Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

can’t exactly remember. It began with a P-h, I’m pretty sure.”
    “What’s a P-h ?” Nyroc said.
    “It’s a letter or two letters.”
    “A letter?”
    “Yeah, for reading and writing. My mum knew how to read. She taught me my letters.”
    “You mean that it’s not just the Guardians of Ga’Hoole who know how to read and write?”
    “They know better than any other owls, but no, they are not the only ones. Some owls do learn a bit about letters.”
    “Can you read?”
    “A little bit.”
    “I’d like to learn how to read,” Nyroc replied. There was a wistfulness in his voice.
    “I can teach you the letters of your name, but to really learn, you’d have to go to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.”
    “Phillip…” Nyroc began.
    “I’m really tired, Nyroc. We should get some sleep.”
    “I promise this is the last question.”
    “All right. What?”
    “Well, isn’t it odd that both our fathers were killed by the Guardians of Ga’Hoole, and that we’ve both lost our mothers?”
    At this, Phillip’s eyes blinked wide open. “Nyroc, I lost my mother. Your mother lost you. There’s a difference.”
    “You mean I left.”
    “Yes, and with good reason.”
    “What do you mean good reason?”
    “To seek the truth and…” Phillip hesitated.
    “And what?”
    “Nyroc, you were too fine for her, too very fine. You have standards, Nyroc. Standards!”
    Standards, Nyroc thought.
    But standards aren’t practical, Phillip thought. You can’t eat standards. You can’t live in them.
    Finally, the young owls fell asleep.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Speck in the Sky
    A thin ribbon of light lay diagonally across Phillip’s facial disk. He blinked one eye open. Morning, he thought miserably. Owls were supposed to go to sleep in the morning and rise at night. “Everything’s turned frinking upside down,” he muttered to himself. Nyroc was still sleeping peacefully in his corner. No sense waking him up until he had a peek outside. He walked over to the opening of the den and poked his head out. “Ooph!” he exclaimed, clamping his eyes shut. The sunlight splintered blindingly across a thin blanket of white snow. He dared to open his eyes in a half squint and look up to see if there was any sign of the posse. He searched the sky for several minutes, flipping his head this way and that. It was a beautiful day—if one was a day kind of creature. Very little wind. The sky was a brilliant flawless blue and there was no sign whatsoever of the posse. Time to wake up Nyroc. Except for the unfortunate fact that it was daylight, the conditions were perfect for flying.
    “Nyroc! Nyroc! Time to go.” He gave his friend a shake. “Come on, we have to make time while we can in the day. I don’t think they will be flying.”
    Then as the two birds made their way to the edge of the den, Phillip suddenly remembered something. “Hold it!” He slammed Nyroc back with one wing just before he had stepped into the fresh snow.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “We can’t take off from out there. We’ll leave talon prints in the snow. Stryker will find them. We’ll have to do a dry takeoff.”
    “I’ve never done one,” Nyroc said.
    “Don’t worry. They’re easy. We’ll practice in here.”
    “In here?” Nyroc looked around the confines of the den.
    A dry takeoff was one from the ground when there was no perch—branch, rock, or limb—available, and very little room to spread one’s wings in the normal way.
    “All right, Nyroc, now watch me.” With a great whoosh , Phillip lifted his wings straight up into a sharp V shape. Then he slashed downward in a power stroke. Instantly, he was aloft. He flew out of the den and then back in. “Now you try it.”
    It took Nyroc just a few times before he mastered it.
    “Now here’s the next thing,” Phillip said.
    “Next? What do you mean? I did it perfectly that time. Let’s just go.”
    “Look down. There are talon marks all over the floor of this den. If Stryker came in here he would find them. See that pile of lichen over there? You take part of it and I’ll take part and we’ll sweep the marks away.”
    It did not take them long to erase the signs of their presence in the fox’s den. Nyroc’s dry takeoff was flawless, and together the birds rose higher and higher out of the canyon.
    It was a lovely day for flying, even for dedicated night fliers. There was the extra shimmer of excitement as they flew past a cliff line with crows and saw twenty or more of