Guardians of Ga'Hoole 02 - The Journey

of crows and other wet poopers like hummingbirds and seagulls.” Twilight had begun telling a joke.
    “Oh, yes. Seagulls are disgusting,” Primrose offered.
    “Definitely,” Soren joined in. “They are disgusting.”
    “We should have a contest to see who can tell the slimiest wet poop joke,” Digger said.
    Suddenly, their little nut cups of tea trembled. “Enough is enough!” Mrs. Plithiver screeched a hiss that curled through the air. “I shall not have this talk at the table. This is inappropriate on every level.” Then her rosy scalesseemed to shimmer with a new radiance and with one quick writhing motion all the teacups clattered off her back.
    This was not the first time a nest-maid snake had shaken off teacups. There were not many rules at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree but, as Matron instructed the young owls, there were to be no wet poop jokes anywhere, and especially not in the dining hollow. Therefore, the nest snakes were under orders, if it was teatime and they wereserving, to immediately dismiss the culprits, and this was accomplished in just the manner Mrs. P. had done when she shook herself.
    They were ordered to go see Boron and Barran. As could be expected, Barran scolded them and told them that their behavior was shocking. “Poor form,” she called it. Boron kept muttering, “Don’t be too hard on them, dear. They’re just youngsters. Young males do that kind of thing.”
    “Boron, I would like to point out that Primrose and Gylfie are not males.”
    “Oh, but I still know a lot of wet poop jokes,” Primrose tooted up.
    The air was laced with the soft churr sounds that owls make when they laugh. They were all churring except for Barran. Boron was churring the hardest. His big white fluffy body was shaking so hard that he shook loose a few wisps of down.
    “Really! Boron! It’s not a laughing matter,” his mate said in dismay.
    “But it is, my dear. That’s the point.” And he began to laugh even harder.
    The owls had already settled down for the day. It had been several hours since Madame Plonk had sung herlovely “Night Is Done” song and all had wished one another good light until the next night. But Soren had trouble falling asleep, and then he woke up in that slow time of the day for owls, when silence seems to press down over everything and the air is thick with sunlight and the minutes drag by. Time seemed to crawl and one wondered if there would ever be blackness again. Once more, Soren felt that melancholy feeling. He was not sure exactly what was causing it. He should be so happy here. He did feel bad about their misbehavior at tea. Good manners meant a lot to Mrs. P. He hated disappointing her. Maybe, he thought, I should go and apologize. Mrs. Plithiver was often up at this time of the day. Perhaps he would make his way down to her hollow. She lived there with two other nest-maids.
    The three snakes shared a mossy pocket in the tree nearly one hundred feet below where Soren slept. It smelled of damp shredded bark, moss, and warm stones. The nest-maid snakes enjoyed sleeping with warm stones. So, these stones were part of the furnishings of any hollow in which they slept. Bubo always heated up several so they could have them in their quarters. Soren rather liked the smell. The heat from the stones released the fragrance of the moss, and the moss that grew on the Great Ga’Hoole Treewas especially sweet. It was used in a soup that was made by Cook. There was barely a part of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree that was not used for something. It was for this reason that the owls so carefully nurtured and cared for their home—never overpicking the milkberries, and burying their pellets around the roots of the tree where their rich, nourishing contents would be most directly absorbed.
    The fragrance of the moss and warm stones drifted up to Soren as he made his way down. He stopped at the opening of the pocket and peered in. But before he could even speak, Mrs. P. must have sensed his presence.
    “Soren, dear boy, what are you doing up this time of day? Come on in, young one.”
    “Aren’t the other nest-maids asleep?”
    “Oh, no. They’re all out doing guild business.”
    There were several guilds: the harp guild, the lacemakers’, weavers’, and others to which the nest snakes belonged. One had to be chosen. It was rather like the tapping ceremony for the chaws. Mrs. Plithiver had not been chosen yet for any guild.
    “Mrs. P., I came to apologize for my disgusting