The Owl Keeper Read online

  She made a sympathetic clucking sound that set his nerves on edge. "Your face is flushed, Maxwell. Let's hope you're not coming down with a fever. Drink up, now." She handed him the mug. "A pity you're so susceptible to germs. I do worry, since we'll be celebrating your twelfth birthday next month. Won't that be exciting? That's when the High Echelon will announce the details of your apprenticeship."

  Max's mouth went dry. The thought of his upcoming apprenticeship filled him with dread. Under High Echelon law, children left school on their twelfth birthday and were assigned a field of study. Some were sent to institutions of learning, others

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  apprenticed with Master Craftspeople, while an unfortunate few were sent to work underground.

  "Don't look so glum, Maxwell," said Mrs. Crumlin in a chirpy voice. "The High Echelon has your best interests at heart. Rest assured it'll make an appropriate match."

  Max had no idea what the High Echelon had planned for him. No one ever did. When he was small, he dreamed of a career tracking down silver owls and building them a sanctuary. If only owl tracking were one of the choices. But of course it wasn't-- not when silver owls had been declared extinct.

  Mrs. Crumlin plumped up his pillow. "Perhaps we need to speak to Dr. Tredegar about those bad dreams."

  Max stiffened. Dr. Tredegar had been coming to the house to give him injections every week since he was seven. Never pleasant, the injections had become increasingly painful over the years.

  "My mother already telephoned him." Max crunched into a sun-shaped cookie. It was hard as a rock, with a pungent odor. "Tredegar told her the nightmares are a side effect of the shots and there's nothing he can do." He took small bites, not wanting to be rude, trying to be tidy. Despite her messy kitchen, Mrs. Crumlin was a stickler about crumbs in the parlor.

  "Doctor Tredegar to you, dear," she corrected. She was also strict when it came to good manners.

  Even in the day, Max found himself haunted by the nightmares. Recently they'd become so intense that he often woke up in a cold sweat. What kind of medicine were they giving him? he wondered. What if they were rewiring his brain or something

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  equally weird? Gran had always maintained that the government was doing secret experiments. Yet whenever Max asked questions, the doctor made silly wisecracks and his father mumbled clichés about stabilizing his condition.

  Mrs. Crumlin shuffled over to the radio and turned up the sound. "Those bitten-down fingernails are so unsightly, Maxwell." The speaker crackled with static. "I am disappointed," she went on, fiddling with the antenna. "A boy your age should take pride in his appearance."

  Ignoring her comments, Max stuffed the rest of his cookie beneath the sofa cushion. He knew Mrs. Crumlin wouldn't find it because she never bothered to clean under there.

  Following Max's seventh birthday, Gran had died unexpectedly, and on a routine examination Max had been diagnosed by Dr. Tredegar with his rare condition. On the doctor's advice, the Lingers had taken their son out of school and arranged for a tutor and a guardian. The tutor, Professor LaMothe, was a whiskery old bloater with a potbelly and breath that reeked of tinned eels. Luckily for Max, he had modest expectations. A mild-mannered man, the professor lectured Max one day a week, barking out mathematical theorems and quoting paragraphs from the Constitution of the High Echelon.

  Adapting to Mrs. Crumlin had been far more stressful. Her first week at the house, Max had caught her rummaging through his closet, digging out books he'd hidden at the bottom of his toy chest. He had shouted terrible things at her, but it hadn't done any good. He never saw the books again. His stuffed toy owl went missing at the same time.

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  Over the years, he'd put up with Mrs. Crumlin's mugs of bitter hot cocoa, her incessant nagging, her moronic board games and off-key humming. In the end, he'd resigned himself to her being there.

  But Max had never resigned himself to Gran's being gone. He missed the dusty jumbled rooms of her house, the falling-apart books she was forever sorting through, the adventure tales she read aloud to him. He missed her impulsive hugs and silvery laughter, her amusing stories at the dinner table. His memories of that time were filled with light.

  Mrs. Crumlin was the exact opposite of his grandmother. Gran had expressed endless curiosity about nature and imaginary worlds, and never toed the line when it came to government edicts. Unlike Gran, Mrs. Crumlin never hugged, rarely smiled and always kept her private life under wraps. Was there a Mr. Crumlin? Little Crumlins? Grand-Crumlins? Max didn't have a clue--and his parents had warned him not to ask.

  "And this just in," came the announcer's staccato voice. "Three silver owls were tracked down and destroyed yesterday morning by the Dark Brigade in the Easterly Reaches area. This was in response to a new government edict calling for the eradication of silver owls, which were thought to be extinct. The Silver Owl Eradication Edict was passed after scientists found that the remaining silver owls carry plague and pestilence and may attack humans. Should you see a silver owl in your area, contact your local Dark Brigade immediately."

  Max froze, sick with fear. If they sent him away for his apprenticeship, what would become of his beloved silver owl? Who

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  would look after her and keep her safe? If the authorities caught her, he'd never forgive himself.

  The theme song from Flamingo Valley, Mrs. Crumlin's favorite radio drama, started up. There was a single station, run by the High Echelon, and its mindless songs and broadcasts bored Max silly. He often wondered why there was only one. According to Gran, the airwaves had once crackled with numerous stations that offered poetry, music, drama, debates and political forums.

  Back when Gran was young, no one had been afraid of the government. Back then, Max reflected sadly, silver owls flew wherever they wanted and people were free to speak their minds.

  As the theme song to Flamingo Valley ended, Max curled up on the sofa and drifted off into a familiar nightmare.

  Just like in his other dreams, he was transformed into a creature that was powerful and deadly. No longer human, he flapped two ragged wings, soaring unevenly through the night. Buoyed by winds and currents, his body weighed almost nothing. In real life he was nervous about heights, never daring to go too high in the owl tree. But when he flew in his dreams, his fears melted away.

  He saw stars scrambled overhead, and two moons floating above the forest--the broken halves of the old moon, which had cracked in two during the Great Destruction. Beneath him churned the black, icy waters of the river, rushing into empty darkness.

  In the distance loomed a plateau pulsing with a strange, unearthly light: the Frozen Zone. For a moment Max lost his bearings. Then, righting himself, he saw the village of Cavernstone Grey with its twisting streets and barn-board houses, its outlying

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  farms and factories. He circled the grounds of Cavernstone Hall, where his parents worked, and flew over a mysterious building called The Ruins.

  He sniffed, smelling fetid creatures like himself. Scores of them were pouring out the windows of The Ruins. As he glided down, the cold rush of the river filled his ears. His heart thudded and a reckless thrill surged through him.

  He spotted an ancient tree in the middle of a field and swooped toward it, skimming the tips of the branches. Hunger gnawed at the pit of his stomach. His ears pricked at the sound of a low, sad hooting.

  When he saw the silver owl high on a branch, head tucked beneath one wing, a warm glow spread through him. But the warm feeling quickly gave way to rage. A bitter taste filled his mouth and a dark, primal craving washed over him: the urge to destroy.

  Then, as always happened, the silver owl looked up, her eyes wide with fear. For an instant her heart-shaped face reminded him of Gran's. Behind his eyes the blood thickened and boiled, blotting out the image. A ravenous hunger took hold of him.

  With a triumphant shriek, Max flew toward the owl.

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  CHAPTER THREE


  [Image: Max and the owl.]

  Stepping off the back porch, Max ducked beneath the hooded flannel shirts and long underwear snapping on the clothesline. Mrs. Crumlin had hung them after breakfast and forgotten to take them down. On top of the line sat three fat sleeping ravens.

  Against the bleak night sky, his house stood silent and shuttered. Like the other houses at the edge of town, it was solid and ordinary, with a tilting roof, unpainted shingles and porches at the front and back.

  His mom and dad had gone to bed at their usual time of eight o'clock. Because Max only saw his parents at dinnertime, it was

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  difficult to be close to them. Nora and Ewan Unger worked long hours, six days a week, arriving home each evening exhausted. The High Echelon had put an end to vacations and sick time, and missing work for any reason was frowned upon. On their day off they were required to attend Dome Commission meetings.

  Each night Max waited to make sure his parents were asleep, then sneaked out through the back door. The darkness drew him like a magnet: he could never resist the night.

  Grasses crackled as he thumped across the dark field to the owl tree, trying to forget his nightmare from the afternoon. He knew he was a bird of prey in his dream--but what kind? A raven? He didn't think so, because ravens were languid and dozy.

  Why would he want to attack the silver owl? She was like a secret treasure, more precious to him than anything in the world. Max wound his scarf tighter around his neck. Calling up those dreams upset him terribly, leaving him anxious and confused.

  Beneath his fleece-lined jacket, he wore three sweaters, knitted by Mrs. Crumlin from surplus wool. His leather boots had been shipped from a mail-order house and had extra-thick treads. He'd gotten them for his eleventh birthday, though it had taken nearly a year for his feet to grow into them.

  When he was young, Max would sneak out of the house with Gran at night, setting off on all kinds of adventures, exploring marshes and tramping across grasslands. He was scared of many things, but the night had always felt safe to Max, wrapping itself like a magical cloak around his grandmother and him.

  Gran knew where to find dryad beetles and turtle eggs and a fungus that glowed in the dark. They searched for silver owls,

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  though they never found one. Silver owls were a rare breed of warrior owl, Gran explained, and they possessed a fierce and terrifying magic, called OwlSong.

  As a little boy, Max would clutch his blanket and stuffed toy owl and Gran would sit on the bed next to him, telling him his favorite story before he fell asleep, the tale of the Owl Keeper. It began in the ancient city of Silvern, high on a wintry plateau, with a strong-willed, independent girl named Fuchsia who lived in a tower and tended bees.

  In Fuchsia's twelfth year, the evil group Alazarin Oro invaded the country, overthrowing the benevolent Circle of Sages. The Sages fled, braving snowstorms and hiding in the forests, until they reached Silvern. There they met Fuchsia, who offered them refuge in her tower. Inside they discovered hundreds of stone owls carved into the walls, which the Sages recognized at once as silver owls (Max's favorite part of the story), turned to stone by the Alazarin Oro. The Sages unlocked the dark spell, earning the owls' undying loyalty, and Fuchsia became the first Owl Keeper.

  Once freed, the silver owls emitted their powerful OwlSong-- not so much a song, explained Gran, as a vibration, rippling across the land, creating an energy force that shifted the balance away from evil, restoring peace once again.

  But, as centuries went by, the dark forces gained momentum. Sages and owls were scattered and Silvern fell to ruins. Yet there was a prophecy, written in the Silver Scrolls: in times of darkness an Owl Keeper would appear, to unite silver owls and Sages

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  against the powers of evil. The time of the Owl Keeper, Gran would say, is coming soon.

  As he approached the owl tree, Max saw the outline of the girl: mammoth black coat, beaky nose, hair flaming around her head. Beyond her, in the distance, he could see the dark haunted waterway that was the river, and the forest on the other side.

  He balked when he saw Rose's tough-girl stance. Her aggressive style intimidated him. Rose was a reckless type, Max could tell, and that made him nervous. He liked his life orderly, with everything in its place and nothing left to chance. Artemis Rose Eccles was just the opposite. She was messy and impulsive, a risk taker who scrambled everything up.

  "I guess you're not scared of the dark," he said, walking over to her as if he weren't afraid.

  Rose stood on her toes, reaching for a branch. "Obviously you weren't listening." Her voice was high and know-it-all. "Scared isn't in my vocabulary. I'm not afraid of anything, and that includes the dark." She hoisted herself up. "And the Misshapens."

  "You don't have to worry about them," said Max irritably. "We're safe here because they hate open spaces."

  "I know that." Her smug voice drifted down.

  Max had heard rumors about the Misshapens all his life. They were the government's botched experiments: laboratory-made creatures cast off by the High Echelon and set free to roam the forests. Some nights he sat in the owl tree, looking across the river, and saw their eyes glowing through the trees. Gran said

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  the Misshapens would never cross over because they'd been programmed to stay in the forest.

  Max heard Rose giggle. She was making faces at the silver owl from her perch on a branch. The owl puffed up her feathers, basking in the extra attention. Then she hopped from limb to limb, nursing her crooked wing, trying to get closer to Rose.

  Max caught the owl as she tumbled off a low branch. Sometimes her timing was a little off. The owl clung to his sleeve with sharp claws, carefully trundling up to his shoulder. She seemed to know he would be in trouble if his jacket got torn.

  He turned his head sideways and the owl swiveled her head right around. They blinked at each other and the owl nuzzled her head against his cheek. Max was always surprised at how delicate she was, how warm to the touch.

  "See, Rose, this is her way of saying hello. It's owl talk." He never tired of petting her sleek feathers or breathing in the grassy sweetness of her breath.

  "You should know," said Rose, hanging upside down. "I never had a pet owl." She swung herself up and sat on the branch. "Tell me about your parents, Max," she said, catching him by surprise.

  Max couldn't think of anything impressive to say. Gran always described his father as the kind of man who liked his bread white and his hedges straight. His mother wore bifocals and was in the habit of falling asleep at the dinner table. Dr. Tredegar prescribed pills for her nerves.

  Then he brightened. "My mom and dad both work at Cavernstone Hall. It's a chocolate factory where they make

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  high-end chocolates and gourmet cocoa mix," he said importantly. "They have high-ranking jobs and they use smart cards to get in and out. And, oh yeah, my dad won an award for perfect attendance."

  He didn't tell her that he had no idea what his parents did there. It made his stomach knot up, thinking how distant and quiet they'd become, especially since Gran died. Sometimes his heart ached for them. If only he could tell his parents about Rose and the silver owl--but how could he? They lived in constant fear of the High Echelon and its tedious rules.

  "What kind of jobs?" demanded Rose.

  "Umm ..." Max groped for words that would sound important. "Management, computers, that sort of thing." Why was she always quizzing him?

  Soft silvery sounds came from the owl's throat and Max stroked her iridescent wings. "I know lots of things about silver owls," he boasted, eager to change the subject. He tried to recall owl facts that would impress Rose. "Mostly they see in black-and-white, but they sometimes recognize the color blue." His voice caught as he remembered that blue was the color of Gran's eyes. "And they can turn their heads right around, two hundred and seventy degrees."

  There was no comment from Rose; she was too busy swinging on the branch. He
r wiry frame and quick movements reminded Max of a tamarin monkey. He'd seen pictures of tamarins in Gran's book on rain forests.

  Why didn't Rose say anything nice about his silver owl?

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  Couldn't she see how intelligent the owl was? How extraordinary and elegant? Max considered his owl perfect in every way. He sighed, thinking how his words were lost on Rose. She obviously thought owls were boring.

  "I guess you're wondering who this weird kid is who talks to owls," he said bravely. "Right?"

  Rose swung down. "Wrong," she said, dusting off her hands. "I don't think you're weird. I think you're mysterious.'" She looked Max over and nodded to herself. "Yep, there's a whiff of mystery about you. Something along the lines of... spellbinding"

  "Really?" Max was astounded. He had never thought of himself as mysterious before--not with his dull brown eyes and stringy hair, his skin the color of paste, and his habit of breathing out of his mouth instead of his nose.

  "You don't see things like ordinary people, do you, Max?" Rose pushed her face up to his. Her hair had a sticky smell, like tree sap, and for a moment her eyes seemed fathomless. "You're like that owl. She's mysterious too."

  Max smiled to himself. Maybe Rose had noticed his owl's special qualities after all.

  "You still didn't answer my question from the other night," she persisted. "What are you doing out here in the dark?"

  Max thought a moment. "Ever since I was little, I've loved the dark. My gran and I used to sneak out of the house at night and go looking for owls." He felt a familiar sadness inside his chest. "She said if you look into the dark long enough, you'll see things that others don't."