An emergency meeting had been called in the parliament hollow of the Great Tree. A dozen owls of varying species, ranging from tiny pygmy owls to snowies, perched on the curved white branch of a birch tree. In the center of the parliament, the now elderly king, Soren, was settled on a gnarled branch encrusted with lichen and swagged in moss. When Soren had become king, he had dispensed with the massive stump that had once served as the throne for the previous monarchs of the Great Tree. He had never been comfortable perched on the lofty stump. He preferred to be closer to the members of the parliament, and most important, at eye level. The gnarled branch that projected from a wall allowed him to come much closer to the tiny bird that trembled on another slender branch known as the wykensprat, which in the Hoolian language translated to witness stand. The witness in this case was an errant warbler, Carrick, a young female who had been blown off course.

“Carrick,” Soren said softly. “And what does it mean?”

“Rock, sir, literally.”

“Very unusual name for a bird.”

“Warblers, sir, often have unusual names.”

“I see, but you said literally that was the meaning. Is there another meaning to your name?”

“Yes, sir. Steady. Enduring.”

“Ah, like the qualities of rock.” The tiny warbler swayed a bit. She did not in this moment feel steady at all.

Otulissa raised a talon to speak.

“Yes, Otulissa?”

“I feel, Soren—I mean, sir—”

“Soren is fine, old friend.”

“Well, I feel, Soren, that young Carrick here is quite exhausted, and it would be wise to let her speak quickly and tell us what she witnessed in the Firth of Grundensphyrr.”

“Of course. Continue, Carrick.”

“Yes … uh … as the spotted owl said, I happened to be flying over.”

“You are a free flyer and not a member of a glee. Am I correct?” Soren asked.

“Fyre spiritu,” Otulissa murmured.

“What’s that, Otulissa?” Soren asked.

“Fyre spiritu—that’s Warblese for free flyer.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Soren said. Then he turned to Carrick. “Otulissa is our tree scholar, and a linguist as well. She has mastered several languages. Now continue with your story.”

“As I was saying, I was flying over the southeastern point that projects into the firth. I noticed a gathering of bears.”

“That in itself is unusual,” Soren said. “They are known to be most solitary creatures.”

“Yes, sir. But these were gathered. It was a low ceiling. The clouds were arguing, as we warblers say. I was afforded good camouflage and therefore I could listen in. A sudden downdraft plummeted me quite close to the speaker—a female bear of medium size who had introduced herself to the bears as Grynda.”

Soren cast his eyes toward his daughter, Blythe, who was now his first lieutenant.

“Could these bears be the same ones the blackcaps were tracking?”

“No, sir, they were still far to the north and had not yet entered the channel waters between the Nunquivik and Everwinter Sea. With the adverse winds, they were slowed down quite a bit.”

Soren turned back to Carrick. “So what did you hear in the downdraft?”

The warbler cleared her tiny throat a bit and then began to speak.

“The bear’s exact words were this: ‘Welcome! Welcome to the legendary Firth of Grundensphyrr, one of the most popular tourist destinations in the Northern Kingdoms, a storied place. But it is just that—stories, not actual history. We of the Decency Order find it profoundly offensive when myth or legend is confused with actual history. So it is our mission as members of the Decency Order of bear history to untangle that knot of misleading fanciful tales and give you the true history.’ ”

“Decency!” Soren gasped, and Otulissa’s beak fell open, as did many of the old timers’. The very word sent shivers through their gizzards. The owls had long memories, and they each and every one recalled that in the old times the worst crimes and the most horrendous violence had happened under the name of “decency.” It was power they all craved, not decency. Soren shut his eyes. His gizzard swirled with a nausea he had not experienced in years.

Otulissa lofted herself somewhat creakily into the air and settled on the wykensprat next to the warbler. She extended a wing as if to protect or perhaps support the small creature. “She actually called the bear stories fanciful and misleading?” the spotted owl asked, and Carrick nodded.

“I cannot imagine why she would do this. We all, all of us creatures, have our stories, legends. They not only inform us, they infuse us with spirit and strength. What possible reason would a creature have for trying to disgrace the bear legends?”

Soren began to speak slowly. “We build ourselves out of stories, and if you want to destroy a species, you would begin with the destruction of their legends. The bears were known for their stories. They never wrote them down—unfortunately—but despite being such solitary creatures, they told them to one another, perhaps through code, or way back before the Great Melting in that secret place where the Bear Council met. In every legend I do believe there is a truth struggling to get out. And sadly, there are legions of liars waiting to destroy that truth.”

“When a creature loses its stories, it loses its courage,” Otulissa murmured.