Guardians of Ga'Hoole 13 - The River of Wind

exactly the feeling of the River of Wind.
    For Soren, it brought memories of the down that Pelli plucked from her underfeathers for the three B’s. For Martin, it was reminiscent of the high summer hollow his family had, which was nearly above the tree line on the mountains. There was a special moss that grew there that was even softer than rabbit’s ear moss, and his mum wouldmake their beds with it. For Twilight, it was like the echo of a song—a song from long ago. He could almost remember some of the words, but had no clue as to where they had come from. There had been a wonderful voice singing it, singing this song just for him. A voice like silk? Satin? Like liquid moonlight, it flowed, it curled around him and suffused him with a glowing warmth.
    Overhead the stars drifted, and new constellations they had never seen before melted out of the night. Otulissa had been right. They barely needed to waggle a wing. This strong, warm, flowing wind pushed them along. They moved fast and effortlessly, traveling a great distance in what seemed like no time at all. They even took short naps. They were safe as long as they stayed in the central trough and avoided the edges. They did remain alert, however, to those edges as every once in a while a grim reminder of the danger that lurked within the windkins popped up—the mangled body of a seagull, the detached head of an eagle, and other assorted corpses that through some unknown process became slightly mummified, making them look all the more terrifying.
    “It’s like the living dead,” Martin muttered as he caught sight of a tiny sparrow, its eyes frozen in horror in its stillfeathered face. They were all rather relieved that so far they had not seen the remnant of Mrs. P.’s tail.
    “What’s that?” Ruby said.
    “What?” Soren asked.
    “Straight up,” Ruby replied.
    Mrs. Plithiver braced herself between Soren’s shoulders because she knew what was coming—a maneuver only an owl could make because of the seven extra bones in its neck, which allowed it to swivel its head in a wide arc and flip it straight up; they all made the same movement at the same time. Now their faces were where the tops of their heads had been, seconds before. Mrs. P. looked up, too. How very odd , she thought.
    “What is it?” Soren asked.
    “Not a bird,” Otulissa and Twilight both said at once.
    “No, definitely not a bird,” Digger replied.
    “It’s not a living thing,” Mrs. Plithiver said. For had it been, she knew she would have detected the vibrations from the beats of its heart.
    “But it’s beautiful,” Gylfie said as they all looked up at this colorful thing that danced and skipped above them in the eddies of the River of Wind.
    It was triangular in shape and made of some sort of material—possibly parchment—that had been stretched over a frame. From the lower point of the triangle flew a tail, or perhaps it was a banner, made from brightly colored rags.
    “Look! There’s another!” Twilight said, spotting a second such contraption below them.
    “There are strings attached! They lead downward.” Coryn cried out. “Let’s follow the strings!”
    “Follow the strings!” they all cried out.

CHAPTER TEN
Conversations with a Blue Owl
    B ut your feathers—why are they blue?” Bell asked as she finished a winter-skinny mouse. Normally, she would have scoffed at such fare. But this was the first food she had eaten since she had been spun out of the scuppers of the gale. Until now she had been too weak to eat anything of substance at all.
    “And why are your feathers brown and the ones on your face white?” the blue owl replied. Striga’s Hoolian had become more fluent as Bell, despite her condition, asked endless questions.
    “Because my mum’s and da’s are,” she answered.
    The blue owl churred softly.
    “Oh, I get it!” Bell said, her dark eyes sparkling. “Your mum and da were blue. So that’s why you’re blue.” She seemed momentarily satisfied with this answer. But then the tiny delicate feathers on her brow began to pucker up. Oh, dear. Here comes another question, the blue owl thought.
    “But I’ve never seen a blue owl before.”
    “I think there must be a lot you haven’t seen,” the blue owl replied.
    Bell nodded thoughtfully. “I guess so.” There was another pause. “Is there a lot you haven’t seen?”
    “Well, I am older, of course. So I have seen more.” But, he thought, I have never seen a black-eyed owl. He