The Rescue (Guardians of Ga'hoole) by Kathryn Lasky

almost Guardians of Ga’Hoole, are you not?”
    “Well, they are. But not me—yet.”
    “Oh, yet!” Mrs. Plithiver swung her head as if to wipe away the word. “In your gizzard, I know you feel it. And that you are.”
    “Really, Mrs. Plithiver?”
    “Really, Eglantine.”
    Eglantine returned to the hollow feeling much better. Indeed, she was almost excited about their adventure.

CHAPTER SEVEN
The Harvest Festival
    A t the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, there were four seasons, beginning in winter with the time of the white rain, then spring, which was known as the time of the silver rain, followed in the summer by the golden rain, and finally the autumn, which was known as the season of the copper rose. The seasons were thus called because of the vines of milkberries that cascaded from every branch of the great tree. The delicious berries of the vines made up a major part of the owls’ nonmeat diet. From the ripened berries they brewed their tea, and made stews and cakes, loaves of fragrant bread, and soup. The dried berries were used for highly nutritious snacks, and as a source of instant energy as well as flavoring for other dishes.
    Right now, at the time of the copper rose, was when the berries were the ripest and the plumpest for picking. During this time, the owls forsook their usual schedule and even shortened their daytime sleep so they could harvest the strands. The Ga’Hoolology ryb, a Burrowing Owlknown as Dewlap, supervised the harvest. For the past week, they had all been on shifts under her command, cutting lengths of the berry vines just the right way.
    “Remember, young’uns,” Dewlap trilled as they flew with the strands of vines in their beaks. “No cutting below the third nodule. We must leave something so the vine shall sprout again come the time of the silver rain.”
    Soren and his friend Primrose, a Pygmy Owl, who had been rescued the night that Soren had arrived at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, were flying together with a vine between them.
    “She is such a bore,” sighed Primrose. “Aren’t you thankful that none of us got the Ga’Hoolology chaw?”
    “Yes, just going to Dewlap’s classes is bad enough. I was really worried that Eglantine might get the chaw.”
    “Never!” Primrose said. “She’s perfect for search-and-rescue with her fine hearing skills. She’s a natural for the chaw, I would say.”
    Soren, of course, could not help but wonder about their own mission to the border between Silverveil and The Barrens, which, if all went according to plan, would begin tonight just after the last of the vines had been cut.
    Just then a cheer began to rise, and with the first strains of the harp, a song rang out. It was a solemn song, the “Harvest Hymn,” led by Madame Plonk and Dewlap.

Dearest tree we give our thanks
    for your blessings through the years.
    Vines heavy with sweet berries
    nourish us and quench our fears.
    And in times of summer droughts,
    searing heat or winters cold,
    from your bounty freely given
    we grow strong and we grow bold.
    Let us always tend with care
    your bark, your roots, your vines so fair—

    And then, suddenly, a raucous song blasted out, led by Bubo.

Drink, drink to old Ga’Hoole—
    boola boola boola boole!
    Come along, mates, and give a tipple—
    how that wine makes gizzards ripple!

    Just as the song swelled with Bubo’s voice leading, Otulissa swept up beside Soren and Primrose. “I can’t believe Madame Plonk. She’s sashaying about with a rose in her beak and wiggling her tail feathers in a most unseemlyfashion. And Dewlap had hardly finished with the hymn before that coarse old owl began his vulgar song. Simply appalling.”
    Soren thought if he heard Otulissa say the word “appalling” one more time he might crack her on the head. Then that Spotted Owl would really see spots. But he didn’t. Instead, he just turned to her and blinked. “Give it a blow, Otulissa. It’s a festival for Glaux’s sake. We can’t be singing hymns the