Lost Tales of Ga'Hoole

royal or another. “Why, he’s the catch of the firths! And he’ll be staying in Firth of Canis for a full moon cycle!” Rodmilla had screeched when she first learned of the visit. The sisters were familiar with Rodmilla’s obsession with her own semi-noble heritage and her apparent desire to climb ever higher on the social thermals.
    As dawn neared, Thora returned, breathing hard after having flown fast and far.
    “Where have you been? Mother has been desperately trying to find you,” Brunwella whispered to her sister as she met her just outside their hollow. “I can only cover for you for so long.”
    “With Sig,” Thora whispered giddily.
    “Are you two courting?” Brunwella whispered back excitedly. She noticed, then, that her sister’s feathers were covered in soot. “And why are you all dirty?”
    Thora lowered her head sheepishly. “I wouldn’t call it courting exactly…Sig took me to meet some of his friends. And I got my talons on the forge last night. I’ve missed it so terribly since my return to this Glaux-forsaken hollow, Brunwella! I can’t wait to go back.”
    Imagine, my own sister, a blacksmith. It was just like Thora—always the nonconformist. “Well, you’d better dust yourself off and go find Mother.”
    “Why? What’s happened?”
    “We got news that Madame Plonk just died,” Brunwella answered.
    “Is that all? What does that have to do with me?” Thora asked.
    “I don’t know. You know how she gets.” Brunwella didn’t know why Rodmilla had been looking for Thora. She couldn’t help but think Rodmilla was acting strangely lately. For one thing, Thora wasn’t the best singer in the family; that was certainly Brunwella. Thora had a good singing voice, better even than most Plonks. Still, anyone with ear slits had to admit that her tone was not nearly as good as Brunwella’s. Where Thora’s tone was strong like iron, Brunwella’s shimmered like gold. Furthermore, Thora didn’t care one bit for singing. It was Brunwella who was born with the gadfeather spirit.
    For as long as there had been a Great Ga’Hoole Tree, a Snowy Owl from the Plonk family, all direct descendants of the Snow Rose, has tolled the passage of time there as its official singer—simply known as Madame or Sir Plonk. The most talented singer in each Plonk generation was chosen, and it was considered a great honor. When a singer died, a young owl from the next generation who had yet to mate was chosen by the heads of the Plonk clan to go to the tree. Brunwella had always dreamed that she might one day become that singer.
    “Oh, there you are, Thora,” Rodmilla said in an exasperated tone. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
    “I was just, um…out…” Thora began to explain.
    “I don’t care where you’ve been. But now that you’re back, we must begin your voice lessons.”
    “Voice lessons? Mother, do you have me confused with Brunie or some other owl?” Thora said with a sarcastic churr.
    “Don’t be fresh, Thora! Come, come, we must prepare and there’s not much time; we have to increase your range, improve your breathing, and perfect your vibrato. All that can be taught, you know. How else are you going to be chosen to be the next Madame Plonk?”
    “Madame Plonk?!” both Thora and Brunwella said in unison, thoroughly confused. Brunwella was the one who ought to be going to the voice tryouts, and she thought she had a good shot, too.
    “Mother, you know full well that Brunwella is the one with the voice. Shouldn’t she be the one to go to the voice trials?” Thora tried to reason.
    “I have other plans for Brunwella. Now, let’s begin with some scales.”
    “What plans?” Brunwella asked. This doesn’t sound good, she thought.
    “I’ll have no more questions from you two tonight. Now. Thora. Scales.”
    Thora and Brunwella shot each other a suspicious look. They would have to discuss this in private tomorrow. The sun was already on the horizon, and Rodmilla was still insisting that Thora carry on with this rehearsal. Brunwella listened as her sister begrudgingly sang the scales. All Snowies in the Plonk family sang. It was simply a way of life. Tonight, however, Thora’s voice sounded tired and weak. Rodmilla pushed on.
    “Be careful, dear, watch the area between your chest register and head voice!” Rodmilla reminded her.
    “I’d rather be watching the area behind my eyelids, Mother.”
    “Shush up with the talking! No talking, I only want to hear