Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

peered closer still and saw that rimming the blue was a brilliant, dancing edge of green. This nugget of fire came to be known as the Ember of Hoole.”
    Nyroc’s eyes grew wide. He felt his gizzard grow still. Were these not exactly the same colors that he had seen in the flames of Gwyndor’s fire at the Marking of his father’s Final ceremony? But just at that moment one of the chicks did something bad. There was a mad fluttering in the hollow, and then a squeaky little voice cried, “It got away!” The mother began scolding. “I’ve told you a thousand times. Don’t play with the bug before you eat it. No more snacks before sleep for you. Playing with your food is vile, disgusting behavior. Cruel. Only the Pure Ones play with their food.”
    Nyroc cringed in his hiding place. It was true. He had watched the lieutenants and even his mum toss a dying rat about, the blood spattering everywhere before it was finally eaten. He never saw the fun in such sport, but he had never thought of it as wrong or even cruel.
    “But, Mum,” whined another, “finish the story, please.”
    Please! Nyroc thought. Please finish the story.
    “It’s a very long story, young’uns. It will take many days to finish it. Now, all of you to bed. Tomorrow is Eddie’s first Hunt-in-Snow ceremony. He must be rested up.”
    “Yes, I have to be rested. Hunting in snow is very difficult.”
    Don’t I know it, thought Nyroc, and I didn’t even have anyone to tell me how to do it. Once more, Nyroc felt himself awash with feelings of loneliness. How he missed Phillip. Often when he was overwhelmed with feelings of loneliness, he dreamed of his friend. They were always wrenching dreams in which Nyra was starting her attack on Phillip, and Nyroc was frozen to the ground, his featherless wings heavy as stones, unable to do a thing to help his best friend. That, of course, was what had really happened. He had dreamed it again last night and was exhausted but now, as day was breaking, he must soon be out at this most unnatural of times for an owl to start his daylight hunting. Such were the facts of his lonely hidden existence in this forest.
    But on this morning, Nyroc gave a mighty yawn and before he knew it he was fast asleep again as the night leaked steadily out of the breaking morning and bright harsh sunbeams poured in through the holes and cracksof the rotten stump. And Nyroc did dream, but not of Phillip.
    He dreamed of an owl he had never seen. She was a Spotted Owl. She was perched on a limb of what could only be the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. It was an immense tree. He had never seen one larger, and he could swear it was near a sea because he could almost feel the salty breezes. She seemed to be weeping. She seemed almost as lonely as he was. But not quite. No, there was a misty shape hovering about her, which he sensed was another Spotted Owl, but an elderly one. A scroom. He heard the scroom call out softly, Otulissa! Otulissa! She called, but the younger owl was not listening. The elderly owl seemed to be trying to tell the younger one something. Otulissa! she called again. Otulissa!
    What a strange name, he thought, and then the two figures merged into one vaporous cloud, and the tree itself grew misty.
    Sunlight shot through the dream. Everything was dissolving into sparkling dewdrops. It was gone! Gone! Nyroc blinked his eyes open. His hollow in the old tree stump was filled with daylight. Indeed, half the day was gone. He peered out. These winter days were short and, much to his annoyance, the sun was already sliding down toward thehorizon. He would be lucky if there was an hour left of good hunting before the first of the night animals began prowling for their suppers. He shook his head. The dream had been a strange one. He could hardly remember it. There had been a name spoken. He had heard it clearly, though he couldn’t quite remember it. But he had not heard it as if in a dream. No, it was as if a scroom had spoken. The thought of another scroom chilled his gizzard. He stepped out of the log and listened now for the telltale scampering of small forest animals beneath the blanket of snow.
    But while he hunted, he tried to remember that peculiar name, O…O…O-tuh…something or other. Every time he thought he was on the brink of grasping the name, it melted away. It seemed as hard to catch as a dewdrop on a warm sunny morning.
    There were other Ga’Hoolian legends that he listened in on, stories from the Fire Cycle,