Lost Tales of Ga'Hoole

Tytonic Union? Tytus. Wouldn’t it be a great honor to the High Tyto to have a loyal servant named Tytus?”
    His companion, another Barn Owl called Junior, looked at him like he was a warbling idiot. And His Pureness, the High Tyto, flew off without paying Bartholomew even a modicum of attention.
    The night of his naming finally came after Bartholomew and his mum had been with the Pure Ones for many seemingly endless moon cycles. He was as excited as a chick at his First-Meat-on-Bones ceremony and slept barely a wink the day before. He remembered some of his Firsts in the old days in the Shadow Forest, and how special those ceremonies made him feel. But to the Pure Ones, the naming warranted no ceremony, it was just another task to be carried out. As the moon rose in the sky, High Tyto and his mate appeared before the three owls who were to be named—Bartholomew, Junior, and one other young Barn Owl.
    “It is time for the three of you to begin your proper training as full-fledged Pure Ones,” the High Tyto began. “From now on, you will only be known by your Tytonic Union names and will forget any previous name you have ever had.” His mate gave a disinterested nod.
    The High Tyto approached the owl known as Junior. “You will henceforth be known as Stryker.”
    Junior nodded and bowed his head. “I will not let you down, High Tyto.”
    Stryker—a good name, a powerful name , thought Bartholomew.
    “You,” the High Tyto was now addressing the Barn Owl next to Bartholomew, “you will henceforth be known as Wortmore.”
    Wortmore?! What kind of name is Wortmore? Bartholomew almost let out a churr. Oh, it would have been a bad time to be caught churring, and he knew it. Wortmore bowed his head, just as Stryker had.
    At last, the High Tyto landed in front of Bartholomew. The young owl felt as if his gizzard was about to climb out of his body through his beak. This is it , he thought, I’ll finally be free of this horrid name. Good-bye Bartholomew! Good-bye Bartimoo! Come on, Tytus, say Tytus.…
    “And you,” the High Tyto leaned in. Bartholomew’s eyes widened with anticipation. “From this night forward, your name shall be Uglamore.”
    Bartholomew’s only response was to yarp a pellet right in front of the High Tyto. It almost hit His Pureness in the chest. The young Barn Owl was stunned. “Sorry, High Tyto…I mean, thank you. Thank you, High Tyto, I’m…I’m honored, Your Pureness.”
    If there was a name worse than Wortmore, worse than Bartholomew or even Bartimoo, the High Tyto had found it.
    Uglamore I was named, and Uglamore I became.
    Over the years, Uglamore had gotten used to being called by his Tytonic Union name. He even liked it some days, like when Nyroc said it. In fact, many things seemed to change after the little chick was born. When he was merely days old, he had tried to say “Uglamore,” except, in the garbled speech of the tiny owlet, it sounded more like “Oolamoo.” It brought warmth to Uglamore’s old gizzard.
    How carefully had the name Nyroc been chosen for him, Uglamore recalled. When Nyra had first laid the egg, the “Sacred Orb” as she had called it, she had desperately wanted the hatch day to fall on the night of an eclipse. Because then, the little chick would join a most exclusive group: the Nyrolian owls, those owls hatched during an eclipse.
    As the night of the eclipse neared, Nyra became fixated on the egg.
    Uglamore was sure that Nyra had pecked at that egg to cause it to hatch before it was truly ready—an act that only the worst of owl mothers would even consider. It was the first of many perversions she would practice, Uglamore thought grimly: hate instead of love; mindless obedience instead of free thought; murder instead of friendship. He had felt sorry for the little chick even back then.
    Just before the sun climbed over the horizon, Nyra announced that her son had hatched. Nyroc, she predictably called him, after herself. Maybe Uglamore shared a bond with Nyroc because they were both destined to their names—he after his father and his father’s father, the young chick after his mother. Or perhaps he felt the bond because he and Nyroc were both fatherless. Who can say for sure? What he was certain of was that he felt an attachment to this chick that he could not explain, an attachment that was stronger than any he had felt since he joined the Tytonic Union of Pure Ones. What was more peculiar was his sense that this chick was different from