Guardians of Ga'Hoole 14 - Exile

air. The Striga had forgotten that one weapon could never be dropped—the Breath of Qui!
    “After him,” someone yelled.
    “Are you all right?” Bell blinked. It was another blue owl who was speaking to her. “I had to hit him hard enough to dislodge her.” Tengshu turned to Pelli. “But I couldn’t do it with full force or I would have killed her.”
    Pelli scooped Bell into her wings. “Of course you couldn’t!” She sobbed. “Of course.”
    “But he got away, didn’t he?” Tengshu asked.
    “Don’t worry,” Soren said, flying up. “He’s gone. Most of the rest are dead. A few followed him out. You saved Bell’s life.”
    “And,” Pelli added, turning to Bell. “You saved my life.”
    “I did?” Bell blinked.
    “You did,” Pelli said, and grasped her daughter. “It was a foolish thing, you sneaking away from the other young’uns. It all turned out well. But still, whatever possessed you?”
    “It was my fault. All this was my fault,” Bell gasped.
    “No!” Pelli said staunchly. “Now you listen to me, Bell. None of this was your fault. It is never a young’un’s fault. It is grown owls who are to blame. Grown owls who should know better.”
    Ruby now raced up. “Otulissa is hurt.” She gulped and wilfed. Her ruddy feathers lay flat and sleek against her side. She looked so small.
    “Where is she?” Soren asked.
    “The matrons are tending her down there on the floor of the Great Hollow. She’s too injured to move. She’s hurt bad, Soren. Real bad.”
    “Go to her, Soren. Go to her!” Pelli said. “I’ll take care of Bell.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A Vigil Is Kept
    I ’ll do what I can do,” Fleemus the grizzled Long-eared Owl said. Fleemus was the great tree healer. “But it’s a head wound. She’s lost a lot of blood, and the eye looks bad. I don’t know if I can save the eye.” There was a single unspoken thought that passed through the Chaw of Chaws who had gathered around Otulissa, almost a prayer: For Glaux’s sake, save her brain . What would the tree do without their greatest mind, their greatest ryb. Otulissa, ryb of Ga’Hoolology, scholar of weather interpretation, higher magnetics. The tree without Otulissa’s brilliance would be like the tree without the milkberry vines that sparkled in rainbow hues through the twelve cycles of the moon—unthinkable.
    Otulissa remained on the floor of the Great Hollow for several nights. She was feverish and often delusional but Fleemus had managed to stop the bleeding and keep any infection at bay. On the fourth night, he said she could be moved to the infirmary. On the sixth night she regainedconsciousness. And when she woke, she heard Soren and Fleemus and Matron discussing her condition.
    “She’ll never see out of that port eye,” Fleemus was saying. “And infection could still kill her. If I remove the eye, well, she’ll be scarred, disfigured, but I think it would lessen the risk of infection.”
    “Well,” Soren said, “if there is one thing that Otulissa isn’t, it’s vain.” He coughed. Even the word sent chills through them.
    Otulissa churred silently to herself as she heard them talk. “What makes you so sure I’m not vain, Soren?”
    The three owls swiveled their heads around.
    “You’re awake?” Fleemus asked.
    “Awake enough to know that the real question is, can I read with one eye?” She paused. “And who knows, I might be tempted to buy one of those jaunty bandannas from Trader Mags like the one she uses to cover her bald spot. Maybe with some glitter on it. You see, I would like to restore the word ‘vanity’ to its rightful place in our language. I would like to de-vilify it. Or at least take it out of the realm of the un-Glauxly or whatever that fool owl thought. A little vanity is not a bad thing. I plan to do a linguistical analysis of this word and interpret it in a framework of moral reasoning to explore…” Fleemus, Matron, and Soren looked at one another in wonder.Soren felt his gizzard trembling with joy. She’s back. Brains and all. She’s back!
    And she was. Still very weak but gaining strength each night. On warm nights, they moved the brave Spotted Owl to her hanging garden, the one she had tended in the trunk pockets of the tree that even in winter was still lovely with its moon-cycle ferns and huckleberry bushes and snow crocuses. She would often stay there well into the day, for the sun warmed her and made it quite comfortable. She did read, although she