Guardians of Ga'Hoole 14 - Exile

Coryn’s reasoning for the pared-down Harvest Festival.
    The Band exchanged glances as they perched in Coryn’s hollow, and Coryn looked nervously from one to the other. “You understand, don’t you?”
    “Not really,” Twilight replied bluntly.
    “Don’t be difficult, Twilight,” Coryn said.
    “I am not being difficult. I really don’t understand.”
    “I don’t understand where the Striga gets the right,” Gylfie added.
    Coryn drew himself up a bit taller and puffed out his chest feathers. “It has nothing to do with rights. Look, do any of us have to be reminded of how awful it was not much more than a year ago during the time of the GoldenTree? The cult of the ember? The Guardians of this tree became obsessed with pomp and ceremony. They began to worship the Ember of Hoole. It was terrible. All that gilt and glitter had nothing to do with being an owl. It was Other-ish. You were the first to say it, Soren.”
    Soren blinked. Coryn was right. They should be suspect of ritual. The Striga had roused himself from the jeweled splendor, the listless existence at the Dragon Court. Condemning luxury and pampering, he had endured the extreme pain of stripping out his own excess of feathers. Yes, this owl was definitely wary of excess, of indulgence, of the vulgarities that came with celebrations and festivities. These thoughts ran through Soren’s mind while Coryn spoke. Soren had to admit that it had been extremely astute of Coryn to refer to the time of the Golden Tree and the pernicious consequences of ritual and celebration that had inspired the cult of the ember.
    The Band, as they often did, looked to Soren. It was from Soren that they usually took their cue in matters to do with Coryn, for the young king was Soren’s nephew. “You have raised some interesting points, Coryn. For now, we will respect your wishes.”
    Twilight blinked, barely disguising the glare in his eyes. “Will there be a Punkie Night?”
    “Of course,” Coryn said. Punkie Night was celebratedon the first new moon after the Milkberry Harvest Festival. It was a favorite holiday, especially for fledglings, although grown-up owls got into the spirit almost as much as the young’uns. There were mischief and sweets and masks. Bands of young owls put on masks and flew from the hollow, and, in exchange for sweets, they would sing or do flying acrobatic tricks. Although Twilight was much too old for such frolicking, it didn’t stop him. He was one of the most enthusiastic and raucous punkies. Donning the mask of a Pygmy Owl, he flew about with the fledglings, egging them on with his antics.
    “There better be a Punkie Night. What’s life without a bit of punk?” Twilight muttered as he left Coryn’s hollow with the rest of the Band.
    Soren was the last to leave. And before he hopped out the port to the branch, he turned to his nephew and blinked several times. “You’re sure about this, are you, Coryn?”
    “Yes, Uncle. We must be wary of ritual and ceremony…” Soren was only half listening because something in Coryn’s hollow had caught his attention, something that he had not noticed before. Wedged into one of the niches where Coryn kept some of his favorite things was the tip of a blue feather. Why in the name of Glaux would Coryn keep a molted blue feather? That club is for young’uns. Coryn’s not an owlet .

CHAPTER THREE
An Odd Conversation
    O tulissa had not gone to Coryn’s hollow for the conference. In addition to her other duties, which were many, she had temporarily taken on the job of chief librarian when Winifred’s, an ancient Barred Owl, arthritis had kicked up. So while the Band had been discussing the Harvest Festival with Coryn, Otulissa was minding the library. This was a job she loved, for it afforded her the opportunity to further her research on a weather-interpretation project she had been pursuing since her return from the Middle Kingdom—windkins and the system of air known as the River of Wind that flowed between the Ga’Hoolian world and the Middle Kingdom. Otulissa’s powers of concentration were great. She did not hear the clutch of little owlets giggling over a joke book nor did she hear the owl approaching the desk where she perched. It was actually the desk of Ezylryb, the late distinguished ryb, scholar, poet, historian, and, once upon a time, great warrior of the tree.
    “Ahem.” The owl cleared his throat. Otulissa’s head jerked up from her labors. The blue owl, the Striga,