The Island of Destiny by Cameron Stelzer Page A

don’t move that quickly , he thought. Even on windy, windy islands. Something else is up there …
    Whisker realised the danger too late. With a sudden rush of air, powerful talons griped his shoulders and his legs were lifted off the ground. He squeaked in alarm, but the talons only gripped him tighter. There was nothing he could do. An owl had him.

A Nest of Fools
    Whisker watched the constellations swirl around him like a kaleidoscope of diamonds. The owl flapped its wings and soared higher.
    Whisker shut his eyes tight and tried to relax his wildly twitching tail. It wasn’t the height that terrified him; it was the thought of being dropped from such a height. He’d been in the air many times before, with flying foxes from the circus. But flying foxes ate fruit, not rodents.
    The owl seemed determined not to release its prey, nor to squeeze Whisker to death and, after a turbulent flight, Whisker felt the woven twigs of a nest beneath his feet.
    The talons released their grip and Whisker slumped onto his back. He cautiously opened one eye and looked up. The sides of a large nest rose around him. Three owls perched on its uppermost edge.
    In the darkness, Whisker could just make out subtle bands of white, grey and brown feathers covering their bodies. Short tufts protruded from the owl’s heads like ears. Their huge yellow eyes stared inquisitively down at him.
    Whisker opened his second eye.
    The owls blinked.

    Startled by the sudden movement, Whisker lunged for his sword but the owl in the middle shot out a powerful claw and pinned his arm to the nest.
    â€˜Not a wise moooove,’ hooted the owl to Whisker’s right. He was the biggest of the three owls and puffed up his feathers to look even larger as he spoke.
    â€˜Of course it’s not a wise moooove,’ shrilled the owl on the left. ‘He’s a pesky rat. Whooooever heard of a rat dooooing anything wise?’
    Whisker felt mildly insulted by the owl’s remark, but decided it wasn’t the time to start an argument about the underrated intelligence of the rat race.
    The owl in the middle kept Whisker pinned down, staring hungrily at his captive.
    â€˜Can we eat him yet, mother?’ he asked excitedly. ‘I’m so hungry. I haven’t eaten anything but bugs and slugs for weeks.’
    Whisker gulped.
    â€˜Ask your father, Hoooouston,’ the mother owl squawked. ‘He’s responsible for breakfasts. I have more than enough on my plate providing yoooou with lunches, dinners and crunchy snail snacks.’
    The pupils of the biggest owl grew wide as he studied Whisker in the gloom.
    â€˜He’s a bit scrawny for a proper meal, son,’ he considered. ‘How would yoooou feel if we ripped out his gizzards and mashed them intoooo entrée sized rat-balls?’
    â€˜I’d feel absolutely terrible,’ Whisker blurted out.
    â€˜Whoooo asked yoooou?’ the mother owl hooted.
    â€˜N-n-no one,’ Whisker stammered. ‘B-b-but I’d hate for you to make a big mistake, being so wise and all.’
    â€˜Eating breakfast is never a mistake,’ Houston said pompously. ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Everyone knows that.’
    Whisker had no comeback. He simply stared up at the owls as a horrible realisation sank in: they were actually going to eat him and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t fight his way out and he couldn’t argue for his release – not with three know-it-all owls hovering over him.
    His eyes shifted from the owls to the saucepan constellation above their heads. Suddenly the thought of boiled onions didn’t seem so bad.
    Onions sure beat rat-balls, he thought, his mind drifting off. He wondered what his parents and sister would be eating for breakfast, wherever they were. Coconuts from a deserted island, perhaps?
    His thoughts turned to the Pie Rats, swirling in circles on their leaky boat. Maybe