Guardians of Ga'Hoole 08 - The Outcast

how Nyroc had been learning his letters. The two snakes would fly overhead and inscribe the sky with the letters of the alphabet. Nyroc had proven himself a quick learner.
    “You want a hard one?” Slynella said.
    “Yes!” Nyroc replied.
    The green snake began knotting herself overhead into a complicated design, but before she had even finished, Nyroc called out, “B. It’s a B.”
    “Okay, now for some words,” Mist said. Stingyll slipped in beside Slynella in flight. There was a great writhing in the darkness of the night as the two green ribbons twined and intertwined, lacing themselves together. The first word was a name.
    “Streak!” Nyroc shouted out.
    “I think you are really ready to decide on a name,” Mist said, looking up from her knitting. Knitting bored her, but she had learned from Gylfie who had learned from one of the nest-maid snakes at the great tree. She was doing it now only because she was trying to expose Nyroc to as many of the arts of the great tree as she could. She knew only a few, of course, but she had told him about the famous Madame Plonk who was said to sing like the hengleens of glaumora.
    Nyroc knew that he must think of a name. It was not only that he was tired of being called “Hey You” or “My Dear” or “Little One,” which was even worse. Besides, he wasn’t so little anymore. He had grown a lot. But as much as he hated his own name, it had been with him for quite a while. He had no intention of keeping it, but he often wondered if somewhere in that name there was something good, or even something he might miss. It was rather like chopping off a wing or maybe a talon. It had been his for a long time now.
    “My dear, I do not mean to intrude, but would it not help if perhaps just this once you might try to spell your original name?” She paused. “If only to say good-bye to it.”
    Nyroc blinked. Yes, she is right, if only to say good-bye.
    Nyroc flew up and hovered near the two snakes. “All right,” he said and began trying to sound out the name. “Nnnnn—N.” The two snakes slid tail-first into each other and gracefully made the N. Between the two of them there was plenty of snake left for the next four letters.
    “Mist,” he called down, “is this one of those times where it could be an I or a Y?”
    “Yes, dear, I’ll help you here. It’s a toughie. Go with Y.”
    Nyroc sounded out the rest of the letters for the snakes. Finally, it was there, with not a lot of snake left over. Nyroc.
    He had spelled his own name, the name he had vowed never to use. He flew around the script in the sky. He liked the letters. He liked the way the R swooped and dipped. He especially loved the Y. It seemed lively and perky as if it were having a really good time being a Y. He didn’t want to say good-bye to these letters forever. He flew over the name several times. Slynella and Stingyll were infinitely patient with him.
    He flew upside down and backward, left to right, and right to left. Hey, try that one again, he thought. That’s it. I’ll keep the letters but just reverse them. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Nyroc cried.
    “My name is Coryn!”
    And in that instant the two snakes reversed themselves. There was a brief tangle of green ribbon in the sky and then out of the darkness in the most beautiful script imaginable blazed the name:
CORYN

CHAPTER FIVE
A Decision Is Made
    C oryn would always look upon the night of his naming as one of the happiest nights of his life. He had certainly never been happy for as long as the time he had spent with the snakes, the eagles, and Mist. He had been in the aerie for almost thirty nights. He had come at the time of full shine, passed through the dwenking of the moon until it was just a thread, a whisper of light in the sky, and watched as it had grown fatter through the newing, and now it was almost full shine again. Summer had almost ended and autumn would soon be upon them. The time of the Copper-Rose Rain, as he now knew the Guardians of Ga’Hoole called this time of year.
    In these thirty nights, he had learned so much about the tree and the Guardians and the legends—although, for some reason, Mist was rather sketchy on the details of the Fire Cycle, which he was anxious to hear. But he could not fault Mist. She had taught him so much.
    And it was odd but she had somehow become lesstransparent to him. Perhaps it was just his imagination that filled in the vaporous form with color and shape. He could see