” Gylfie asked as the first feathers began to ignite.
“No!” Soren said, and they all followed him out of the cave entrance and flew into the night.
They rose on a series of updrafts and then circled the clearing where the cave had been. Three times they circled as they watched the smoke curl out from the mouth of the cave. Mrs Plithiver moved forwards through the thick feathers of Soren’s shoulders and leaned out towards one of his ears. “I am proud of you, Soren. You have protected a brave owl against the indignities of scavengers.” Soren wasn’t sure what the word ‘indignities’ meant, but he hoped what they had done was right for an owl he believed to be noble. But would they ever find the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, where other noble owls lived? And now it was not doubt that began to prick at his gizzard, but the ominous words of the Barred Owl – “you only wish!”
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,
