Guardians of Ga'Hoole 13 - The River of Wind

through its feathers. “I come from a faraway place,” the owl replied in halting words.
    Bell blinked. Her dark eyes shone brightly. “Of course. You must come from the Northern Kingdoms, where they speak Krakish. There are many Snowy Owls there. You must be one of them…a…a blue one. And…and you must be a Glauxian Brother…on a pilgrimage, right?” she finished weakly. This outburst had sapped Bell’s energy, which was very low.
    “Yes…yes…a pilgrimage from a faraway place, a very faraway place.”
    “And your name is Striga and you’ll take care of me?” Bell whispered.
    “Yes, Striga…I am the Striga.” The blue owl felt something course through him that was almost beyond happiness, a rapturous exaltation. I must help this little one , he thought. I must help her.
    As soon as the weather cleared, Pelli flew with the chawlets as fast as she could back to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. Eglantine and Primrose had remained behind to continue the search for Bell. Pelli had wanted to stay, butknew they were right in insisting that she return to the great tree and send back Doc Finebeak, the renowned retired tracker, who had recently settled there.
    Fly! Fly! Pelli commanded herself. Think of nothing but getting back to the great tree. Surely Doc Finebeak wouldn’t say no to her urgent request. He had retired, he was older, and perhaps his tracking senses were not as keen as they used to be, but he couldn’t refuse her. She was absolutely gizzard-sick. Every time she thought of tiny Bell, a ghastly squishiness seized her gizzard. From a distance, she caught the first glimpses of the great tree, and at that same moment a strong headwind blew up. It felt as if she were slamming into a wall.
    “Fly two points off the wind!” she called out to the chawlets. For truly, they could not fly a straight course but would have to tack, slicing back and forth at an angle to this headwind to gain any kind of forward movement. Hours would be added on to their journey, but there was nothing else to do.
    Meanwhile, back in the great tree, Doc Finebeak was peering out of the hollow he shared with Madame Plonk. “Strange weather we’re having. First those westers, and now this contrary wind swooping down from the Northern Kingdoms. Yes, it’s got a bite to it, all right.” He had been studying the weather fronts for the better part of the earlyevening and turned now toward Madame Plonk. “I say, my dear. What’s that spider doing on your head?”
    Octavia, their nest-maid snake, giggled to herself as she prepared some milkberry tea.
    “Spider?” Madame Plonk replied. “What are you talking about, Docky? It’s not a spider. It’s a black velvet hat, a chapeau, Trader Mags calls it.”
    “Oh…er…umm…well, it’s quite fetching, Plonkie. Yes, the black velvet”— whatever that is , he thought—“against your white feathers. Lovely. Ah, here comes Octavia with tea in the coronation teacup.”
    The chubby old nest-maid snake offered Doc Finebeak the teacup on her back. I could get used to this , he thought. Then corrected himself. What do I mean “could”? I have gotten used to it. So refined. His tracking nights were over, and he had to admit he loved retirement. How wonderful it was to perch in this hollow with this lovely owl and just sip tea. It had been love at first sight, for him at least, when they had met. How long has it been now? he thought. Six, seven moon cycles ago? It was during the time of the Golden Tree. Madame Plonk had been placed under house arrest for some stupid violation of the ember laws, or whatever they were called, but she had escaped to warn the Band about Otulissa, who was being held under arrest in the prison. It was a brave thing for the singer of the treeto do. She had not flown abroad for years. She was not used to stormy weather or the hardships of life on the wing in the wild. Her tracking and navigation skills were weak. She had been a singer, for Glaux’s sake, and singing was her only duty at the great tree, singing and the musical instruction of the nest-maids of the grass harp guild. When Doc Finebeak had found her, she was one exhausted heap of feathers. But a beautiful one at that! When she had told him the vile things that were transpiring at the great tree he was determined to help her find the Band and the young king. What a bad time that had been, when the tree had remained unseasonably golden.
    As if reading Doc Finebeak’s mind, Madame Plonk said,