Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

ceremony, don’t you remember?”
    “Maybe I kind of remember. But what’s this?” Nyrocwaved the feather in front of Phillip. “This isn’t down. This is an important flight feather. An undertail covert. Lose too many of those and how will I rudder, or make a decent turn?”
    “When feathers get old and worn you shed them. Another feather will be coming in a short time.”
    “When?”
    “Don’t be so impatient, Nyroc.”
    “I wouldn’t be if I weren’t being chased by my own mum, her best tracker, and her fiercest lieutenants. I need all the feathers I have.”
    “It’ll be a few days.” Phillip paused and a worried shadow fell across his eyes.
    “What is it?” Nyroc was quick to detect even the subtlest emotions in his friend.
    “We’re going to have to bury these feathers like we buried the pellets. We don’t want them able to track us through your feathers.”
    “Oh, Glaux! I never thought of that.” Nyroc began trembling all over again.
    “Let me check you to see if any others are missing.”
    Phillip crowded close to Nyroc and with the special edge on his middle talon began combing through the feathers. He had been Nyroc’s chief preener since the young owl had hatched. Preening was one of the most pleasantsocial interactions an owl could have. As he picked through the feathers, he was careful to examine for any ruptured shafts where feathers might have broken away. He could feel Nyroc begin to shake once again with fear. “Find anything?” Nyroc asked desperately.
    “Pull yourself together, for Glaux’s sake. No, I haven’t found anything.”
    “ ‘Pull yourself together,’ you say. Easy for you! You’re not falling apart. Pieces of me could be strewn all over the canyonlands—like flares guiding them to us.”
    “If there was ever a time not to fall apart it is now, Nyroc,” Phillip shreed at him. “You dragged me out here to find the truth about the Pure Ones and Ga’Hoole. And to do that we must escape from the Pure Ones. You are more than just your feathers. It was not feathers that spoke to those crows. It was not feathers that figured out how to bargain with them and get a free passage. You are brains and you are gizzard. Oh, yes. You made a fine thronken display with your wings, but that was nothing compared to the gallgrot in your gizzard. So don’t let me hear you going on about falling apart.”
    Nyroc nodded. He was so ashamed. Phillip was right. If molting was a natural thing, why should he fear it? He and Phillip simply had to get out of the canyonlands. He had to survive. He wanted the truth and more—hewanted to see a tree, to know the color green, and to maybe even meet his uncle Soren someday. Indeed, the more he thought about his uncle, the more intrigued he became. And when he reflected on what had been revealed to him in the flames of Gwyndor’s fires, his uncle Soren seemed a most extraordinary owl and he longed to know him.
    They had just settled in to eat a vole that they had discovered deep in the den. Nyroc had pounced on it and was about to bite off its head.
    “Let it go!” Phillip suddenly blurted out.
    “Let it go? Are you yoicks?” Nyroc had the fat little fellow gripped in his talons.
    “Let it go! They’re back. We don’t want a vole’s blood to give us away.”
    Nyroc immediately dropped the vole, which scampered away. He crept up next to Phillip and peered out the small opening of the den.
    “Great Glaux, they’re lighting down on the canyon floor! How did they ever find us?”
    “I don’t know,” Phillip replied grimly.
    “We’re trapped.”
    “Maybe not.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Remember, Nyroc, I told you that these dens are deep. Sometimes there’s a back way out. Let’s go!” Phillip led the way. He flipped his head back as they hopped around the first bend in the den. “If you drop any feathers, pick them up.”
    They walked for a very long time in very close quarters. Nyroc had taken the lead. They both felt it was better that Phillip follow in case the young owl molted a feather or two along the way. Phillip had taken some old nesting material from the fox’s birthing bed and was dragging it behind him to cover their tracks. He knew Stryker was a decent tracker. But was he good enough to find them in a fox’s den in a box canyon after they had split up and been so careful circling back?
    “Hey, it’s getting wider,” Nyroc called back. “I can almost spread my wings.”
    “That’s good.”