Guardians of Ga'Hoole 14 - Exile

burp to even think about it now.”
    “It’s because of your size, Gylf,” Twilight said. “You’re just too small to handle bingle juice—in any form.”
    “Oh, now let’s just cut out the small-stature remarks,” Gylfie replied, sharply casting a harsh look at Twilight. As the tiniest of the Band she was sensitive about her size. In fact she had resurrected the SOS—the Small OwlSociety. It had been founded by Gylfie’s grandmother, and its charter was to prevent cruel and tasteless remarks about size.
    “Gylfie,” Otulissa said, “this is not a reflection on your character. It is a scientific fact that smaller owls have a lower tolerance for milkberry wine and bingle juice. There is even a formula: You take your weight, multiply it by the square root of your wingspan, and then divide it by your head-to-tail length and that gives you the number of drams you can tolerate. Very simple. Your capacity is small. Maybe one one-tenth of a dram.”
    “I find this conversation infuriating,” Gylfie fumed. “You’re the one who stumbled in the glauc-glauc. Madame Plonk, who is nearly as big as Twilight, passes out every year. All I do is burp—and you’ve got me pegged as a tippler.”
    “I have said no such thing,” Otulissa protested. “I was merely giving you the formula to calculate your capacity.”
    “Well,” Digger said wearily, “no such formulas are going to be needed this year because it appears that no milkberry wine is being brewed.”
    “As a matter of fact,” Otulissa said, “it appears to me that nothing is being done for the Harvest Festival. A big fat nothing!” Otulissa was rarely so unrefined in her pronouncements. The four owls all swiveled their heads toward Soren. He wilfed a bit.
    “I know…I know. The Striga is a bit strange. I think we just have to be patient while Coryn figures out what to do with him.” Soren resisted saying how indebted they all were to the blue owl. He did not need to constantly remind them of what he and Pelli owed to the Striga. They knew.
    “But what does Coryn say?” Gylfie asked. “He seems sort of listless and distracted since our return from the Middle Kingdom. He should be rejoicing. We escaped the slink melf. The kingdom is intact. Not only that, we have a wonderful new ally in the Middle Kingdom. There is so much to be grateful for and yet he hardly ever comes out of his hollow these days.”
    “Got the gollymopes, I’d say,” Digger offered. “Gone all broody on us—and I don’t mean ‘broody’ as in sitting on an egg nest.”
    Gylfie blinked. Her yellow eyes grew bright. “You just gave me an idea, Digger!”
    “Yeah, what’s that?”
    “Maybe we need to find Coryn a mate. He could use a little romance in his life.”
    “Not a bad idea,” Twilight said thoughtfully. “He needs to settle down. Have some companionship in the hollow.”
    “Speak for yourself.” Soren laughed. Of all the Band, Soren was the only one who had thus far found a mate.
    “Oh, Soren, you know me. I play the sky! I’m not the settling-down type,” Twilight said. The other owls flashed quick, knowing looks to one another. They knew exactly what was coming. “You know me. I’m a product of the Orphan School of Tough Learning. I’d be terrible at coddling hatchlings.”
    “I think,” Soren said softly, “you’d be a lot better than you imagine.”
    “What in the name of Glaux are those owlets doing?” Otulissa suddenly asked as she caught a glimpse of a half dozen owlets flying around with feathery blue tufts in their talons.
    “Oh, it’s something called the Blue Feather Club,” Soren said. “It’s a fad. It will pass. Bell wants Blythe and Bash to join.”
    “Is Blythe going to sing at the Harvest Festival, Soren?” Gylfie asked.
    “Yes, Madame Plonk says Blythe’s a natural even though she’s not a Snowy. I do hope she gets to sing. She’s been practicing so hard. But…” There was a wistful note in Soren’s voice.
    “But what?” Gylfie asked.
    “Oh, nothing, nothing really,” Soren replied.
    But Gylfie, who knew Soren best of all, sensed that there was something worrying Soren deeply.

CHAPTER TWO
Why a Blue Feather?
    B lythe would not be allowed to sing. There would be no bingle juice, no dancing. One would hardly know it was a festival. Worst of all, this was by order of Coryn. “Just this once, that’s all,” Coryn had said. “You know how much we owe him. It seems the right thing to do.” That was