Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

now,” Otulissa cautioned. “We maintain a civil discourse here.” All the owls looked blankly at her. They had no idea what “civil discourse” was, but they were pretty sure it was something about not being rude.
    “Well,” continued Fritha. “I only meant to say they are extinct. As in, long gone! No more!”
    “We think they are extinct,” Otulissa replied. When Buck had first mentioned the dire wolves there was a small twinge in Otulissa’s gizzard. Something felt familiar to her, as if she had seen one someplace, but that was ridiculous. Dire wolves were thought to be extinct, andthey had never been anywhere near the Island of Hoole. The only place dire wolves had ever been mentioned in connection with was the Beyond the Beyond. Even in the Northern Kingdoms, where they had wolves of all kinds, there had never been any dire wolves.
    Then a Barn Owl raised its talon. “But do you think it could be true at all—not the wolf part, but the legend of the Ember of Hoole?” The young Barn Owl’s black eyes shone with such enthusiasm and hope that Otulissa dearly wanted to say yes, it was true. But all she could say was, “Wensel, it could be true. No one knows for certain, but it could be true.”
    “Could?” Wensel repeated. “Just could?”
    Otulissa nodded. She wished she could say more. It was odd but lately, since she had been teaching the young’uns about the Fire Cycle, Otulissa had been having gizzard disturbances and unsettling dreams. But Otulissa was extremely practical and did not really believe in dreams. Oh, they were all right for some owls like Soren who had starsight. But she did not consider it all that reliable. It was not scientific in the least and Otulissa was a great believer in science. She required facts, evidence, testable results.
    But not only did Otulissa feel that she might have beendreaming more lately, she also had the distinct feeling that the scroom of her old, dearly beloved ryb, Strix Struma, was somehow a part of these dreams. And Otulissa absolutely did not believe in scrooms. Not one bit. She thought they were some kind of optical illusion that grew out of a disorganized or feverish mind. But Otulissa was not disorganized and she had never had a fever, not even when she had been wounded in the great Battle of the Siege.
    Otulissa did not believe that Strix Struma would even possess a scroom, let alone haunt her with it. Of all the owls in the universe, Strix Struma would not be one with an unsettled spirit. There was no possible reason for the scroom of such an owl as Strix Struma to haunt the earth. She had finished her business in this world magnificently, with valor, grace, and courage. She had led a full life.
    But nonetheless, there were times of late when Otulissa had begun to wonder. And then there was the issue of the Fire Cycle. Why had she begun after all these years to see the legends in a new light? Why had they started to disturb her in some strange way? It was as if these legends had a special significance, a meaning just for her. Was she somehow reading between the lines? Was there some message encoded in these writings just for her? Each time she read them, she felt a new sense of urgency and yetdespair. Why? Why? Why? It was as if the stories of the cycle were echoes of some long-forgotten dream she had had. Impossible. She never dreamed.
    Twixt time was upon them. It would be the hour of breaklight in the dining hollow and then on to their own hollows for rest. Otulissa wasn’t hungry and was not inclined to go chatting it up in the dining hollow this dawn. So, after leaving the young owlets, she retired directly to her own hollow, passing Mrs. Plithiver, the elderly nest-maid snake of Soren and Eglantine, in a hallway.
    “What, no breaklight for you, Otulissa?” Mrs. P. asked.
    “No, Mrs. P. I thought I’d just hit the moss.”
    The nest-maid’s head swiveled around and followed Otulissa. Although nest-maids were blind, they were known for their refined sensibilities, and Mrs. Horace Plithiver possessed some of the most refined sensibilities imaginable. She had noticed for the last few days that Otulissa had been out of sorts and although she was only a snake—and snakes did not have scrooms—she could have sworn she sometimes felt fine, scroomish vibrations circling about Otulissa.
    As the morning light filtered into the hollow, Otulissa tossed restlessly in her sleep. This was a dream, and she could not escape it. She saw fire and