Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

beat at a time — one wing beat at a time, his mum’s wise words echoed in his head.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Free Will
    N yroc was overjoyed by Gwyndor’s words. Who would have ever thought that the Rogue smith would invite me to be an apprentice? He says I have the gift, the gift of fire. I’m not sure what that means. Nyroc was thinking all this as he and Gwyndor flew over a ridge on the far side of the Great Horns. They had been flying for a while before Gwyndor finally began his descent. Much to Nyroc’s surprise, the Rogue smith settled on a ledge high above the ground. There were no caves in sight.
    “A ledge seems an odd place for a forge,” Nyroc said.
    Gwyndor was about to blurt everything out, to say, “Nyroc, I didn’t bring you here to make a forge. We shall not be making any forges.” But once again, the Snowy Owl’s words coursed through him: Truth must be revealed and not simply told. Perhaps he could build a fire and see what it revealed to the young’un. If the Snowy Owl was right, the truth might be stronger coming from the fire, might go deeper—right to the center of Nyroc’s gizzard. “You’reright,” Gwyndor replied quickly. “This is no place for a forge. I just need a bit of a rest. It was a hard trip back. Headwinds, you know.”
    Nyroc looked at him. He wasn’t sure why they had stopped on the ledge. It had seemed at first as if the old Rogue smith was about to say something to him, something important. He was a curious, almost funny-looking old owl, Nyroc thought. Relative of the Barn Owl with the same almost heart-shaped facial disk except that instead of being pure white, a shadowy mask stretched across it. His beak had permanent dark smudges from a lifetime spent tending a forge. Nearly all of his leg feathers had been scorched off and his thin knobby knees poked through the remaining feathery bits. His talons were rough and blackened from working with the hammer and tongs. But now Gwyndor spread his wings and lifted into flight and Nyroc followed. Soon they found the perfect place for a forge. It was a cave in the base of a cliff with a good dirt floor. Gwyndor began to tear at the dirt with his talons, hollowing out a shallow pit. From his kit, he removed some twigs for kindling, then drew out coals that were still red-hot. Nyroc felt a stir in his gizzard as the first flames leaped up from the kindling. “Step closer, lad,” Gwyndor instructed.
    Nyroc moved closer. He stood very still. He did not feel the heat. He peered deeply into the flames. The flamesdanced into shapes again, telling, revealing shapes that were disturbingly strange and familiar. Gwyndor watched him intently. He saw the young owl’s eyes glaze over. Look at it, lad, look deeply. Now is the time to be brave. Don’t deny what the fire reveals. But Gwyndor kept his beak clamped shut. Oh, how he wanted to tell Nyroc what horror lay ahead but he knew in the deepest part of his gizzard that the Rogue smith of Silverveil was right. Nyroc must learn this lesson on his own.
    The world began to spin for Nyroc. A pellet flew out of his beak. Then another. He was yarping in distress.
    “Steady, lad. Steady,” Gwyndor said. He extended his wing and touched Nyroc’s back.
    “Why did you really bring me here?” Nyroc demanded. “What is this about?” the young owl asked in a tremulous voice.
    “I can’t tell you.”
    “Why not?”
    “It is all there in the fire for you to find.”
    Nyroc forced himself to look back at the fire. Gwyndor wanted to tell him to look deeper. To not be afraid. But he himself was afraid for the lad.
    Finally, Nyroc backed away from the fire. The young hatchling had suddenly aged. He looked coldly at Gwyndor. “I saw things,” he whispered. “I saw things I do notunderstand. I saw things I cannot believe…about my parents, about the Pure Ones.”
    Gwyndor desperately wanted to ask if he had seen the truth about the Special ceremony, but he resisted.
    “Why do I see these things?” he asked Gwyndor.
    “I don’t know why.”
    “But are they true?”
    “I cannot tell you.”
    “Cannot or will not?”
    “Will not,” Gwyndor replied reluctantly. “Because, Nyroc, if I tell you, you will not truly believe. Belief is found in one’s self, in one’s gizzard, in one’s heart, in one’s mind. It has no power if it is simply ordered like a command.”
    These words made Nyroc blink.
    “But why would the Pure Ones do what I see in these flames?”
    “I can’t answer that