Book 12 - The Golden Tree by Kathryn Lasky Read Free Book Online Page A

could pick up on the subtlest atmospheric pressure changes, sounds, wind shifts, even the feelings and moods of those around them. Octavia, a snake of ample girth with a very fat head, found it most comfortable to twine herself in a spiral around the branch. Lying flat on it was out of the question; she was simply too chubby to find it comfortable. Mrs. P., however, was suspended from the branch in an artistic configuration halfway between a question mark and an
57 exclamation point. This peculiar geometry was perhaps a reflection of her mental state. What is happening here? These four words were spiraling through the length of Mrs. P.'s cylindrical body, and she thought they should be likewise screaming in every mind, gizzard, or whatever of every owl in the tree. Unfortunately, such was not the case. "Why aren't you down there weaving your way through the harp?" Octavia inquired of Mrs. P.
    "Don't be ridiculous. You wouldn't catch me
jumping octaves or making music for this stupid ceremony. What do they cal themselves - Guardians of the Guardians? AH this folderol about guarding the ember! Sil y rituals and al ." Octavia gave a funny little pneumatic snort in response to Mrs. P.'s outburst. This was her way of laughing. Mrs. Plithiver was a member of the harp guild directed by Madame Plonk. For centuries, the harp guild had been considered the most
prestigious of al the nest-maid snake guilds of the great tree. Half the snakes played the lower strings and half played the upper ones. But there were a precious few, the most talented of the snakes, who were confined to neither. These snakes were cal ed sliptweens, and their job was to jump octaves, which contained al eight tones of the scale. It was an energetic leap they had to make. It took skil , muscle, and timing. In her thinner
70 days Octavia had been a sliptween. However, she had al but retired from the harp, Mrs. P. was now considered one of the finest sliptweens in the
    history of the tree.
"So how did you get out of playing the harp for this whatever-they-cal -it ceremony?"
"I told them I sprung a tendon on that cantata the other night."
"I'm surprised that Otulissa didn't think up some way to excuse herself," Octavia said. "She should have. I can feel her rage al the way up
here,"
"I know," Octavia replied.
The two snakes became very stil and shut their slitted eyes. From at least forty feet above the Great Hol ow, they could feel the waves of anger, frustration, of sheer embarrassment that rose from the Spotted Owl's plumage like thermal drafts on a hot summer day. Such were the sensibilities of a nest-maid snake.
Rough air, to put it mildly, Mrs. P. thought.
    On the balcony of the Great Hol ow, Otulissa
perched, blinking in disbelief. Her gizzard was in a nauseating, dizzying turmoil. Fler heart was aggrieved as she watched the tawdry spectacle below. An "Honor Guard"- the term itself made her almost
yarp - was flying around the ember, which had been removed from Coryn's hol ow
59 71 and put in the center of the Great Hol ow. The old box
was encased now in a newer, larger, fancier one that had been designed by Gemma and reluctantly forged by Bubo.
It was the Whiskered Screech, Gemma, and the Great Gray, Elyan, who were at the front of the procession of owls that flew in circles around the elaborately "en-hol owed" ember. "En-hol owed!'- yet another newly coined term that nearly made a pel et swim up Otulissa's gul et. She swal owed hard and tried not to belch. But perhaps the most revolting word of ail right now was "elevation.' For this was the Elevation ceremony of Gemma, Elyan,
    and a Barn Owl cal ed Yeena. They were to be
elevated to the highest of the high honor guards, an order cal ed the Guardians of Guardians, not of the great tree, but of the Ember of Hook. Madame Plonk's voice soared in a newly composed celebratory song cal ed "Chant of the Ember." Oh, dearest Ember of fir eat Hook,
guard our tree most great
Warm our gizzards, make us wise,
lead us in