Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

was. He tried to sound reasonable.
    “But why, Nyroc? You know all talk of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree is forbidden. You know how awful that place is.”
    “No, I don’t know. I want to find out the truth for myself.”
    “For yourself,” Phillip repeated in a whisper filled with awe. This sounded peculiar—and dangerous—to the Sooty Owl.
    “Why not?”
    “Well, first of all, the most direct route to the Island of Hoole takes you right through some terrible currents of air called the Shredders. Real hag winds. The Guardians of Ga’hoole can fly them because they are fantastic fliers. They can fly in any weather.”
    “Couldn’t we get to the Island of Hoole some other way?” Nyroc asked.
    Phillip blinked at him. Is this owl yoicks or what? He thinks he can simply fly to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree where the Guardians live? He’s the hootin’ image of his mum. We are the enemy of Ga’Hoole. But he couldn’t bear to tell the young owl this. It would be hard enough for him to find a place he could live in peace anywhere in the owl kingdoms. He simply looked too much like Nyra and Kludd and they werefeared and hated everywhere—even though Kludd was dead. There had, in fact, been rumors of his scroom. Phillip had heard Uglamore and Stryker talking about it one night. “Well, Nyroc. We’ll think about that later. You might be able to find a lot of the truth you seek on the way, outside of the canyonlands.”
    “Yes, that is exactly what I was thinking. We must leave here for a while.” And maybe forever, Nyroc thought.
    And so they did, in broad daylight while the rest of the Pure Ones slept in their hollows. Flying almost due north, the two owls sought a warm thermal current to boost their flight. “This is an easy wind to fly,” Nyroc said.
    “Exactly, easy for us but difficult for any bird flying in from the opposite direction. That’s why they never expected the Guardians of Ga’Hoole to come from that direction and especially over The Needles.”
    “What are The Needles?”
    “You’ll see them soon enough. That’s where the Shredders begin. But remember—we’re not going there, not yet, at least.”
    “We’ll find another way to the great tree. There must be a way.”
    But Phillip did not reply. The less said about these yoickish plans of Nyroc, the better.
    Very soon, Nyroc saw the rocky red spires scratching the sky. The two owls carved a turn to the east now and were flying parallel to a long cliff wall, when suddenly they saw what appeared to be a black cloud roll out from the wall. Nyroc blinked.
    “Crows!” Phillip screamed.
    Nyroc felt his wings begin to collapse. Glaux, I’m going to yeep. Then he remembered suddenly. Once when his mother had been very, very angry because he had done something imperfectly, she had screeched at him. She had called him “yeepish.” It was the worst thing she had ever said to him. Her voice, her gizzard-searing voice, came back to him now, at this very moment. “You are a yeepish sort of owl, hatchling. Get yourself some gallgrot! Shameful yeepish little pellet, you. Pellet! Not even that. You might as well be a wet pooper.” To be compared to a wetpooping bird was one of the worst insults an owl could throw at another. I am not yeepish! The words exploded in Nyroc’s head.
    At about the same time that these four words roared through his brain and stiffened his gizzard, he heard the thuds of a rat, scurrying below. Without thinking, he plunged into a kill-spiral. Forget that this was the biggest prey he had ever gone after. It was perhaps instinct that led him to strike at the back of the rat’s neck. He was hurlingdownward at a dizzying speed and although he probably was lighter in weight than the rat, his sharp beak delivered a fatal blow. Immediately, he scooped up the dead rodent in his talons.
    “What are you doing?” Phillip was beside him now.
    “Help me carry this rat. It’s heavy.”
    Phillip slipped in beside him and grasped the rat by the tail.
    “But what are we doing? The crows are gaining on us.”
    And then, with real shock, Phillip felt Nyroc begin to turn directly toward the crows. The blood from the rat’s broken neck flew back in their faces, staining the white disk of Nyroc’s disklike face. It was now the crows’ turn to be shocked.
    “You want this rat?” Nyroc shouted. “It’s all yours.” The young Barn Owl must have looked especially fearsome with his blood-splattered face. “Follow us,” he called,