Lost Tales of Ga'Hoole

KNOWLEDGE SHARING . A LL OWLS ARE ENCOURAGED TO ATTEND . F URTHER , IT HAS BEEN DECIDED BY UNANIMOUS VOTE OF THE PARLIAMENT THAT AFTER FINISHING HIS SERIES OF LECTURES , F LINN IS INVITED TO TAKE UP RESIDENCE AT THE GREAT TREE IN THE HOLLOW ADJOINING THAT OF HIS DAUGHTER , F RITHA .

THREE
Uglamore Redeemed
    A s a Guardian, I have known my share of noble and great owls. Some followed the honorable way from their first ceremony to their last, but others took a meandering path, finding nobility and goodness only at the end.
    I knew almost nothing of the brave owl named Uglamore until the time of his death. There I was, in the Beyond, witnessing one of the most heroic sacrifices ever known to owlkind. Until then, I had thought Uglamore was a just simple thug from the abominable Tytonic Union of Pure Ones. It was only with the help of Coryn, Gwyndor, Doc Finebeak, and several dire wolves who I shall not name that I was able to piece together his story. In the last moon cycle of his life in the Beyond, Uglamore, alone, tired, full of revulsion at the course his life had taken, spoke his despair into the bonfires of those other lonely creatures—the gnaw wolves of the Sacred Watch. They heard his mutterings and monologues, and later related them to me. On returning to the great tree, I spent hours in Coryn’s hollow, listening to his recollection of “Uncle Uglamore.” Coryn spoke of him with love and admiration. I hope now that Uglamore’s story is known, the rest of the world’s free creatures will as well.
    He was tired. His feathers were tattered. He no longer had the strength to preen himself, and had not the company of other owls to do it for him.
    The old Barn Owl named Uglamore was perched on an outcropping just beyond the dancing flames of the gnaw wolves’ bonfire. Thoughts, memories, regrets assailed him. He hardly knew when he was speaking aloud to the flames, and when his words sounded only in his mind. Some memories seared his gizzard with shame and he tried to veer from them. Others were merely annoying. A precious few were tender.
    Just now he was thinking about the name he was given at his hatching, as he often did these days when finding himself alone. He had almost forgotten it in all his years of soldiering. Bartholomew. How he had hated that name. Even worse was what his mother used to call him when he was a chick: Bartimoo. He shuddered as he remembered the sound of her voice as she said that word, and shook out his primaries reflexively. His father had also been Bartholomew, so had his grandfather, and his great-grandfather before that. As a young owl, he had always been disappointed that his parents couldn’t come up with something more creative, more original.
    When he and his mum first joined the Tytonic Union, he was still a fledgling. His father had just died, and his mum had told him how nice it would be to join other “like-minded” owls. Bartholomew was one of many young Barn Owls who were new to the Pure Ones. He had told all his new friends that his name was Shadow. After all, he had come from the southern edge of the Shadow Forest, where his family lived in a hollow of a pine tree on the bank of a pond. In fact, he had gotten to like the sound of the name—dark, mysterious, and formidable, perfect for a young ruffian such as himself, and perfect, too, for a newly pledged Pure One.
    But Bartholomew would soon find out for himself that it didn’t matter what name he came up with, he would be given a new one by the Tytonic Union. And that new name would define him as a full-fledged member of the Pure Ones. Whatever it is, it has to be better than Bartimoo , he had thought at the time.
    He thought long and hard about the perfect Tyto Alba name. It certainly wasn’t Bartholomew. Shadow was good, but not great. He wondered what the High Tyto’s real name was—owls only called him High Tyto or His Pureness. Whatever it was, Bartholomew decided, it must have been fierce-sounding and very pure. The perfect name for a Tyto Alba, Bartholomew decided, was Tytus —the ultimate name for a Barn Owl and a devoted Pure One such as himself. He considered Albus, too, but decided that it sounded too meek.
    As the occasion of his naming neared, he tried to drop hints, and he probably wasn’t too subtle about it. Once, when he knew the High Tyto to be within earshot, he said rather loudly to one of his fellow young recruits, “You know what I think is a fantastic name for a soldier of the