Lost Tales of Ga'Hoole (Guardians of Ga'Hoole)

  Guardians of Ga’Hoole

  Lost Tales of Ga’Hoole

  By

  Otulissa, Historian of the Great Tree

  With the Most Essential Guidance of Kathryn Huang

  SCHOLASTIC INC.

  New York Toronto London Auckland Sydney

  Mexico City New Delhi Hong Kong Buenos Aires

  Illustration

  OTULISSA

  Editor in Chief

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Illustration

  Foreword

  ONE The Snowy Sisters

  TWO Fritha’s Painted Past

  THREE Uglamore Redeemed

  FOUR Brothers Brave and Blustery

  FIVE A Secret in Braithe’s Gizzard

  SIX Cleve’s Sorrow

  Afterword: Otulissa’s Farewell

  Maps

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Greetings, Dear Readers!

  I come to you not as a monarch, but as an old friend from the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. I write at Otulissa’s request. She asks that I give you news of the tree and introduce the tales she has gathered. And so I shall.

  It seems we have entered a time of blessed peace. The Striga and his vicious Blue Brigade fell in defeat many moon cycles ago. Nyra and the Pure Ones are gone. The dedication to learning fostered at the great tree has spread throughout the kingdoms, bringing with it the fresh breeze of knowledge and banishing the dank residue of ignorance, superstition, and malice. The arts of reading and even writing are no longer rare beyond the tree. Deep in the forest of Ambala, a simple printing press has been built with the help of the newly established research-and-printing chaw from the great tree, so that in that hidden dell where great works are chanted into the emerald air, they are now put down in printed scrolls and books as well. This new press, and our own press at the great tree, supply a small but growing number of lending libraries that have been established in the owl kingdoms, so that great works from the tree, from the Glauxian Brothers’ and Glauxian Sisters’ retreats, and from the library of the Others in the Palace of Mists, may be studied in distant dens and hollows by furred, scaled, and feathered scholars alike.

  It is perhaps natural that in such times of outward peace, we look inward. And so it is that the personal and, in some cases, secret histories of our own Guardians and others close to the tree have now come to light. Otulissa has studied, researched, and sometimes simply listened with a wise and sympathetic ear slit, and set down the tales for all to learn from. As you read these tales of personal history, private anguish, and worldly adventure, remember that not all battles are fought in the air or on the ground. Some, perhaps the most difficult of all, are fought in our own gizzards, hearts, and brains.

  I submit these tales to you with respect and affection.

  Soren

  Guardian Among Guardians

  ONE

  The Snowy Sisters

  I think you all know of the Rogue smith of Silverveil and her sister, our very own Madame Plonk, the official singer at the great tree. Their contributions to the Southern Kingdoms and the great tree have been significant and many. But how well do we really know them? Many of you will just now be discovering that Madame Plonk’s given name is Brunwella, and that the Rogue smith of Silverveil was once a young Snowy known as Thora. They each had a past that was full of drama, romance, treachery, and, of course, sisterly love.

  In the early days of the Band, shortly before Soren, Gylfie, Digger, and Twilight became full-fledged Guardians, the Rogue smith of Silverveil made a shocking revelation to them without much explanation. After Madame Plonk lost her sister to the villainy of Nyra, she was utterly heartbroken, and said not a word for nights on end. When she finally spoke again, she told the tale behind her sister’s startling confession.

  Thora Plonk glided over the icy eastern coast of the Everwinter Sea. For the first time in days, her gizzard was relaxed. She had just spent much of the evening with her friend Sig. No, Thora reflected, Sig was more than a friend, and the thought made her almost giddy. She had just given him one of the first pairs of battle claws that she had ever made. It was a special gift, one that she wouldn’t have given to just a friend. But as she neared the hollow that she shared with her da, stepmother, and sister, Thora’s gizzard began to tighten. It was a familiar feeling, one that had plagued her ever since her return home after more than a year away from the family hollow.

  Thora had been scarcely older than a fledgling when she fled her home. She and her sister, Brunwella, had lost their mum in the Battle of the Ice Talons—the final bloody battle of the War of the Ice Claws—less than a year earlier. Their da, an aging Snowy named Berrick, had taken their stepmother, Rodmilla, as a mate. Brunwella was so young when their mum died that she barely remembered her at all, but Thora remembered her vividly and missed her terribly.

  Berrick had thought it important to find a new mate right away. When he met Rodmilla, he was completely besotted. She was fair, to be sure. But more important, she was completely different from his first mate, Thea, whose warring ways had left him mateless. Where Thea had gadfeather roots, Rodmilla came from an old and distinguished N’yrthghar clan; where Thea had been a fierce fighter with the Kielian League, the losers in the war, Rodmilla barely seemed to care about the war; where Thea spent night after night away from their hollow discussing war strategies with other fighters, Rodmilla was home plumping nests, studying her own illustrious ancestry, or doting on Berrick, whenever he was there. Berrick must have thought that he had found the perfect new mother for his owlets.

  He may have been half right, Thora thought ruefully. Rodmilla immediately took to Brunwella. It was hard not to—Brunwella was a beautiful little owlet, the prettier of the two sisters even at a very young age. She was affectionate and agreeable. On top of it all, Brunwella had inherited the classic Plonk singing voice, with the promise of becoming the best singer of her generation. Thora, on the other wing, was no great beauty. True, she had lovely eyes and a quick wit, but she had suffered from a bad case of gray scale as an owlet and it had left her feathers dull and blotchy. She was also strong-willed and outspoken. When Rodmilla first moved into the hollow, she insisted that the sisters call her “Mother.” Brunwella had no trouble with this. After all, Rodmilla was the only mother she had ever known. But Thora resisted emphatically, muttering under her breath, “That owl is not my mum.” Rodmilla took this as a cue to be extra strict with the older sister.

  The more Rodmilla tried to assert her authority, the more Thora resisted. Rodmilla’s strictness verged on cruelty. She ignored Thora unless it was to tell her to do chores. When food was scarce in the depth of winter, and Berrick was away, Rodmilla fed Thora scraps and leftovers. Worst of all, Rodmilla openly called Thora “Splotch” because of the patchy coloration left by the gray scale.

  Thora felt like an outcast in her own home, and she couldn’t stand it. As soon as she summoned enough courage, she fled the hollow, bidding Brunwella a tearful farewell. For almost a year Thora flew about the Northern Kingdoms without a nest to call her own. Then she met a Kielian snake named Octavia, who told her about blacksmithing. One thing led to another, and Octavia introduced Thora to a Rogue smith on the island of Dark Fowl. His skill was legendary, and Thora became his apprentice.

  Thora had a real talent for blacksmithing, learning quickly and easily. After a few short moon cycles, she began to forge battle claws—a task usually reserved for experienced smiths. Even though Dark Fowl was a desolate place constantly lashed by gales and ice storms, it felt more comfortable to Thora than her hollow in the Firth of Canis after Rodm
illa moved in. And she suspected that her da knew where she had ended up. She was certain she spotted him more than once on Dark Fowl, watching over her from a distance, making sure she was all right. Despite missing him and her sister, she felt she belonged on Dark Fowl and had found her life’s work in blacksmithing.

  But Thora’s happiness was short-lived. Her work as an apprentice took her all over Dark Fowl, and she’d learned that the grog trees, where Rogue smiths often gathered, were wonderful places to learn of the newest smithing techniques as the tipsy Rogue smiths boasted to one another. Then one day, she overheard a dark rumor concerning her own family. So alarming was this rumor that Thora feared for the safety of her da and sister back home. If it was true, then Berrick and Brunwella were in danger. Worry ate at Thora’s gizzard. She had little choice—she had to go home to find out the truth. So, Thora made the difficult return to the home she hated.

  Thora had braced her gizzard for a long stay. If the rumor proved false, then merely bringing it up would be hurtful to her family. And if it was true, she’d have to be careful—very careful. She had returned three moon cycles ago, and was still biding her time. Since her return, she had tried to act the remorseful runaway ready to become the dutiful daughter. She tried her best to make peace with Rodmilla, and it seemed that Rodmilla was doing the same. Even so, Thora was uncomfortable around her stepmother; she couldn’t help it. But at least she was able to see her da and Brunie again. She had missed them terribly while she was away.

  It was almost dawn. As she banked toward home, Thora thought about how excited Brunwella would be to hear all about her meeting with Sig tonight. That made her feel a little better.

  Brunwella Plonk sat quietly in her nest. She was thinking about her da, Berrick. He was a healer, had been since the war. These days, he was often away from the hollow. She wished she could see more of him. She and her sister were near mating age and soon it would be time to leave the nest for good. She wondered what her da was doing right then. Collecting herbs, no doubt, and maybe making a poultice for some poor injured owl. Brunwella guessed that her father now and again even helped to heal wounded soldiers from the Resistance, but she and her sister never talked about it openly. To do so would be dangerous. Sympathizing with the defeated Kielian League was one thing; assisting the Resistance was quite another. It was considered an act of treason against the victors. Whatever her da was doing, Brunwella was certain it was very noble. She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t even hear as her stepmum approached the hollow.

  “HA! She’s dead!”

  And with that, Rodmilla Plonk, Brunwella and Thora’s stepmother, broke the peace as she flapped into the hollow. She had been out with friends, and had clearly brought back a juicy bit of gossip.

  “Old Melvonia Plonk has finally sung her last little ditty,” she continued. “Oh, darlings, did you hear me? Melvonia is dead! The singer at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree is DEAD!”

  The very pitch in which Rodmilla squawked, which is to say, so high that it was beyond the hearing range of some older owls, could only mean that she was extremely excited. Melvonia was known in the Northern and Southern Kingdoms alike simply as Madame Plonk, the esteemed singer of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree—the chosen one of her generation. And the death of the great tree’s singer was big news indeed, for a new singer would have to be chosen.

  “Mother, I wish you’d show some sympathy,” Brunwella said. She, too, had heard of the news earlier that night. “I heard she died suddenly, and she was so young. I think it’s quite sad.”

  “Oh, shush up, Brunwella. What do you know? Where’s your sister? She needs to hear this! Thora? THOOOR-RAH!” With that, Rodmilla flew out of the hollow that she shared with her mate and her two stepdaughters.

  Odd…Brunwella thought; Thora wouldn’t care one bit about the death of Melvonia, the singer of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. Why was Rodmilla so intent on telling her? If anything, Brunwella would be the one most affected by the news. She had long been considered a very talented singer of her generation and had been primed nearly since hatching to sing at the voice trials that would decide the next singer.

  “Where has that stubborn owl gone off to?” Rodmilla screeched when she failed to find Thora.

  “I haven’t a clue, Mother,” Brunwella answered, although she was almost certain that Thora was off with Sigfried again. And Sigfried, bless his gizzard, was exactly “the wrong sort of Snowy” according to her stepmother. “She’s probably just out hunting,” Brunwella added casually, trying to cover her little lie.

  “Hunting? Well, that’s the last thing she should be doing. That girl needs to cut back on those plump little snow mice this time of year—and attend to her figure!” Rodmilla stopped fretting for a second and eyed her younger daughter up and down. “You ought to think about cutting back, too, dear.”

  There it was again: “cutting back.” Both Brunwella and Thora were awfully thin. It was a harsh winter and food was scarce. Brunwella knew that “cutting back” was her stepmother’s subtle way of reminding her and her sister that it was time for the two of them to leave the nest. When Thora had left the first time, Brunwella could tell that her stepmother was secretly pleased, though when she came back, Rodmilla had acted overjoyed.

  “Oh, I do wish that girl would just stay where I can find her,” Rodmilla continued to fret.

  Brunwella rolled her yellow eyes. Mother sure is fired up today. When the moon had started newing, they had gotten word that they would be receiving a special visitor come full moon—a visitor by the name of Henryk, Marquis Henryk VI, to be exact. Although most owls in the Northern Kingdoms had done away with such titles ages ago—they were next to meaningless, after all—some families still clung to them. Generation after generation, they prided themselves on being direct descendants of one 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.