Guardians of Ga'Hoole 08 - The Outcast

itself was slashed with flames and the flames drenched the moon like blood. “It’s like the whole sky is bleeding,” Coryn whispered to himself as he perched on a very high ridge.
    “Bleeding? An interesting word to use. Yes, perfect, I would say.”
    “Who’s that? Who’s there?” Coryn thought he was alone. He started to tremble uncontrollably. What if it was his mother? But it didn’t sound like his mother. Who could it be? He was frightened. Should he fly or what? There was a cleft in the rock behind him, perfect for a young Barn Owl his size to hide in. He stepped backward and began to wedge himself in. Not so perfect. He really had to push himself in hard. He turned around and tried going in headfirst. He was sure his tail was sticking out. He then heard a nearby flutter. Something touched his tail.
    “What in the name of glaumora are you hiding from? I’m not going to hurt you. I just thought we could have a nice little conversation. Creatures here are rather brusque.Or let’s just say they have not mastered the fine art of conversation. Now turn around, and let’s have a little chat. I’m here on a mission—vague, I must say—not quite sure what—but give it time, Strix Struma said, give it time.”
    This owl sounded friendly enough and nothing like his mother. Her voice had more the sound of a Spotted Owl, if anything. And it was interesting that she, too, was on a mission and wasn’t quite sure what it was supposed to be.
    “Yes, I am on a mission as well and am a little bit confused about what it is I am supposed to do,” Coryn replied.
    “Turn around and tell me.”
    “Well, actually.” Coryn churred a bit. “I’m kind of stuck.”
    “Would you feel that it was overly familiar if I pulled on your tail a little?”
    “Oh, no, not at all,” said Coryn.
    “I’ll try not to yank any rudder feathers.”
    “Don’t worry, some are about to molt, anyhow.”
    “You’re certainly a well-spoken young man.”
    Coryn didn’t quite know what to say to that. “So, can you tell me a little bit about your mission?” Coryn asked.
    “Oh, it’s so nice to find someone interested in real conversation. It’s almost like a code here—don’t ask any names, don’t ask about anyone’s business or where theycome from. So, yes, I’ll tell you.” She began pulling on his tail feathers, and Coryn felt himself budge slightly. “Now, don’t think I am totally yoicks, but the scroom of a dear friend and teacher of mine appeared to me one morning.”
    “What?” Coryn wheeled around, freeing himself in the process. Could she be speaking of the kind old scroom who had haunted him and told him about the owl he was supposed to wait for in the spirit wood? The one who never came? The one called…
    “Otulissa!” Coryn shouted. This was unbelievable. But then a terrible scream split the night.
    “NYRA!” the Spotted Owl in front of him screeched. Her wings dropped and folded. She went into a yeep state and began to plummet from the ridge.
    “Oh, Great Glaux, I’ve killed her!” Coryn exclaimed.
    At that moment, a large Masked Owl intercepted the free fall of Otulissa.
    “Pull yourself together, ma’am. Come on, get those wings pumping. Atta girl.”
    “I am not a girl! I am a commander of the Strix Struma Strikers and a ryb of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.”
    The two owls had lighted down on a shelf that jutted out beneath the ridge. Coryn glided in quietly.
    “Is she all right?” he asked. Then he blinked his eyes in amazement. “Gwyndor!”
    “Nyroc, lad! Oh, Nyroc! You’re here. I hoped you would come.”
    “Nyra!” Otulissa screamed again.
    “No, no, ma’am,” both Gwyndor and Coryn were now saying.
    “It’s not Nyra, ma’am. Can’t you see he’s a male not a female Barn Owl?”
    “But the face…the face.” Otulissa was hysterical at this point. “I put that scar there myself with my own battle claws in the Battle of the Siege just after she killed Strix Struma. I’d know that face anywhere.”
    “No, ma’am, you did not put this scar here. My mother, Nyra, clawed me.”
    Otulissa stared at the young Barn Owl and saw that, indeed, he was not Nyra. “Your own mother!” she said with a mixture of horror and awe.
    “Yes,” Coryn said, “when I tried to leave the Pure Ones. You must believe, ma’am, that I am nothing like my parents. And my name is not Nyroc, Gwyndor. I am now called Coryn.”
    “Coryn,” Otulissa said softly and thought to herself how