The Owl Keeper by Christine Brodien-Jones Page A
Authors: Christine Brodien-Jones
Tags: Fiction, General, All Ages, Children's Books, Fantasy, Action & Adventure, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Action & Adventure - General, Magic, Fantasy & Magic, Ages 9-12 Fiction, Nature & the Natural World, Social Issues, Animals, Human-animal relationships, Children: Grades 4-6, Friendship, Nature, Body; Mind & Spirit, Family - General, Social Issues - Friendship, Magick Studies, Prophecies, Owls, Birds, Environment, Nature & the Natural World - Environment
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tempted to ask more about the Sages, but he'd probably be skating on thin ice, as his father liked to say. His parents had cautioned him never to question Mrs. Crumlin about politics or her personal life.
"Time to fix you a mug of hot cocoa, young man," she said, her voice husky. "We don't want any tummy upsets or congested noses."
She retrieved a yellow box from the cupboard, the same one
57
she pulled out every day. Printed on the box was the motto cavernstone grey hot cocoa--just like gramma used to make, and below that was an illustration of a refined-looking lady with half-moon glasses and wavy gray hair. Wavy Gray was Max's secret name for her. He often wished Wavy Gray could be his guardian, instead of fussy old Mrs. Crumlin.
Max hated being sickly. Mrs. Crumlin put it down to bad luck, saying he'd inherited his timid nature as well as weak genes for extra-soft teeth and limp hair. "Such a frail, uncertain child," she would remark to Dr. Tredegar, "and dull as foggy weather." But why did he catch fevers and colds so easily? Why couldn't he fight off germs like ordinary kids did?
Then there were the terrifying dreams, jolting him awake in the middle of the night. What were the grotesque creatures that flew in and out of The Ruins--hairless and jellyish, with half-formed faces? Why did he fly with them and hunt down his silver owl?
Did these things really exist, he wondered, or had he unconsciously invented them? It rattled him to think his mind had made up such disgusting creatures. Maybe, he told himself, they were half-digested memories from scary books he'd read, or illustrations from one of Gran's medical texts.
Steam rose from the mug, warming his face, blotting out Mrs. Crumlin, who was nattering about the latest knitting patterns. Her empty words floated through his head, light as cotton candy.
"Citizens will be pleased to hear that the Citizens' Dome Construction Scheme remains on schedule," announced the news
58
reporter. "The target date is July seventh, the day citizens will be transported from their local cities and towns to the government's all-modern, temperature-regulated, darkness-free domes!"
"Fancy that, Maxwell, the domes are opening the same day as your birthday," said Mrs. Crumlin, clucking her tongue.
Ignoring her, Max glugged down the hot cocoa. He didn't want to think about the domes, or what it would mean to turn twelve. The drink was chalky as usual, with a bitter aftertaste. Hot cocoa always made him feel groggy, disembodied, as if the world around him were slowly slipping away.
Don't worry, he told himself, Mrs. Crumlin is at the helm. All you have to do is obey. Forget the High Echelon and the domes and Gran's lost books, forget the stolen boots and the silver owls. Forget the Owl Keeper and Sages and the myths surrounding them. Forget Rose's father, exterminating people with his creepy toxic plants.
"Try Cavernstone Grey Premium Gold-Foil Truffles!" came the soothing voice of a female announcer. "You can rely on Cavernstone Grey: the finest chocolates in the country!"
Little by little, Max's stomach stopped its relentless churning. He closed his eyes, thinking how the cocoa never failed to comfort him, damping down all those unsettling thoughts, wrapping him inside a pleasant, airtight cocoon.
59
CHAPTER SEVEN
[Image: The owl tree.]
Max took one bite of Mrs. Crumlin's singed fava bean soufflé and reached for the sliced bread. In the flickering candlelight, he noticed his parents looked pale and sleep-deprived. They had arrived home late from work, so Mrs. Crumlin had stayed longer than usual, coaxing Max into a tedious session of Skeletons in the Cupboard. She'd left the moment his parents walked through the door, anxious as always to be home before the sun went down.
Max watched shadows move across the geometric patterns of the wallpaper. Outside the shuttered windows of the dining
60
room a northerly wind was howling. It was, he reflected, the kind of wind that Gran
"Time to fix you a mug of hot cocoa, young man," she said, her voice husky. "We don't want any tummy upsets or congested noses."
She retrieved a yellow box from the cupboard, the same one
57
she pulled out every day. Printed on the box was the motto cavernstone grey hot cocoa--just like gramma used to make, and below that was an illustration of a refined-looking lady with half-moon glasses and wavy gray hair. Wavy Gray was Max's secret name for her. He often wished Wavy Gray could be his guardian, instead of fussy old Mrs. Crumlin.
Max hated being sickly. Mrs. Crumlin put it down to bad luck, saying he'd inherited his timid nature as well as weak genes for extra-soft teeth and limp hair. "Such a frail, uncertain child," she would remark to Dr. Tredegar, "and dull as foggy weather." But why did he catch fevers and colds so easily? Why couldn't he fight off germs like ordinary kids did?
Then there were the terrifying dreams, jolting him awake in the middle of the night. What were the grotesque creatures that flew in and out of The Ruins--hairless and jellyish, with half-formed faces? Why did he fly with them and hunt down his silver owl?
Did these things really exist, he wondered, or had he unconsciously invented them? It rattled him to think his mind had made up such disgusting creatures. Maybe, he told himself, they were half-digested memories from scary books he'd read, or illustrations from one of Gran's medical texts.
Steam rose from the mug, warming his face, blotting out Mrs. Crumlin, who was nattering about the latest knitting patterns. Her empty words floated through his head, light as cotton candy.
"Citizens will be pleased to hear that the Citizens' Dome Construction Scheme remains on schedule," announced the news
58
reporter. "The target date is July seventh, the day citizens will be transported from their local cities and towns to the government's all-modern, temperature-regulated, darkness-free domes!"
"Fancy that, Maxwell, the domes are opening the same day as your birthday," said Mrs. Crumlin, clucking her tongue.
Ignoring her, Max glugged down the hot cocoa. He didn't want to think about the domes, or what it would mean to turn twelve. The drink was chalky as usual, with a bitter aftertaste. Hot cocoa always made him feel groggy, disembodied, as if the world around him were slowly slipping away.
Don't worry, he told himself, Mrs. Crumlin is at the helm. All you have to do is obey. Forget the High Echelon and the domes and Gran's lost books, forget the stolen boots and the silver owls. Forget the Owl Keeper and Sages and the myths surrounding them. Forget Rose's father, exterminating people with his creepy toxic plants.
"Try Cavernstone Grey Premium Gold-Foil Truffles!" came the soothing voice of a female announcer. "You can rely on Cavernstone Grey: the finest chocolates in the country!"
Little by little, Max's stomach stopped its relentless churning. He closed his eyes, thinking how the cocoa never failed to comfort him, damping down all those unsettling thoughts, wrapping him inside a pleasant, airtight cocoon.
59
CHAPTER SEVEN
[Image: The owl tree.]
Max took one bite of Mrs. Crumlin's singed fava bean soufflé and reached for the sliced bread. In the flickering candlelight, he noticed his parents looked pale and sleep-deprived. They had arrived home late from work, so Mrs. Crumlin had stayed longer than usual, coaxing Max into a tedious session of Skeletons in the Cupboard. She'd left the moment his parents walked through the door, anxious as always to be home before the sun went down.
Max watched shadows move across the geometric patterns of the wallpaper. Outside the shuttered windows of the dining
60
room a northerly wind was howling. It was, he reflected, the kind of wind that Gran
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