The Rescue

“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 (#ulink_3bbdcfa9-342c-5dc8-a7cb-c4a1bc60631b)

The Spirit Woods (#ulink_3bbdcfa9-342c-5dc8-a7cb-c4a1bc60631b)

“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.