Guardians of Ga'Hoole 03 - The Rescue

snakes feel things.”
    “Can you feel the comet, Mrs. Plithiver?”
    Mrs. P. squirmed a bit then arranged herself into a neat coil. “Well, I can’t really say. But it is true that since the comet arrived a lot of us nest-maid snakes have been feeling—oh, how shall I describe it—a kind of tightness in our scales. But whether it’s the comet or winter coming on I don’t know for sure.”
    Soren sighed and remembered the feeling in his dream. “Does it ever feel like hot little sparks pinging off you?”
    “No, no. I wouldn’t describe it that way. But, then again, I’m a snake and you’re a Barn Owl.”
    “And why…” Soren hesitated. “Why is the sky bleeding?” Soren felt a shiver go through the hollow as he spoke the words.
    “It’s not bleeding, silly.” A Spotted Owl stuck her head into the hollow. It was Otulissa. “It’s merely a red tinge and it’s caused by a moisture bank encountering random gases. I read all about it in Strix Miralda’s book, she’s a sister of the renowned weathertrix—”
    “Strix Emerilla,” Gylfie chimed in.
    “Yes. How did you know, Gylfie?”
    “Because every other word out of your mouth is a quote from Strix Emerilla.”
    “Well, I won’t apologize. You know I think we are distantly related, although she lived centuries ago. Emerilla’s sister, Miralda, was a specialist in spectography and atmospheric gases.”
    “Hot air,” Twilight snarled. Glaux! She frinks me off, Twilight thought. But he did not say aloud the rather rude word for “supremely irritated.”
    “It’s more than hot air, Twilight.”
    “But you aren’t, Otulissa,” retorted the Great Gray.
    “Now, young’uns, stop your bickering,” Mrs. P. said. “Soren here has had a frightfully bad dream. And I for one feel that it is not a good idea to push bad dreams away. If you feel like talking about your bad dream, Soren, please go right ahead.”
    But Soren really didn’t feel like talking about it that much. And he had decided definitely not to tell Digger of his feelings about Octavia. His head was in too much of a muddle to be able to explain anything. There was a tense silence. But then Digger spoke up. “Soren, why ‘flecks’? What made you scream out, ‘flecks’?” Soren felt Gylfie give a shudder. And even Otulissa remained silent. When Soren and Gylfie had been captives at St. Aggie’s they had been forced to work in the pelletorium picking apart owlpellets. Owls have a unique system for digesting their food and ridding themselves of the waste materials. All of the fur and bone and feathers of their prey are separated into small packets called pellets in their second stomach, that amazingly sensitive organ of owls, the gizzard. When all the materials were packed up, owls yarped the pellets through their beaks. In the pelletorium at St. Aggie’s, they had been required to pick out the various materials like bone and feather and some mysterious element that was referred to as flecks. They never knew what flecks were exactly but they were highly prized by the brutal leaders of St. Aggie’s.
    “I’m not sure why. I think those sparks that come off the comet’s tail somehow glinted like the flecks that we picked out of the pellets.”
    “Hmm,” was all Digger said.
    “Now look, it’s almost breaklight time. Why don’t you sit at my table, Soren? It’ll be comfy, and I’m going to ask Matron for a nice bit of roasted vole for you.”
    “No can do, Mrs. P.,” Otulissa said in a chipper voice.
    If Mrs. P. had had eyes she would have rolled them, but instead she swung her head in an exaggerated arc and coiled up a little tighter. “What is this ‘no-can-do’ talk? For a supposedly educated and refined owl”—she emphasizedthe word refined—“I consider it a sloppy and somewhat coarse manner of speaking, Otulissa.”
    “There’s a tropical depression that’s swimming our way with the last bits of a late hurricane. The weather chaw is going out. We have to eat at the weather chaw table and…”
    “Eat meat raw,” Soren said dejectedly.
    Good Glaux, raw vole on top of a bad dream and eating it literally on top of Octavia! For such were the customs of the weather and colliering chaws.
    The nest-maid snakes served as tables for all the owls. They slithered into the dining halls bearing tiny Ga’Hoole nut cups of milkberry tea and whatever meat or bugs that were being served up. The chaws always ate together on the evenings of important missions.