The Rescue

CHAPTER THREE

What a Blow!

“Meatballs! Good and juicy.” Poot swivelled his head and flung off a glob of weed, dead minnows and assorted slop from the Sea of Hoolemere that had landed between his ear tufts.

“Storm residue. He has a very coarse way of speaking,” Otulissa murmured primly to Nut Beam and Silver. She was flying between the two young owlets, and Soren was in their wake making sure that they didn’t go into a bounce spiral caused by sudden updrafts, which could be dangerous.

“See? That’s what you get,” Poot was saying. “You don’t have to go swimming to feel the water below getting warmer do you? You can feel it now, can’t you?”

Soren could feel warm wet gusts coming off the waves that crashed below. It was odd, for although they were on the brink of winter, the Sea of Hoolemere in this region of the bight and beyond held the summer heat longer than any other. “That’s what causes a hurricane, young’uns, when the cooler air meets up with warm water. Now, I’ve sent Ruby out to the edges of this mess to reconnoitre wind speeds and such.”

Poot paused and looked back at his chaw members. “All right now – a little in-flight quiz.”

“Oh, goody,” Otulissa said. “I just love quizzes.” Soren gave her a withering look despite the remnants of a meatball that were splattered around the rims of his eyes.

Poot continued, “Now, Martin. Which way does the wind spiral in a hurricane?”

“Oh, I know! I know!” Otulissa started waving her wings excitedly.

“Shut your beak, Otulissa,” Poot snapped. “I asked Martin.”

But then Nut Beam piped up, “My grandma did a special kind of dive called the spiral.”

“My grandpa had a kind of twisty talon like a spiral,” Silver said loudly.

“Great Glaux.” Soren sighed. He had forgotten how young owlets could be. It was clear that Poot did not know how to deal with such young ones. But Otulissa interrupted what was about to turn into a free-for-all bragging match about grandparents.

“Silver, Nut Beam,” she said sharply, and flew out in front of the two little owls. “Attention. All eyes on my tail, please. Now does anybody here have anything to say that is not about their grandparents, parents or any other relatives or spirals?” There was silence. Then Silver waggled his wings. Otulissa sighed. “I feel a wing waggle from behind.” She flipped her head back. “What is it, Silver?”

“My great-grandma was named for a cloud too. Her name was Alto Cumulus.”

“Thank you for that information,” Otulissa said curtly. “Now may we proceed? Martin, will you please answer the question?”

“The wind spirals inwards and this way.” The little Northern Saw-whet spun his head almost completely around in an anticlockwise motion.

“Very good, considering you’ve never flown in a hurricane,” Poot replied. None of them had as yet, except for Poot.

“We might not have flown in one yet but we’ve read all about them, Poot,” Otulissa said. “Strix Emerilla devotes three chapters to hurricanes in her book, Atmospheric Pressures and Turbulations: An Interpreter’s Guide.”

“The most boring book in the world,” Martin muttered as he flew up on Soren’s starboard wing.

“I’ve read every word of it,” Otulissa said.

“Now, next question,” Poot continued. “And all you older owls shut your beaks. Which is your port wing and which is your starboard?”

There was silence. “All right. Wiggle the one you think is port.” Nut Beam and Silver hesitated a bit, stole a look at each other and then both waggled their right wing.

“Wrong!” Poot said. “Now, you two have to remember the difference. Because when I say strike off to port, or angle starboard, you’re going to fly off in the wrong direction if you don’t know.”

Soren remembered that this was difficult for him to learn when he first started flying in the weather chaw. It took Ruby, the best flier, forever to learn port from starboard, but they all did – finally.

“All right, now,” Poot said. “I’m going out for a short reconnaissance in the opposite direction of Ruby. I want to cover everything. Soren and Martin, you’re in charge here. Keep flying in this direction. I’ll be back soon.”

Poot had not been gone long when a definite whiff seemed to wash over the small band of owls.

“I think I smell gulls nearby.” Otulissa turned her beak upwind. “Oh Great Glaux, here they come. The stench is appalling,” Otulissa muttered. “Those seagulls! Scum of the avian world.”

“Are they really that bad?” Nut Beam asked.

“You can smell them, can’t you? And they’re wet poopers on top of it all!”

“Wet poopers!” Silver and Nut Beam said at once.

“I’ve never met a wet pooper. I can’t imagine,” Nut Beam said.

“Well then, don’t try,” Otulissa snapped testily.

“It’s hard to believe that they never yarp pellets at all,” Nut Beam continued to muse.

“My sister actually had a friend who was a wet pooper, but they wouldn’t let her bring him home. I think he was a warbler,” Silver announced.

“Oh Glaux, here we go again,” said Martin.

“I think maybe I’ve met one once,” said Nut Beam.

“Well, it’s not something to be proud of. It’s disgusting,” Otulissa replied.

“You’re starting to sound like a nest-maid snake, Otulissa,” said Soren, and laughed. Nest-maid snakes were notoriously disdainful of all birds except owls because of what they considered their inferior and less noble digestive systems due to their inability to yarp pellets. All of their waste was splatted out from the other end, which nest-maids considered vile and disgusting.

“They give us a lot of good information about weather, Otulissa,” Soren said.

“You mean a lot of dirty jokes. You can find good information in books.”

Poot was soon back with the seagulls in his wake.

“What’s the report?” Martin asked.

“Storm surge moderate,” Poot said, “but building. The gulls say the leading edge of this thing is at least fifty leagues off to the southeast.”

“Yeah, but I got news for you.” At that moment, Ruby skidded in on a tumultuous draft and a mess of flying spume. She was accompanied by two gulls. It was as if she had come out of nowhere. And suddenly Soren felt an immense pull on his downwind wings. “You’ve been talking to the wrong gulls. It’s not just a storm with a leading edge. It’s a hurricane with an eye!”

Hurricane! Soren thought. Impossible. How has this happened so quickly? No one except Poot had ever flown a hurricane – and these young owlets! What ever would happen to them?

“It’s still far off,” Ruby continued. “But it’s moving faster than you think and building stronger. And we’re very near a rain band. And then it’s the eye wall!”

“Eye wall! We’ve got to alter course,” Poot exclaimed. “Which way, Ruby?”

“Port, I mean starboard!”

“The eye wall!” Soren and Martin both gasped. The eye wall of a hurricane was worse than the eye. It was a wall of thunderstorms, preceded by rain bands delivering violent swirling updrafts that could extend hundreds of leagues from the wall.

“You can’t see the band from here because of the clouds.”

Oh, Glaux, thought Soren. Don’t let these young owlets go off on their stories of grandparents being named for clouds.

“I think that right now we might actually be between two rain bands,” Ruby continued.

And then it was as if they all were sucked up into a swirling shaft. This IS a hurricane! Soren thought. He saw Martin go spinning by in a tawny blur. “Martin!” he screamed. He heard a sickening gasp and in the blur saw the little beak of the Saw-whet open in a wheeze as Martin tried to gulp air. He must have been in one of the terrible airless vacuums that Soren had heard about. Then Martin vanished and Soren had to fight with all of his might to stay back up, belly down, and flying. He could not believe how difficult this was. He had flown through blazing forests harvesting live coals, battling the enormous fire winds and strange contortions of air that the heat made, but this was terrible!

“Strike off to port, south by southeast. We’re going to run down. Rudder starboard with tail feathers! Extend lulus.” The lulus were small feathers just at the bend of an owl’s wing, which could help smooth the airflow. Poot was now calling out a string of instructions. “Downwind rudder, hold two points to skyward with port wing. Come on chaw! You can do it! Primary feathers screw down. Level off now. Forwards thrust!” Poot was flying magnificently, especially considering that under the lee of his wings he had tucked the two young owlets Nut Beam and Silver for protection.

But where was Martin? Martin was the smallest owl in the chaw. Concentrate! Concentrate! Soren told himself. You’re a dead bird if you think about anything but flying. Dead bird! Dead bird! Wings torn off! All the horrible stories he had heard about hurricanes came back to Soren. And although owls talked about the deadly eye of the hurricane, he knew there was something worse, really – the rim of that eye. And if the eye was fifty leagues away – well, the rim could be much closer. Soren’s own two eyes opened wide in terror and his third eyelid, the transparent one that swept across this eyeball, had to work hard to clear the debris, the slop, being flung in it from all directions. But he paid no heed to the slop. In his eye was the image of little Martin vanishing in a split second and being sucked directly into that rim. The eye of a hurricane was calm, but caught in the rim, a bird could spin around and around, its wings torn off by the second spin and most likely gasping for air until it died.

The air started to smooth out and the clammy warmth that had welled up from below subsided as a cooler layer of air floated up from the turbulent waters. But it had begun to pour hard. A driving rain pushed by the winds slanted in at a steep angle. The sea below seemed to smoke from the force of the rain.

“Form up, chaw! SOFP,” Poot commanded. They all assumed the positions of their Standard Operational Flight Pattern. Soren swivelled his head to look for Martin off his starboard wing. There was a little blank space where the Northern Saw-whet usually flew. He tipped his head up to where Ruby flew and saw the rusty fluff of her underbelly. She looked down and shook her head sadly. Soren thought he saw a tear well up in her eye, but it could have been some juice from a leftover meatball.

“Roll call!” Poot now barked. “Beak off, chaw!”

“Ruby here!” snapped the rust-coloured Shorteared Owl.

“Otulissa here!”

“Soren here!”

Then there was nothing – silence, or perhaps it was more like a small gulp from the position that Martin had always flown.

“Absence noted. Continue,” Poot said.

Absence noted? Continue? Was that it? Soren gasped. But before he could protest there was that piercing little voice, “Silver here.”

“Nut Beam here! But I’m feeling nauseous.”

“WHERE IS MARTIN, FOR GLAUX’S SAKE!” Soren shrieked in rage.

“Owl down,” Poot said, “Search-and-rescue commence.”

Then there was a muffled, slightly gagging sound and a terrific stench. At first, Soren thought Nut Beam had thrown up. But then out of the smoking Sea of Hoolemere, a seagull rose and in its beak was a wet little form.

“Martin here!” gasped the little owl. He hung limply in the beak of the seagull.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Spirit Woods

“I’m not sure if it was the impact on the water or the stench that got me, but I’m still feeling a bit dizzy. I have to say, however, that seagull stench is now my favourite fragrance.” Martin turned and nodded at Smatt, the seagull who had rescued him.

“Aw, it warn’t nothin’.” The seagull ducked his head modestly.

When he had first vanished, Martin had been sucked straight up, but it was a narrow funnel of warm air and almost immediately it had swirled into a bank of cold air that created a downdraft, and Martin had plunged into the sea. Smatt, who had been navigating between these funnels of warm and cold air, plunged in after him and grabbed him in his beak as he might have grabbed a fish – although Martin was considerably smaller than any fish that seagulls normally ate.

They had lighted down now on the mainland, in a wooded area on a peninsula that fingered out into the sea. It seemed, for the moment, calm. Although Soren, as he glanced around, found the forest quite strange. All the trees were white-barked and not one had a single leaf. Indeed, although it was night, this forest had a kind of luminance that made the moon pale by comparison.

“I would guess,” said Otulissa as she studied the sky, “that we are between rain bands here.” For some reason this rankled Soren. It sounded to him as if Otulissa was trying to sum up the weather situation the way Ezylryb would have, being the most knowledgeable owl of all about weather. Poot, who had succeeded him as chaw captain, really had very little knowledge in comparison, but he was a great flier. Now it seemed as if Otulissa had become the self-appointed weather expert.

Poot looked around uneasily. “That, or a spirit woods.”

A chill ran through them all. “A spirit woods?” Martin said softly. “I’ve heard of them.”

“Yeah, you’ve heard of them. You don’t necessarily want to spend the night in them,” Poot replied.

“I don’t know, Poot,” Ruby spoke in a nervous low voice, “whether we’ve got much choice. I mean that hurricane’s still going. I’ve seen the worst of it. It’s not something you want to mess with.”

“Well folks.” Smatt began to lift his wings. A foetid smell wafted towards them. “I think I’ll be clearing out now.” The seagull looked apprehensively at Poot. In a flash he had lifted off and vanished.

“What are we gonna do, Poot?” Silver asked, a slight tremor in his voice.

“Not much choice, as Ruby said. Just hope we don’t disturb any scrooms.”

“Scrooms!” Nut Beam and Silver wailed.

“Well, I don’t believe in them,” Martin said and stomped his small talons into the moss-covered ground. Then, as if to prove it, he lifted off and began to search for a tree to light down in.

“You mind what tree you choose. You don’t want to disturb a scroom,” Poot called after him. But Soren thought that maybe after having been sucked up in a rain band, then dropped into the sea, a scroom was nothing to Martin.

Scrooms were disembodied spirits of owls who had died and had not quite made it all the way to glaumora, which was the special owl heaven where the souls of owls went. Nut Beam and Silver, however, had begun to cry uncontrollably.

“Pull yourselves together, both of you,” Otulissa exploded angrily. “There’s no such thing as scrooms. An atmospheric disturbance. False light. That’s all. Strix Emerilla has written about it in a very erudite book entitled Spectroscopic Anomalies: Shifts in Shape and Light.”

“Yes, there are scrooms!” the two owlets hooted back shrilly.

“My grandma said so,” Nut Beam said defiantly and stomped a small talon on the moss.

“I’ve heard enough about your grandmas,” Otulissa snapped. “Poot, how long do we have to stay here?”

“Until the hurricane blows through. Can’t take these young’uns” – he nodded towards Silver and Nut Beam – “out in this. Too inexperienced.”

“You’re making us stay here – with scrooms?” Nut Beam protested. And as if on cue, Silver started to wail again.

Ruby flew up and then lighted directly in front of the two owlets. She looked almost twice her size as her rust-coloured feathers had puffed up in the manner of owls who are extremely angry. In the pale eerie white of the forest, Ruby looked like a ball of red-hot embers. “I’m fed up with all your whining. I don’t give a pile of racdrops if there’re scrooms here. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I want a nice fat rat or vole. I’ll take squirrel if I have to. Then I want to go to sleep. And you two better shut your beaks because I’ll make your life more miserable than scrooms ever could!” The other owls looked at Ruby with astonishment.

“I think we need to organise a hunting party,” Otulissa said.

“Yes, yes, immediately,” Poot said. He began to flutter about the group. “Now, there’s no telling what one can find in such a woods.”

It was obvious to Soren, Ruby and Martin that Otulissa had embarrassed Poot, who might be a terrific flier but not a natural leader. They felt the absence of Ezylryb more than ever.

But then Poot seemed to be jarred into action. He swelled up with authority and tried his best to sound like a leader. “Soren,” Poot said, “you and Ruby can cover the northeast quadrant of this woods. You fly it hard now, young’uns. We got some hungry beaks here. Martin and Otulissa can cover the southwest one. I’ll stay here with the young’uns.”

“Ha!” Ruby gave a harsh sound and ascended through the branches. “I think Poot’s scared of scrooms. That’s why he sent us out. You scared, Soren?” They had gained some altitude now and the strange mist that floated through the white trees below seemed to evaporate.

“Sort of,” Soren said.

“Well, at least you’re honest. But what do you mean by ‘sort of’?”

“I think the idea of a scroom is not so much scary as sad. I mean scrooms are supposed to be spirits that didn’t quite make it to glaumora. That’s kind of sad.”

“I guess so,” Ruby said.

Guess so? Soren blinked at Ruby. He thought it was terribly sad, but Ruby wasn’t the deepest owl. She was a fantastic flier and a great chaw mate and lots of fun but, although she felt things in her gizzard like all owls, she was not given to reflecting deeply. But now she surprised him. “How come they don’t make it to glaumora?”

“I’m not sure. Mrs P said that it was because they might have unfinished business on earth.”

“Mrs Plithiver? How would she know? She’s a snake.”

“I sometimes think that Mrs P knows more about owls than owls do.” Soren cocked his head suddenly. “Sssh.” Ruby shut her beak immediately. She, like all other owls, had great respect for the extraordinary hearing abilities of Barn Owls. “Ground squirrel below.”

There were actually three in all. And Ruby, who was incredibly fast with her talons, managed to get two in one single slicing swipe. They were more successful than Martin and Otulissa, who had only come back with two very small mice.

“Hunter’s share,” Poot said, nodding to the four of them. It was customary that the owls who did the hunting got first choice of the catch. Soren chose a thigh from his ground squirrel. It was rather scrawny, and it wasn’t the most flavourful ground squirrel he had ever eaten. Maybe a spirit wood wasn’t the best place for a ground squirrel to get plump and juicy. Then Soren had a creepy thought. Maybe they fed on scrooms or perhaps scrooms fed on them – spirit food. His gizzard hardly had to work to pack in those bones and fur.

By the time they had finished eating, the night was thinning into day. Although with the mist that seemed to wrap itself through the branches of the white-barked trees, Soren thought that it seemed like twilight in these woods.

“I think,” Poot announced, “it’s time for us to turn in. Not for a full day’s sleep, mind you. We’ll leave before First Black. No fear of crows around here.” He slid his neck about in a slow twist as if scanning the wood.

“No. Just scrooms,” Nut Beam said.

“Nut Beam, shut your beak,” Martin screeched fiercely.

“Now, now, Martin! Don’t like that tone, lad,” Poot said, trying to sound very—

Very what? wondered Soren. Like Ezylryb? Never like the Captain.

“Well, I’ve been doing some thinking,” Poot went on to say. “And I think that this being a spirit woods as some calls ’em, I think it’s best that we keep to the ground for sleeping, no perching in them trees.” He swivelled his head around in a slow sweeping movement, as if he were almost trying to push back the bone-white trees that surrounded them.

A hush fell upon the group. Soren thought he could hear the beat of their hearts quicken. This scroom stuff must really be serious, he said to himself. Even Ruby looked a little nervous. For an owl to sleep on the ground was almost unheard of, unless, of course, it was a Burrowing Owl who lived in the desert, like Digger. There were dangers on the ground. Predators – like raccoons.

“I know what you be thinking,” Poot continued nervously and seemed to avoid looking them in the eye as Ezylryb would have. “I know you’re thinking that for an owl to ground sleep ain’t natural. But these ain’t natural woods. And it’s said that these trees might really belong to the scrooms. You never know which one a scroom might light down in and it’s best to leave the trees be. I’m older than you young’uns. Got more experience. And I’d be daft not to tell you that my gizzard is giving me some mighty twinges.”

“Mine too!” said Silver.

“Probably has a gizzard the size of a pea,” Martin whispered.