Guardians of Ga'Hoole 02 - The Journey

“Make way! Make way! Let the nest snakes serve tea. We all be starving and don’t need to listen to none of this nonsense about old family lines. It’s what you do here and now on this earth that counts.”
    Bubo was the ruddy-colored owl with the very black talons whom Soren had first seen in the parliament. A high-shouldered, enormous Great Horned Owl, his ear tufts alone stood as tall as Gylfie. His plumage was of an unusual coloring for a Great Horned, most of whom tended toward the brownish-gray tones. Bubo’s featherswere actually almost flame-colored, which seemed appropriate, as he headed up the forge and was the blacksmith. So, despite what was said about Bubo’s lowly origins and rough-and-tumble manner—a constant stream of curses issued from his beak—he was treated with great respect in the community of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree because he was an expert blacksmith. The discovery and the taming of fire was the single thing that most impressed Soren about the owls of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.
    “Line up! Line up! Now, please don’t rush the dear snakes. Don’t crowd the snakes by cramming in too many of you around one snake. Please proceed in an orderly fashion.” It was Matron speaking, the Short-eared Owl. The nest-maid snakes began to slither into the dining hollow. These snakes were all blind like Mrs. Plithiver. Gylfie, Soren, Twilight, and Digger always lined up at Mrs. Plithiver’s table for, indeed, she had been invited to join the staff and was thrilled to be in service once more.
    The melancholy feelings that had filled Soren a few minutes before disappeared as he and his friends stepped up to Mrs. P.’s back.
    “Hello, dearies,” Mrs. P. hissed in her soft voice. “Good night in the Yonder? Classes went well?”
    “Look!” Digger said. “Primrose over there doesn’t have a place to sit.”
    “Sorry, Primrose,” Otulissa was saying, “but this snake is all filled up.” Otulissa was with four other young Spotted Owls.
    “Over here, Primrose.” Gylfie waved a wing. “We have a place.”
    “Always room, dearie,” Mrs. P. said as Primrose came over. “I can always stretch myself a little longer and fit in another young one.”
    “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much,” Primrose spoke in a shaky voice.
    “You all right, Primrose?” Digger asked kindly.
    “I’m fine. Just fine.” She didn’t sound all that fine. “Well, not so fine,” she admitted. “All this talk of tapping is really making me nervous.”
    “Now, I believe there is entirely too much talk about this tapping business,” Mrs. P. said. “I think you young ones should just drink your tea while it is still nice and warm. Cook made a special effort with the milkberries. I think she added a few extra as the season shall be coming again soon and perhaps she can spare more for tea without worrying.”
    “It’s hard not to think about tapping, Mrs. P.,” Soren said. “It’s all anyone talks about.”
    “They say most Burrowing Owls like myself are tapped for tracking, since we have such strong legs andreally know the countryside so well. I think I’d like that,” Digger said quietly.
    “I want search-and-rescue myself. You get to wear battle claws,” Twilight spoke up.
    “You want to fight?” Primrose said with a note of alarm in her voice.
    “I’d like to fight any owl from St. Aggie’s. Let me tell you, we gave those two a run for it that time in the desert. Didn’t we?” He blinked toward Soren and Gylfie. Soren and Gylfie both prayed that Twilight would not break into one of his dancing chants and shadow fights with an imaginary opponent in the dining hall. As much as they loved him, he could be really embarrassing.
    “Thank goodness,” sighed Digger. “If it hadn’t been for them and, of course, the eagles, I would be dead.” Digger paused. “Not just dead…eaten.”
    “You’re joking?” Primrose gasped.
    “I’m not joking,” Digger said.
    “Oh, come on, tell me the story,” Primrose urged.
    “Young ones, I don’t think this is tea-table talk and since I am the tea table I would prefer not.”
    But it was too late. Digger had already launched into his story, and Primrose was spellbound. Mrs. Plithiver just sighed and muttered, “Hukla, hukla,” which, in the speciallanguage of blind snakes, meant “Young owls will be young owls.”
    Mrs. Plithiver dozed off as the owls continued to talk and sip their cups of tea.
    “So here’s how the joke goes. You got a bunch