Lost Tales of Ga'Hoole

she fumbled, she saw shapes out of the corner of her eye.
    “Get away from my daughter!” It was Berrick, her father, and Brunwella was right behind him. “Brunie, stay back, out of the way,” Berrick shouted.
    Berrick charged at his mate with bare talons outstretched. “You treacherous…”
    “Da!” Brunwella screamed before Berrick could finish the thought.
    The Great Horned Owl who arrived with Rodmilla was in the cave and began slashing at Berrick. Bareclawed, Berrick was no match for him. In a second, his wing was broken.
    It was Rodmilla who delivered the death blow. “Good-bye, my gullible one,” she whispered to her dying mate.
    “Da, no!” Brunwella cried out.
    As she heard her sister’s cry, Thora lifted into the air, now with battle claws strapped firmly to her feet. She had never even fought before, much less fought to kill. But her gizzard took over. She didn’t even have to think. She advanced toward her stepmother without hesitation. Rodmilla was the one on the defensive now, parrying Thora’s blows. She was pinned against the cave wall as Thora’s battle claws lashed out.
    Rodmilla screeched in desperation, “Thora! Did I not try to spare you?”
    As if in a trance, Thora said nothing. Her starboard claw drove deep into Rodmilla’s throat, killing her.
    By now, many Resistance fighters had come to the cave, and it was an all-out battle. The Great Horned turned his attention to fight alongside his two fellow Ice Talons guards, but the three of them were easily outnumbered and defeated.
    In the end, all four Ice Talons, including Rodmilla, were killed. But they had taken with them the lives of the two owls most dear to Thora and Brunwella—Berrick and Sigfried were gone. The sisters collapsed into a heap and cried, holding each other in their wings. They remained in this sad embrace until the sun began to set.
    The next night, Thora, Brunwella, and the owls of the Resistance burned Berrick’s and Sig’s bodies using coals from Orf’s forge. As the fire burned, Brunwella began to sing.

Fly away with me.
Give my loneliness a break.
Fly away with me, so my heart will stop its ache.
Rise into the night ,
Fly away with me.
Fly with me till dawn ,
Hollows we shall leave behind.
Fly with me till dawn, to places they’ll never find.
By the pale moonlight ,
Fly with me till dawn.
Soar over this land ,
In the night sky we’ll find glee.
Soar over this land, see the steam rise from the sea.
Soft winds do invite ,
Soar over this land.
Fly away with me ,
My love, don’t hesitate.
Fly away with me, for I can hardly wait.
Our hearts shall take flight ,
Fly away with me.

    It was the same song she had sung on the night of voice tryouts, which now seemed so long ago.
    Thora listened to the old gadfeather words—“fly away”—and realized it was exactly what she and her sister needed to do. After the ceremony, she told Brunwella.
    “Brunie, I think it’s time we fly away from here.”
    “But where will we go?” Brunwella asked.
    “South,” Thora said definitively. “I don’t think there is anything left for us here in the Northern Kingdoms. Sig told me that his family lives in a place called Silverveil. I want to go find them and tell them what happened here, that their son died a hero. Who knows, maybe they can use a Rogue smith. And you, I think you’re sure to be chosen as the next singer at the great tree.”
    Brunwella was still hesitant. “It’s such a long way away…” But she thought about the lyrics she had just sung and grew brave. “You know what, you’re right, Thora. Let’s fly away.”
    The next night, a letter would arrive at the hollow once shared by Berrick, his mate Rodmilla, and his two daughters. It would confer the title of Singer at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree on Brunwella Plonk. But no one was there to receive it.
    The two sisters flew south together in the moonlight, leaving behind their aching hearts in the frozen north. They flew on for many days, and then they went their separate ways—one to a life of seclusion and anonymity at a forge in the Forest of Silverveil, and the other to a life of fame and esteem at the great tree.

TWO
Fritha’s Painted Past
    A s a ryb, I have had my share of bright students. A few of them rise above the rest. These are the young owls who make me feel truly blessed to be a ryb at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. You may know one such student as the assistant editor of The Evening Hoot. Yes, I speak of none other than the