The Capture

out according to rank or battle performance. There was an elderly owl, Tumak, who was the director of the main battle claw repository. But now Grimble was going to tell a bold lie that he hoped would get Jatt out of the library he was guarding. He began talking quite loudly. Soren and Gylfie couldnt imagine what he was doing, for he seemed to be speaking not to them but to some invisible owl.

    "You don't say! My word. Trouble in the claw repository. Oh, Jatt's not going to like that at all. I think I better
    tell him." By the time Grimble, and it was only a matter of seconds, got to the guardhouse of the library, Jatt's feathers were puffed and quivering with agitation. He seemed twice his size and was in obvious pain. If any creature could be swollen with questions it was Jatt. And that, of course, was Grimble's advantage that he planned to work to the fullest.

    "Don't worry, Jatt. I shall tell you everything. At least all that I know. Now calm yourself. I had heard Jutt talking with Spoorn earlier, regarding those new battle claws and how he felt Tumak was not handling them correctly. Spoorn had said that she would take it up with Skench."

    "Oh, no!" Jatt gasped. "Jutt's been wanting to be the director of the repository forever. And we all know what that means. He'll be the most powerful owl around here next to Skench and Spoorn."

    "Well, it is my understanding that they are allowing Tumak and Jutt to fight it out. There's a duel about to begin and Jutt has his forces assembled. Go get your troops, Jatt. Quick -- there's still time. I'll stand guard."

    "Thank you, Grimble. Thank you. And don't worry. When I am head of the repository, you shall get first choice for battle claws."

    "I'm not worried, Jatt. Now, just go while there is still time."

    As soon as Jatt turned the corner and disappeared down the long stone crack, Grimble called to Soren and Gylfie. "Come on, you two. There's not a minute to waste." The two owlets raced into the library.
    They gasped when they entered the room. It was not the books they noticed or the small array of polished battle claws hanging off one wall. It was the sky, black, chinked with stars, stars that seemed so close that an owl could have reached out with a talon and plucked one. Memories rushed back.
    Memories of sky and breezes -- yes, indeed, they did feel a wind, even here. Oh, they were so close. Yes, they believed! Yes, they could do this and, then, just as Soren and Gylfie swung their wings up into their first stroke, Skench burst in. She was ferocious looking in full war regalia. Immense battle claws made her talons twice their size. A metallic needle extended from the tip of her beak and glimmered in the slice of the new moon that hung like a blade over the library.

    "Flap!" screeched Grimble. "Flap. You will do it! You will do it! Believe! Power stroke! Power! Two wing beats and you're up." But the two little owls seemed frozen in their fear. Their wings hung like stones at their sides. They were doomed.

    Soren and Gylfie watched transfixed as Skench advanced toward them, and then something very peculiar
    happened. Skench, moved by a power unseen, suddenly slammed into the wall, the wall that had the notches that Grimble had described in which the flecks were stored.

    "Go! This is your chance!" Grimble shouted.

    An indeed it was. Skench seemed to have been immobilized, paralyzed.

    Soren and Gylfie began to pump their wings. They felt themselves rise.

    "You can do it! You believe! Feel it in your gizzard. You are a creature of flight. Fly, my children. Fly!" And then there was a terrible shriek and the night was splattered with blood.

    "Don't look back! Don't look back, Soren! Believe!" But this time it was not Grimble calling. It was Gylfie.
    Just as they reached the stone rim, they felt a curl of warm air. And it was as if vast and gentle wings had reached out of the night, and swept them up into the sky. They did not look back. They did not see the torn owl on the library floor. They did not hear Grimble, as he lay dying, chant in the true voice of the Boreal Owl, in tones like chimes in the night, an ancient owl prayer: "I have redeemed myself by giving belief to the wings of the young. Blessed are those who believe, for indeed they shall fly'.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

    Flying Free

    In the dark soul of that night, Soren and Gylfie only saw the stars and the moon on its silvery path into the infinite blackness of this new heaven through which they wheeled