(GoG Book 08) The Outcast

The wolves stood back as Hamish came forward and tucked in next to Coryn on the hindquarter. “I’m not used to this much meat. I mostly gnaw bones.”

“So I’ve heard,” Coryn replied.

“You are a mask. You are nothing more! There is nothing behind your mask, not a face, nothing! I shall fly in the fullness of the night. Under the moon and the stars I shall hunt the vole, the rat, even the fox. I shall become part of owlkind, no matter where I have to go. But I shall go! And I shall never ever return to the Pure Ones. I defy you. I HAVE FREE WILL!”

Shouting, Nyroc flew directly at the mask that hung over the still water of the small lake. It was the mask of his father’s scroom, Kludd, who had haunted him ever since Nyroc had fled the Pure Ones. And now the glaring mask seemed to grow dim and tarnished. Silently, it shattered. Shards of the once-burnished metal that had hidden Kludd’s war-mangled face fell without a splash into the water. Nary a ripple disturbed the placid surface of the pond.

Gone? Is he gone at last?
It seemed too good to be true. Once, twice, three times Nyroc flew over the lake, peering into its amber depths, but all the young owl could see was the reflection of the full-shine moon trembling on the water’s surface.

Nyroc flew without direction away from the pond.
Who am I now, without a home, without even the scroom of a father? And with a mother from whom I must flee? What is to become of me? Where shall I go? Where shall I find happiness? Perhaps happiness is too much to ask for. Peace. Yes, peace will do.

B
ut this was not to be, Nyroc realized as he flew into the night. Neither peace nor happiness would be his yet. He was supposed to do something first. He just couldn’t remember quite what. Since he had fled the Pure Ones, so much had happened. These last few days seemed like a tangled dream in Nyroc’s brain. First, there had been the fire in Silverveil. It had been terrible and yet beautiful. And something very dangerous had happened. Nyroc, who could read fire, had become transfixed—firedazed. He could not move to escape the heat and flames that were pressing closer and closer to him. Finally, he had broken free. It had been a name from some half-forgotten dream that had jolted him from the grip of flames just in the nick of time. The name was “Otulissa” and though he had no idea who this Otulissa was, he felt, for some reason, that she was a Spotted Owl.

He had flown from those flames as hard and as fast as he could and soon found himself being guided by a good
scroom toward a strange ghostly forest. He hadn’t known that there were such things as good scrooms, but he immediately sensed that this one was good. She, too, was a Spotted Owl, but quite elderly, not the one he had dreamed about. They had settled on one of the silvery branches of the white-barked trees that grew thickly on a peninsula that jutted out into the Sea of Hoolemere. It was the closest he had ever been to this sea and he remembered longing desperately to fly across it to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. But no, he couldn’t, he recalled. The scroom had said he must do something first, that there was some task to complete, or journey to make, but before she could tell him exactly what it was, she had dissolved into the morning mist.

So where was he now? He looked over his starboard wing to the forest below. It was not as beautiful as Silverveil, but still a lovely forest. Thick green moss, a mixture of hardwood and softwood trees. Plenty of hollows! Nyroc was done with stumps, with holes in the ground, with crannies in cliffs like the one he had shared with his mother. No, he wanted to live in a nice hollow, high up in a sturdy tree where he could hear the wind in the branches, see the sky. He would fit it out with rabbit-ear moss if he could find any. Make it all cozy. And then he would hunt,
hunt like a normal owl. He would bring his prey back to the tree and eat it in the coziness of his own hollow.

He had had enough of hiding out, of always hunting in daylight, of keeping this un-owlish schedule for fear of being tracked down by Nyra or rejected outright by the nearby owls because he resembled his vicious parents.

He was bigger now, braver, smarter. He would simply explain himself, tell owl folk that he was nothing like his parents.

So, a task to complete, a journey to make, but first things first,
Nyroc thought.
I must look for a hollow.

He was half a league away now from the lake haunted by his father’s scroom and he saw a nice grove of fir trees beneath him. Fir trees, he had heard, often had excellent hollows. He circled over the grove several times to look for a good tree. But just as he was about to begin his banking turn, three of the hugest owls he had ever seen swooped in on him. Nyroc felt his gizzard lurch. They were Great Grays. Every owl knew about Great Grays. They were among the biggest and most ferocious of all owls. It had been a Great Gray who had killed his father, Kludd.

“What’s your name?” demanded the Great Gray on his port wing.

“Nyr—” But before he had even finished, the three owls were screeching at him.

“What did I tell you, Silvertip? It’s him. Looks just like his mum, right down to the scar!”

Great Glaux,
thought Nyroc.
Not only my scar has branded me but my name as well!

“You’re outta here, owl!” one of the Grays shrieked.

The three owls were pressing in on him, so that he could barely control the direction of his flight. “Look, I’m alone,” Nyroc told them.

“You better be!” said another. “There’ve been rumors that your mum’s fixing for another attack. Hireclaws flocking to her!”

“I’m not with her. I fled from her. I hate her!” There. He had finally said it.

They were now driving him down toward a lake and steering him to a sycamore tree. As they lighted down on a branch of the tree, the third and oldest of the three Great Grays stepped forward.

“Look, young’un, how do we know you ain’t a slipgizzle for them Pure Ones?”

“A slipgizzle?” Nyroc had no idea what a slipgizzle was.

“A spy,” the owl explained.

“I can’t stand the Pure Ones, I tell you. I can’t stand them.”