Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

out hunting, General?”
    “I hope he is,” Nyra said quietly. But the nausea was already turning to dread—and anger. She remembered how strangely Nyroc had behaved last night in theirevening flight. His disturbing silences interrupted by odd questions. Had he somehow learned something he should not have found out about Tupsi? It was very important that the ceremony be shrouded in secrecy until the last minute. Had she been right about the yeepishness that she had sensed beneath his shining armor of perfection? Nyra had often heard other young owls whispering that Nyroc was too good to be true. She had attributed this to jealousy. But was he, indeed, too good to be true?
    Anguish flowed through her now. Her gizzard contorted painfully. “How could he do this?” she screeched in a shree that seemed to almost split the rock off the cliffs. “Yeepish splat of a wet pooper! Though my blood flows in his veins, he deserts me like the miserable spawn of some vile spirit!” Nyra raged into the sunset that spilled on the horizon like a bloodied egg.
    It did not take the owls long to organize. Stryker, the best tracker, was sent out immediately to look for pellets or any sign of them.
    If only we had one of those Ga’hoolian trackers, Nyra thought. Fat chance.
    Uglamore, seeming to read her mind, spoke up. “But, General, we might employ other trackers as well.”
    “Doc Finebeak?” she asked hopefully.
    “Perhaps.”
    “See to it, Uglamore. If we find the hatchling, you shall be a colonel.”
    Nyroc and Phillip had just landed on the ragged edge of a deep-cut canyon when they first spotted the owls tracking them.
    “It’s a posse. I don’t believe it,” Phillip gasped.
    “What do you mean? What’s a posse?”
    “Stryker always leads the posses. They track and capture. We’ve got to get out of here now !”
    But both owls were exhausted. They had been flying all day and the night was just beginning.
    “How did they ever find us?” Nyroc asked. And this would not be the last time he would ask this question.
    “We should have buried our pellets. No more yarping midflight.”
    “But still!” Nyroc murmured.
    “Follow me.”
    “Phillip, where are you going?”
    “Down!”
    The shadows gathered densely in the bottom of the canyon.
    “Why down?”
    “I’ll explain later. But when we land, watch out for rattlesnakes.”
    “Rattlesnakes?” Nyroc had heard about rattlers. They often attacked birds who came in for a ground kill of a rodent. Seconds after a bird pounced on its prey and was delivering the death peck a rattlesnake would suddenly spring from nowhere and strike at the owl. The snake would bind itself around the owl’s legs and talons, making them useless, and then hissing, plunge its fangs directly into the owl’s breast to inject the poison. It was said to be a terrible death. Making a deal with crows was one thing, Nyroc thought, but rattlesnakes? No.
    The two owls landed very carefully.
    “Keep close to the canyon walls,” Phillip whispered. “Do not yarp, and don’t rustle your wings.”
    “What are we going to do?” Nyroc replied in a hushed voice.
    “Look for an empty burrow.”
    Nyroc knew that there were all sorts of animals—small and not so small—that lived at the base of the canyons.
    They had not been walking for long when they heard something like a sandy whisper scrape across the ground. Fryke! The command word for “conceal and freeze” blastedthrough both owls’ brains. Even their gizzards seemed to lock. Nyroc had never heard the low hiss of a rattlesnake but he did not need to be told that this was it. The snake was near. The two owls’ plumage grew sleek and they seemed to diminish in size as they wilfed. Both Nyroc’s and Phillip’s eyes closed shut until they were mere slits, but all the while one eye was held slightly open and alert for the danger. It was called “the peeping eye.”
    It was a rattlesnake. And it was slithering a few feet away from them. To fly would reveal their presence with no guarantee of escape. Staying concealed was their only hope. This was not learned behavior. It was completely instinctual. Their mottled coloring—on Nyroc, tawny browns and blacks, and, on Phillip, a sootish gray and brown—was the perfect camouflage. It helped them blend in perfectly with canyon walls.
    Nyroc could hear the posse overhead, as well as the snake’s progress on the ground. He knew they could not de-fryke until the sound of the snake’s