The First Collier by Kathryn Lasky

Author:Kathryn Lasky
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Chapter Books, Readers, Juvenile Fiction, Children: Grades 4-6, General, Intermediate, Readers - Intermediate, Readers - Chapter Books
ISBN: 9781424218400
Publisher: Fitzgerald Books
Published: 2008-08-15T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Arrival of Theo

“I want to learn.”

Those were Theo’s first words to me.

But how much had he seen already? I wondered. And does he know about the egg? How could I have been such a fool to ignore that smudge at the edge of the flames? How could I have thought I was so entirely alone, so isolated here when this owl was practically within yarping distance of me? And how long had he been here on the island?

“W-w-w…what do you want to learn?” I stammered.

“About fire.” He flew down from the tree and landed on the boulder.

I fluffed my feathers in a dismissive way. “You’re too young. It takes patience, maturity, and I’m sure you don’t have the temperament.”

“How can you tell? You only just met me. You don’t even know my name, let alone my temperament.”

What gallgrot, I thought. “You’re a Great Horned,” I replied.

“What does that have to do with it?”

“They’re impulsive.”

“That’s unfair. You can’t just exclude someone because of his breed. Besides, it’s untrue. I can’t help being young. I can’t help being a Great Horned. But I am mature, and I am not impulsive.” He paused as if waiting for me to reply. But I turned my back on him and peered into the fire, trying not to read the flames. But his face was everywhere in those flames.

“Don’t you want to know my name?” he asked.

“No,” I muttered.

“My name is Theo, and do you know what you are?” He did not wait for an answer. “You’re rude.”

I had a feeling that I was not going to get rid of this young’un that fast. “So what do you want to learn, and why do you think you can?”

“I want to learn the art of fire and of smeisshen.”

“Smeisshen?”

“Smeisshen—you know, striking, hitting hard ice.”

The word was, I wagered, from a very old form of Krakish, the kind they spoke way up in one of the firths. They loved the old language in those firths. They kept words, polishing them as if they were precious stones.

“Where are you from, young’un?”

“Firth of Grundenspyrr, off the Firth of Fangs.”

“Thought so,” I replied.

“So now you are going to tell me that owls from a far firth won’t have the brains for this.”

“I didn’t say that. But I might point out that it is not ice I have been smeisshening, as you say, but rock.”

“It’s schmeiss huch ning—that is how you pronounce it. Cough a little where the word breaks and you’ll have it.”

“Oh, so now you are a language expert.”

“I never said such a thing. I just know how to speak old Krakish, that’s all.”

“Pretty full of yourself, aren’t you?” As you can see, I could be fairly obnoxious.

“I’m not full of myself. If I were I wouldn’t be here asking you to teach me. I would think I knew everything.”

This took me aback. I blinked at him.

“You know,” he said, stepping closer, “I had an uncle once. He died in the Siege of the Fangs—murdered by hagsfiends. He was a great teacher.

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