Guardians of Ga'Hoole 13 - The River of Wind

“I’m…I’m very sorry.”
    As Eglantine and Primrose flew on, their search became increasingly frustrating. Most of the fresh wind tracks had vanished by now. But they kept at it. While Eglantine flew the upper levels, Primrose flew quite low, perhaps only two feet above the ground, to look for talon prints or the telltale tufts of down that might have fetched up in low-growing scrub plants. Primrose was flying even closer when she caught sight of something odd in the bushes. A feather? No, she thought. Couldn’t be. Well, maybe a jay feather…but…
    “Eglantine!” She flipped her head straight up. “Come down here this instant! Wait’ll you see this!”
    Eglantine alighted near the bush where a blue feather was impaled on a thorny branch quivering in the ground breeze.
    “It’s owl!” Primrose said.
    “It can’t be! It’s blue!”
    “I know an owl feather when I see one and so do you.” The tiny Pygmy Owl stomped her talons on the ground. “If this isn’t an owl feather, I’ll eat my trousers.” Eglantine stepped closer and peered at the bright blue feather. “It certainly does look like an owl feather. But blue!”
    “It’s a median port wing covert,” Primrose said. “But how do you explain this color?”
    “A kraal?” Eglantine looked up and blinked.
    “Kraals this far south? Besides, this isn’t paint. This is real—a real, natural color.” Kraals were the pirate owls of the Northern Kingdoms who painted their plumage gaudy colors. Primrose delicately extricated the feather from the thorn.
    “It’s a molted feather. I mean, it doesn’t look as if it was torn off in a skirmish or anything,” Eglantine said, as Primrose dropped the feather on the ground so they could better examine it.
    “Yes, but it’s really weathered—right down to its barbs,” Primrose said. The barbs and barbules were the minuscule interlocking hooks that ran diagonally down a feather to make its surface smooth and functional. These had been worn away, leaving a fuzzy surface to the feather.
    “This feather has had a long flight.” Eglantine was bentover, examining it closely. There was a queasy squirm deep in Eglantine’s gizzard. She sighed. “Well, standing here on the ground isn’t going to get us any closer to Bell. But maybe we should try and follow any signs of this blue owl and see if the track might lead to Bell…,” she paused, “…in some way.” Poor Bell, she thought. Where could that little owl be? Eglantine herself had once been a lost owlet. A victim of the Great Downing. Twice owl-napped, first by the Pure Ones, and the second time by St. Aggie’s. However, she managed to survive. She knew all too well the frightening feelings that a wounded, flightless owlet could experience when it was “ground bound,” the countless hours looking up and wondering if she would ever be part of that sky world.
    Eglantine and Primrose were still in the middle of Ambala and had to fight an increasing headwind as they flew east. They had promised themselves that they would fly at least as far as the desert. But the two owls were growing very tired. This was their fifth night of searching. What few wind tracks were left had begun to feel the same. With each wing stroke forward it seemed that the easterly wind pushed them back half a stroke. But how could they stop? This was Bell, precious Bell. Eglantine’s niece. Soren’s dear little daughter.
    In the easternmost region of Ambala, Bell waited for the blue owl. Striga had been gone for the better part of the night on his hunting expedition. Bell had to admit that this blue owl was not the most proficient hunter. The bodies of mice and voles and squirrels that he brought back were badly mangled, as if he had very little experience. At one time, he had said something about how he had led a rather vain life. “One of luxury and impracticality” was how he described it. “Until you were a Glauxian Brother, that is?” Bell offered, and he merely nodded, replying, “I missed those early years when one learns the basics.”
    Striga cautioned Bell about what he called false Glauxes of luxury and refinement, and the pitfall of vanity. He even scolded her once when, bored with her days of confinement, she had strung some red berries onto one of his molted feathers. The berries were from a stash a squirrel had left behind in the hollow. Bell had thought the bright red against the blue of his feathers looked quite pretty, but Striga was