time, Soren remembered too late that questions were discouraged. “Why do you want a number instead of your name?”
“Hortense! You wouldn’t like that name, either,” the Spotted Owl whispered. “Now, shush. Remember, no questions.”
“You shall, of course,” Finny continued, “if you are good humble owlets and learn the lessons of humility and obedience, earn your Specialness rank and then receive your true name.”
But my true name is Soren. It is the name my parents gave me. The words pounded in Soren’s head and even his gizzard seemed to tremble in protest.
“Now, let’s line up for our Number ceremony, and I have a tempting little snack here for you.”
There were perhaps twenty owls in Soren’s group and Soren was towards the middle of the line. He watched as the white owl, Auntie or Finny, whom Hortense had informed him was a Snowy Owl, dropped a piece of fur-stripped mouse meat on the stone before each owl in turn and then said, “Why, you’re number 12–6. What a nice number that is, dearie.”
Every number was either “nice” or “dear” or “darling”. Finny bent her head solicitously and often gave a friendly little pat to the owlet just “numbered”. She was full of quips and little jokes. Soren was just beginning to feel that things perhaps could be worse, and he hoped that Gylfie had such a nice owl for a pit guardian, when the huge fierce owl with the tufts over each eye, the very one who had snatched him and called him stupid, alighted down next to Finny. Soren felt a cold dread steal over his gizzard as he saw the owl look directly at him and then dip his head and whisper something into Finny’s ear. Finny nodded and looked at him blandly. They were talking about him. Soren was sure. He could barely move his talons forwards on the hard stone towards Finny. His turn was coming up soon. Only four more owls before he would be “numbered”.
“Hello, sweetness,” Finny cooed as Soren stepped forwards. “I have a very special number for you!” Soren was silent. Finny continued, “Don’t you want to know what it is?” This is a trick. Questions are discouraged. I’m not supposed to ask. And that was exactly what Soren said.
“I’m not supposed to ask.” The soft yellow glow streamed from Finny’s eyes. Soren felt a moment’s confusion. Then Finny leaned forwards and whispered to him. “You know, dear, I’m not as strict as some. So please, if you really really need to ask a question, just go ahead. But remember to keep your voice down. And here, dear, is a little extra piece of mouse. And your number …” She sighed and her entire white face seemed to glow with the yellow light. “My favourite – 12–1. Isn’t it sublime! It’s a very special number, and I am sure that you will discover your very own specialness as an owl.”
“Thank you,” Soren said, still slightly mystified but relieved that the fierce owl had apparently not told Finny anything bad about him.
“Thank you, what?” Finny giggled. “See? I get to ask questions too, sometimes.”
“Thank you, Finny?”
Finny inclined her head towards him again. There was a slight glare in the yellow glow. “Again,” she whispered softly. “Again … now, look me in the eyes.” Soren looked into the yellow light.
“Thank you, Auntie.”
“Yes, dear. I’m just an old broody. Love being called Auntie.”
Soren did not know what a broody was, but he took the mouse meat and followed the owl who had been in front of him into the glaucidium. Two large, ragged brown owls escorted the entire group. The glaucidium was a deep box canyon, the floor of which was covered with sleeping owlets. Moonlight streamed down directly on them, silvering their feathers.
“Fall in, you two!” barked a voice from high up in a rocky crevice.
“You!” A plump owl stepped up to Soren. Indeed, Soren’s heart quickened at first for it was another Barn Owl just like his own family. There was the white heart-shaped face and the familiar dark eyes. And yet, although the colour of these eyes was identical to his own and those of his family, he found the owl’s gaze frightening.
“Back row, and prepare to assume the sleeping position.” These instructions were delivered in the throaty rasp common to Barn Owls, but Soren found nothing comforting in the familiar.
The two owls who had escorted the newly arrived orphans spoke to them next. They were Long Eared Owls and had tufts that poked straight up over their eyes and twitched. Soren found this especially unnerving. They each alternated speaking in short deep whoos. The whoos were even more disturbing than the barks of Skench earlier, for the sound seemed to coil into Soren’s very breast and thrum with a terrible clang.
“I am Jatt,” said the first owl. “I was once a number. But now I have earned my new name.”
“Whhh—” Soren snapped off the word.
“I see a question forming on your disgusting beak, number 12–1!” The whoo thrummed so deep within Soren’s breast that he thought his heart might burst.
“Let me make this perrr-fectly clear.” The thrumming of the owl’s sound was almost unbearable. “At St Aggie’s words beginning with the whh sound are not to be spoken. Such words are question words, a habit of mental luxury and indulgence. Questions might fatten the imagination, but they starve the owlish instincts of hardiness, patience, humility and self-denial. We are not here to pamper you by allowing an orgy of wwwhh words, question words. They are dirty words, swear words punishable by the most severe means at our disposal.” Jatt blinked and cast his gaze on Soren’s wings. “We are here to make true owls out of you. And someday you will thank us for it.”
Soren thought he was going to faint with fear. These owls were so different from Finny. Auntie! He silently corrected himself. Jatt had resumed speaking in his normal whoo. “Now my brother shall address you.”
It was an identical voice. “I am Jutt. I too was once a number but have earned my new name. You are now in the sleeping position. Standing tall, head up, beak tipped to the moon. You see in this glaucidium hundreds of owlets. They have all learned to sleep in this manner. You too shall learn.”
Soren looked around, desperately searching for Gylfie, but all he saw was Hortense, or number 12–8. She had assumed the perfect sleeping position. He could tell by the stillness of her head that she was sound asleep under the glare of a full moon. Soren spotted a stone arch that connected to what he thought was another glaucidium. A mass of owls seemed to be marching. Their beaks were bobbing open and shut but Soren could not hear what they were saying.
Jatt now spoke again. “It is strictly forbidden to sleep with the head tucked under the wings, dipped towards the breast, or in the manner that many of you young owls are accustomed, which is the semi-twist position in which the head rests on the back.” Soren felt at least seven wh sounds die mutely in his throat. “Incorrect sleeping posture is also punishable, using our most severe methods.”
“Sleep correction monitors patrol the glaucidium, making their rounds at regular intervals,” Jutt continued.
Now it was Jatt’s turn again. Their timing seemed perfect. Soren felt they had given this speech many times. “Also, at regular intervals, you shall hear the alarm. At the sound, all owlets in the glaucidium are required to begin the sleep march.”
“During the sleep march,” Jutt resumed, “you march, repeating your old name over and over and over again. When the second alarm sounds, you halt where you are. Repeat your number designation one time, and one time only, and assume the sleep position once more.”
Both owls next spoke at once in an awesome thrum. “Now, sleep!”
Soren tried to sleep. He really did try. Maybe Finny, he meant Auntie, would believe him. But there was just something in his gizzard, a little twinge, that seemed to make sleep impossible. It was almost as if the shine of the full moon that sprayed its light over half the glaucidium became