Guardians of Ga'Hoole 14 - Exile

the worldliness of the tree. She supposed it might fit that the Striga felt too “full up” with the ways of the tree. But still, it was all very disturbing.
    “And where do they get the fuel for these little groundfires?” Otulissa suddenly asked. “Certainly these young owls belonging to the Blue Feather Clubs aren’t seasoned colliers or blacksmiths.”
    “Oh, Otulissa, you show me a Rogue smith or a collier who doesn’t want to make a bit on the side. And there is a buyer for everything. Take it from old Mags.” Then the trader blinked suddenly with alarm.
    “What is it?”
    “I just remembered something.” She shook her head in wonder. “I was flying over one of them dying ground fires, and something caught my eye. Thought it reminded me of something. Something sparkly but now all burnt up. I didn’t pay it much heed at the time ‘cause I was in a hurry.”
    “But what was it about the sparkly thing?” Otulissa asked.
    “Well, ain’t it simple enough? Most sparkly things, them glittery things that you don’t like and Madame Plonk loves. Where else would they come from but me? And why would someone be trying to burn them up in a fire? Imagine them burning up perfectly wonderful treasures that I search all over creation for. Owls love my goods—why would they allow them to be burned?”
    “I’m not sure,” Otulissa said slowly, but once more she felt a twinge in her gizzard. “But I don’t think those gemsand jewels that sparkle would necessarily smell if they were burned.”
    “‘Course not. But it weren’t no burnt-cloth smell, either. Or any metal smell like you get when you’re around a forge.”
    “What did it smell like? Can you think, Mags?”
    “Maybe paper,” the magpie replied.
    At that moment, Fritha came up, looking a bit agitated. “Otulissa, I can’t find that book of Lyze’s poetry. No one’s checked it out. I just wanted to quote something from it for the newspaper.”
    “And you know what else is missing?” Winifred, the ailing librarian, had just come in, flying rather lopsided due to her arthritic wing. “Couldn’t find it for the life of me the other day.”
    “What’s that?” Otulissa asked. She could feel her gizzard throbbing.
    “Madame Plonk’s book, My Fabulous Life and Times: An Anecdotal History of a Life Devoted to Love and Song . Cheers me up. You know I’ve been feeling so poorly. And I noticed a few of the other songbooks in that section were missing, too.”
    “Really?” Otulissa felt the throbbing stop and instead a terrible dread began to grow in her gizzard. “Excuse me,” she said suddenly. “I have to go see Octavia immediately.”

CHAPTER NINE
Visions of Hagsmire
    C oryn had settled down in his hollow. It did feel odd not to be out celebrating on this night of full shine, the start of the Harvest Festival, but in another way there was a lovely peacefulness. He was perched studying the map of the Hoolian Kingdoms and the air currents above the Sea of Vastness. The Striga was perched solemnly across from him, studying the young king with his pale yellow eyes as Coryn studied the map and charts.
    “Tell me, Coryn,” the blue owl asked, “do you believe that glaumora is real?”
    “Of course I do.”
    “And hagsmire?”
    That was a hard question. Coryn was not really sure. Certainly, if there was one, he knew Kludd, his father, was there and would be condemned to it forever and ever. And if his mother, Nyra, was dead she would be there as well. But he preferred not to think of either of his parents in any kind of afterlife, glaumora or hagsmire. He justwanted them gone, their souls to evaporate into a complete and irrevocable nothingness. “I don’t know,” Coryn finally replied.
    “But glaumora?” the Striga pressed.
    “Oh, yes, yes. There must be a place for the good souls to go, the scrooms of decent owls.”
    “Decent owls?” the Striga said. “And what makes a decent owl?”
    “Well, Hoole, the first king of this tree, was a great and decent owl. But one does not have to be great to be decent. One does not even have to be an owl.”
    Striga blinked in surprise at this. “What do you mean?”
    “Well, for example, Mrs. Plithiver.”
    “The nest-maid snake?” the Striga replied, an edge of disgust in his voice.
    “Yes.”
    “But she’s a servant. She makes our life easier, more luxurious.”
    “Oh, but she’s much more than that. She is a gifted musician and holds the highest rank in the harp guild as