The Capture

the library. The flecks were interesting but he didn't see how this was connected with anything that had to do with their escaping. The library, of course, was located in a higher part of the canyon, one closer to the sky. Their chances of getting into the hatchery since the Hortense disaster, which would have afforded them the best takeoff spot, were absolute zero. And now that was just what Gylfie was saying. "I just feel it in my gizzard, Soren. If we can get into the library, that might be our way out. But until Grimble comes back, I don't think there's a chance."

    "Why didn't we think of asking Hortense about Grimble being imperfectly moon blinked?" Soren wondered aloud.

    "I doubt if she would have known anything. All she ever saw of this place was the hatchery, really."

    "I suppose you're right," Soren replied. "But Gylfie, what's the sense of us getting into the library, even if the library is the second-best escape route, if we can't fly? You said we have to learn and we'd better start quickly. Do we know the first thing about flying except what we remember our parents saying?
    How can we practice branching here? Start hopping around and trying to do any of the usual things owl chicks have been doing by the time they are our age to be flight-ready, and you'll see the monitors on us faster than if we had asked a question."

    "You're right, Soren. We're not ready. We have to figure out a way to practice."

    "I'm not sure that we can. I mean, it just seems too risky."

    But Gylfie saw that, in fact, Soren was practicing in a very subtle way as they munched their evening ration of crickets in the glaucidium. The Barn Owl had spread his wings and fluffed them up and, although not hopping, Soren had certainly assumed what was known as a flight- prime position. He turned now to 47-2, their pelletorium guide from the first day, and in Gylfie's mind the most perfectly moon-blinked creature of St. Aggie's.

    "Just getting the feel of it," Soren said to 47-2. Naturally, he did not wait for 47-2 to ask, "The feel of what?" He merely went ahead and answered his own question in hopes of provoking 47-2 to offer some information. "It must feel wonderful when you finally lift off." He raised his wings slightly as he spoke. "It is almost as if I know exactly where the air will pouch beneath my wings."

    "Oh, yes." 47-2 blinked. "That feeling will pass." 47-2's wings hung limply at her sides. "I remember when I had it as well. You won't be bothered much longer with such feelings." She stared straight ahead, her eyes vacant.

    Bothered? Why would such feelings ever be a bother? Soren
    dared not ask. He could see that Gylfie had heard this as well and was equally disturbed. A dread began to creep up from their gizzards and seep into their hollow bones. They had thought that DNFs, owls Destined Not to Fly, were only those owls who worked in the hatchery and the eggorium. Were there DNFs in the pelletorium as well?

    "Yes, yes," 47-2 spoke in her odd flat tones, "it will pass, not much longer, and it is a lovely feeling that comes as they relieve you of those stirrings of flight."

    Soren could hardly steady his voice to form the next statement. "Yes, stirrings of flight. I very much like these stirrings of flight. They feel so lovely under my wings."

    "No, no. They become more bothersome, trust me. You will welcome the bats when they come."

    Bats? Bats? Soren and Gylfie desperately needed to know about the bats. How could he wheedle this information out? "I have not seen any bats around here," Soren said, trying to keep the anxiousness out of his voice.

    "Oh, they only come just before every other newing or so. To relieve us of flight urges. You are still not ready, I'm afraid. You will have to wait until the next newing."

    A hundred questions battered Soren's brain. But 47-2 continued. "They come tonight, I hear. I am very happy in anticipation. It is so lovely. We always sleep our best after the bats quank."

    Just at that moment, Jatt and Jutt screeched a call for attention. "All 40's through 48's shall report on the third sleep march to area three." They spoke in unison.

    "Hooray!" The cheer welled up in the glaucidium. "Hooray, hooray!" 47-2 danced a strange little jig.

    Two marches had gone by. The silver thread of a moon was drawn down to the edge where the sky meets the earth. A last feeble blink of silver and it was gone. The sky grew blacker and blacker. A third sleep march would seem meaningless, for all was