Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

Wortmore can find a Rogue smith.”
    “You mean, for fire?” Nyroc said excitedly.
    “Yes, my dear. Your father’s bones are all that is left now, and they must be burned because the Final ceremonies of great leaders require fire. It is called the Marking.”
    Nyroc felt a tremor of excitement in his gizzard. The Pure Ones did not know how to make fire themselves. They relied entirely on lightning strikes and Rogue smiths. Rogue smiths not only knew how to make firesthat could be controlled but they made hotter fires in which weapons such as battle claws could be made. Although this land in which Nyroc had hatched had been scorched and made treeless and ugly by fire, he was fascinated with the notion that an owl could make fire—small fires with which useful things could be fashioned. He knew that the evil owls of Ga’Hoole were able to make their own weapons and much more with their fires. Nyroc had never even seen a real fire. He had seen only the blackened landscape it had left behind.
    Almost as much as he wished to see fire, Nyroc wanted to see a tree, a real tree that was growing and not a charred stump. He had heard rumors of trees with leaves and hollows in which owls could live, hollows that were lined with soft moss. There was no moss in these canyonlands since The Burning. Dustytuft had often tried to describe moss to him, its softness and its colors, which were all shades of green. There was one so soft it was called rabbit’s ear moss. But Nyroc did not even know what the color green was. There was much to ponder in this life—the color green, fire, the rumor of trees in distant places, the softness of moss, and the meaning of the word “destiny.”

CHAPTER THREE
The Marking
    T wenty owls swooped down into the narrow canyon. Nyra was in the lead with Nyroc and Uglamore just behind her. Dustytuft flew next to Nyroc. Once again, Dustytuft was amazed at his exalted position in this group of top lieutenants from the old elite forces for this solemn ceremony—the Marking, the Final ceremony for fallen leaders. That is, Dustytuft thought, fallen leaders whose bodies could be recovered. Too often the vultures got to the dead soldiers first, or if an owl was fatally wounded over the Hoolemere Sea, the body was never found.
    But Kludd had been killed in a cave battle. His body, of which only the bones now remained, had been guarded night and day until a Rogue smith could be found to perform the Marking. Nyroc had never before been to the cave. He was apprehensive. He was to see for the first time the bones of his father; his father, in whose powerful wing thrusts he was to follow; his father, the greatest leader theTytonic Union had ever known; his father, whose fierceness in battle caused every owl’s gizzard to quiver. His father, killed by his own dreadful brother, Soren, in a battle of fire and ice with the Guardians of Ga’Hoole. Yes, Nyroc was very nervous and perhaps for this reason his mother had allowed Dustytuft to fly so close to him. Even now as they entered the huge cave and the shadows seemed to reach out for them, Nyra made sure that there was a space for Dustytuft near Nyroc.
    Things sure have changed, Dustytuft thought. I used to be just some no-account owl. But now he was favored!
    They flew toward the rear of the cave and took their places on a ledge. Some white sticks had been arranged on the cave floor. And propped against a rock was the metal mask that his father had always worn to cover his warmutilated face. His mum had said that his father’s other name was Metal Beak. It was one of the first goodlight stories she had told him when he was a very young hatchling. She liked to tell stories of his father’s great bravery and feats in battle. But he found this one frightening. He didn’t like thinking that his father had a face he would have never seen. “But, Mum,” he once asked, “would he have had to talk to me through that metal beak?”
    “Of course. It gave his voice a lovely resonance.” Nyroc didn’t know what resonance was and he didn’t ask.
    His mum patted him along now with her outstretched wing. “Follow me, Nyroc,” she said. “We must nod pule to your father.”
    “Nod pule, what’s that?” Nyroc asked.
    “Pay your respects, give homage.”
    “You mean, say good-bye?” Nyroc asked.
    “Yes!” his mum snapped. “Now stop asking so many questions.”
    Oh, goodness, Nyroc thought, this is not the time to frink her off. I better shut up. But he