Guardians of Ga'Hoole 13 - The River of Wind

somewhat of a linguist.”
    The seven other owls exchanged surreptitious glances. Don’t get her going, Soren thought.
    “Now perch and have some tea.”
    “If a simple nest-maid snake might ask a question, sir.” Mrs. Plithiver had suspended herself from one of the platform’s vines.
    “Of course.”
    “Well, being in the domestic arts, I notice that you serve your own tea. It’s really quite a nice spread you’ve laid out for us.” Indeed, there were tiny savory buns, and frogs that appeared to have been wrapped in little nets ofwoven pine needles and then smoked. “I say, you do this all by yourself? No nest-maids?”
    “I am self-sufficient, madam. I choose not to have any servants. I am what you might call, in your language, a hermit.” This term the owls did know. “I find that I can think better if I live a solitary life and one of simplicity.”
    Gylfie looked down at the tightly bound smoked frogs in their beautifully woven pine-needle jackets. You call this simple? she thought.
    “And you are,” Digger continued, “a knower of these qui contraptions?”
    “Yes, and you must wonder what they are used for.” Once again the owls nodded. “They have a purpose and they have not,” Tengshu said cryptically. “You see, it is often for sheer joy that one flies a qui, and joy is not considered a practical thing in most societies—although I disagree. However, when I fly my qui I am most often seeking information.”
    “Information?” Soren asked. “What kind of information?”
    “Oh, there is so much to be learned from flying qui. After all, I cannot be everywhere at once. With the qui I can detect all manner of wind currents, speed, moisture in clouds”—he hesitated as if searching for the rightword—“and jing jangs—I think you might call them hail cusps.”
    “Hail cusps!” Otulissa and Soren both burst out at once. These were furrows in the air where hailstones formed. “You mean,” Soren said excitedly, “you get weather information from these qui?”
    “Yes, and more.”
    “More?” Gylfie said.
    “Of course. For what we take, we must give back.”
    The eight owls blinked.
    “What do you give back?” Coryn asked.
    “Our thanks to Glaux. We send our prayers up. I write a poem or send one of my paintings.”
    “You paint?”
    “Oh, yes. Come inside now and I shall show you some of my paintings.”
    The owls followed Tengshu.
    “What is this?” Gylfie gasped as she flipped her head so she was looking straight up. From the ceiling of the hollow hung scrolls painted with beautiful scenes of mountains and waterfalls, birds and flowers. There was one of crashing waves and another of a still pond with a heron standing at its edge.
    “Is this parchment paper?” Soren asked.
    “No. I paint on silk. There is a mulberry tree with a silk league not far from here.”
    “A silk league?” Mrs. Plithiver asked, suddenly alert. There was, of course, no way she could see the pictures, but the notion of using silk was very interesting to her.
    “Yes, indeed. Blind snakes, like yourself, collect the cocoons made by the silkworms of the tree. They then unravel them into long threads and weave them together. Of course, before the cloth is ready to be painted they must beat it until its finish is smooth. It is a long and complicated process. But the silk league from whom I get my pieces is one of the finest.”
    “Rather like the weavers guild back at our tree,” Mrs. Plithiver offered.
    “Yes, I have heard of that guild,” Tengshu replied.
    The owls were stunned. This was yet another indication that Tengshu knew more about them than they knew about him.
    “How do you know all this?” Otulissa blurted out. “You knew we were coming. You know far more of our Hoolian language than any of us knows of yours, and now you tell us that you know about the weavers guild.”
    The sage blinked calmly. In the dim light of the hollow, his plumage did not seem quite so blue. He took a few short hops to a bowl made from the same material asthe cups from which they had just drunk. A wick floated in the bowl, and from a small flask he drew out a piece of raw ore and struck it against a flintstone. A small flame started in a pile of kindling. He then took a burning twig and lit the wick. A slightly acrid smell began to suffuse the air. “Yak butter—I don’t think you are familiar with that animal—but it is of vital importance to the owls of the Middle Kingdom.” He paused. “Now, I