Guardians of Ga'Hoole 13 - The River of Wind

get a feel for these things.” The sound of Otulissa’s voice dwindled off in the increasingly turbulent air, and silence now fell upon the owls. There were thick swirls of fog obscuring the moon, the stars, and even the land below. We might never see what we are leaving, Soren thought, and felt a small twist in his gizzard.
    Ruby broke the silence. “What’s that way ahead?” A sudden wind had cleared off the blanketing fog and, beneath the starlight and the shine of the moon glinting in the distance, there was a silken expanse of darkness.
    “That which lies between us and Jouzhenkyn: that is, the Unnamed Sea,” Otulissa spoke softly.
    All the owls felt tremors pass through their gizzards. As the sea drew closer, they felt they had to keep their gaze even steadier on the land. Just offshore, not more than a quarter of a league from the breaking waves, was a rock that spiked from the water like a wolf’s fang.
    Finally, Digger, who as a Burrowing Owl probably had the closest association with things of earth and of soil, spoke up. “I think we should light down on that rock before we start flying over this ocean. You know, a sort of…” His voice faded.
    But they all knew what he meant. A last good-bye. A farewell to the known—to rocks, to trees, although there were precious few of those in the Beyond. Yes, good-bye to all that they had known and held dear. What would these owls of the Middle Kingdom be like? Were there species they had never seen? What would they eat? Were there voles in the Middle Kingdom? These were all questions they had discussed at one time or another since they had found out about the sixth kingdom. But there were other questions and thoughts left unspoken. Soren in particular was racked with doubts and—yes—fears. Was it reckless of him to go off, to leave Pelli and the three B’s? Soren swiveled his head to watch a cloud that had been stretched by the wind into a shape that looked like a leaping fish. Sky fish! It had been a game when theywere younger to chase such clouds. They had called it sky fishing. He noticed that the rest of the owls were swiveling their heads this way and that. They were not looking just at the sky fish but, like himself, they were all scanning the air they flew through, drinking in with their eyes the things they loved, the things that defined their world. The clouds, the wind, the way the moonlight fell through the night haze—all these elements of the sky.
    As they roosted on the off-lying rock, they took from their botkins the strengthening mixture that Bess had made for them. She had told them it would ensure that they could fly “forever.” She had then churred softly and added, “Well, maybe not forever, but long enough for you to find your way through the windkins and into the stream.”
    Otulissa turned, putting her tail toward the sea. “There’s the inlet over there,” she said, nodding toward land. “You can’t tell from here, but it looks so much like the one in the Firth of Grundenspyrr.”
    “How high do we have to fly,” Martin asked, “until we meet up with these windkins?”
    “Not just how high, but how far out,” Otulissa said. “So far, there have been no remnant downdrafts to give us any clues, as there were in the Northern Kingdoms.Flying at that high an altitude for a long time is going to tire us out too quickly.”
    “So, in other words,” Soren said, “we’ll have to keep alert for even the slightest downdrafts, and then we go up?”
    “Exactly. And that is when the key will really help us. It will be like a guide to climb our way through it. In the meantime, I think we should make the most of the light air right now.” Otulissa paused and turned to Gylfie. “Gylfie, the windkin will be oriented in the same direction as the mouth of the inlet. So what should our course be?”
    Gylfie swiveled her head toward the inlet and began to take a bearing on the angle, then flipped her head back and up until it appeared to be completely turned around on her small shoulders and pointed straight up. “Well, we should be following a course two points off the western paw of the Big Raccoon,” Gylfie said somewhat tentatively.
    And rightfully so, Mrs. Plithiver thought as she considered the hesitancy in Gylfie’s voice. She had settled herself in a neat coil just behind Soren’s neck and between his shoulders, in what she thought of as her transport coil, which was tighter and more compact than her sleeping coil.