Windblowne (22 page)

The cloud of hunters dispersed instantly, their cries fading into the distance.

Two rose shakily to his feet.

Oliver pushed himself onto his hands and saw Lord Gilbert jump free of the out-of-control platform, which crashed away at the mercy of the winds.

Then Lord Gilbert was stumbling after the HM IV.

The crimson blur came by. Oliver grasped the tail of his kite. They covered the distance to Lord Gilbert
in a second. Oliver released the kite’s tail, and with the winds at his back, he leapt onto the old man, grabbing his arm.

“You’re coming with me,” said Oliver. He closed his eyes and stepped into the winds.

Oliver found that the journey from one world to the next was considerably more difficult when dragging a spitting, screeching, struggling great-uncle by one arm. He could feel Lord Gilbert’s thin wrist beneath his fingers, and he could feel a hand clawing at him, but he pretended those things were a thousand miles away. New worlds called to him from all directions, and Oliver told them,
Someday, someday …

Then he was stepping onto rocky ground, the soft murmur of the desolate desert winds all around him.

Lord Gilbert screamed, and Oliver released him in distaste.

The old man backed away, chest heaving, eyes bulging as he gazed wildly at the vast, moonslit distances of the desert mountain. “The hell-world! How did you do this?” he breathed.

Oliver shook his head. “This is not the hell-world. The hell-world is something you made for yourself.”

Lord Gilbert grabbed for Oliver, but Oliver leapt aside. “Stop it!” Oliver ordered. “Stop it or I’m leaving.”

Lord Gilbert’s eyes narrowed, but he came no closer. “You’re going to leave me here anyway, aren’t you? You intend this world to become my prison.”

“Whether it becomes your prison or not is up to you,” said Oliver.

“You can’t abandon me here,” snarled Lord Gilbert, stumbling backward onto a rock. “I’ll die.”

“No,” said Oliver. “You won’t die. And I’m not abandoning you.” He pointed down the mountain. “You’ll find a house down there. You’ll see that it’s been stocked with delicious roots and berries. There’s a spring nearby. Follow my great-uncle’s example, and you’ll see that you can live well.”

“No!” screamed Lord Gilbert. “I’ll find a way out! I’ll kill every one of these trees if I have to! I’ll make them give me their secrets!”

“Harm one of these trees,” said Oliver through gritted teeth, “and I will know. I’ll be back here the instant it happens. And I’ll take you to a world that will make this one seem like paradise.”

And with that, Oliver stepped back into the winds.

The broken halves of the riven oak still leaned away from each other, but they were nearly touching now, held in place by an ingenious system of splints and rope
.

“Be patient,” Great-uncle Gilbert had told Oliver. “It will heal, but we mustn’t rush it.”

Oliver was astonished at the progress Great-uncle Gilbert had made in just two days. The machines and spikes and tubes were gone. The black wires had been stripped from the surrounding trees. Oliver’s head still ached when he came near the riven oak, but the pain lessened each day.

In Lord Gilbert’s former treehouse, Great-uncle Gilbert was still behaving as he had ever since Oliver had freed him. He was gleefully running about, maniacally
pushing buttons and throwing switches. The place was in chaos as a result, and he had managed to blow up part of the kitchen. He couldn’t have been happier.

“Great-uncle Gilbert,” said Oliver, “I’m going home now.”

“Yes, yes,” said Great-uncle Gilbert. “You’ll be back with my chickens, won’t you?” He waved his arm in Oliver’s general direction but did not look up from the laboratory table. He had the disassembled HM IV laid out before him and was poking at it with a kite spar.

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring the chickens. You’re sure you want to stay here?”

“Of course!” cried Great-uncle Gilbert. “No distractions, no fools meddling about—er, no offense.”

“None taken,” said Oliver mildly.

“And,” continued Great-uncle Gilbert, “I can fly my kites on the crest without that idiot mayor complaining about explosions! Without whimpering dolts whining about kites being devoured! I haven’t flown a kite on the crest in forty years.” He peered seriously at Oliver. “It took five Watchmen to carry me off, you know,” he said.

“I know, Great-uncle Gilbert, I know,” said Oliver, grinning. Some of his great-uncle’s stories were becoming quite familiar.

Oliver was about to depart when Great-uncle Gilbert spoke again. “Er, Oliver …”

“Yes?”

Great-uncle Gilbert drummed his fingers anxiously. “It would also be … acceptable … for you to, er, visit on occasion, you know.”

“I know, Great-uncle Gilbert. Don’t worry, I’ll visit often.”

He waved goodbye as his great-uncle smiled at him from the treehouse door.

Oliver hurried to the crest as twilight neared and the shadows lengthened.

He found Two flying a kite in the crisp, fresh winds. Two was surrounded by hunters. Some of them were watching him fly his kite. Others were taking off, landing, taking off again, and chasing each other across the sky.

Two had attempted to help Oliver with his kite-flying, but after a few botched outings that seriously
damaged some of Two’s finest kites, Oliver had decided it just wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t worried about it. He had other interests now. Reaching into his pack, Oliver removed Great-uncle Gilbert’s handvane—really his own handvane now, as his great-uncle had given it to him—and snapped it onto his wrist.

Two began reeling in his kite. It was a magnificent golden dragon, with tails that spun in all directions. Beside him lay a few more of his kites. Oliver had helped him pack them up the night before. There was also a suitcase full of carefully folded clothes, backpacks full of kitesmithing tools, and a portfolio of kite designs. Oliver shrugged one pack onto his shoulders, and Two gathered up everything else.

“Are you ready?” asked Oliver.

Two shifted his feet nervously and looked around the crest. “I don’t know.” His voice shook just slightly.

“Come on,” said Oliver gently. “Everything’s arranged. They can’t wait to meet you. But if you don’t want to go today, we can go tomorrow. There’s no rush.”

Two took a deep, shuddering breath. “No. I’m ready.” He held out his hand. “Let’s go.”

Oliver took Two’s hand and closed his eyes. Far off,
beneath the blustery gusts of this peak, Oliver heard the hollow roar of winds within the Crest Wall.

Two’s hand gripped his arm tightly as Oliver stepped through the winds.

In a moment they stood on the crest again, this time surrounded by the wall.

Two gasped. He turned slowly, taking in the sight. “They did all of this because their Oliver was blown away on the winds?”

Oliver nodded. “And he took a few others with him.”

Two looked at his folded kites. “Do you think they’ll really tear it down?”

“They might,” said Oliver. “I talked to the captain, and most of these Windblownians are sick of the wall. They just have to get over their fear. Maybe you can help with that.”

Two was still scanning the wall. “Is that her?” he asked suddenly, pointing.

In the distance, a tiny figure was rapidly descending a rope ladder.

“Yes,” said Oliver. “That’s Ilia.” He waved, and Ilia waved back, swinging comfortably with one hand from the rope ladder. “I’d better go.”

Two turned to him, a stricken look on his face. “What if … what if they don’t like me? Maybe we should go back.”

“No,” said Oliver, “this will be your Windblowne now. This will be your home.”

Two took one uncertain step, then another. With each step he moved more quickly toward Ilia, who had reached the ground and was running toward him.

As Oliver stepped back into the winds, he looked toward the top of the wall, just above the rope ladder. The setting sun illuminated two familiar figures waiting there, a man and a woman huddled together, watching as Two approached Ilia.

Then Oliver stepped across worlds, back to Great-uncle Gilbert’s new home.

He arrived amidst the full force of the night winds. The crimson kite was waiting. Oliver leapt and grasped its lashing tail, and they soared up into the mist.

Part of him didn’t want to go home just yet. Part of him wanted to catch his first glimpse of the ocean tonight. But the part of him that was drawn toward home was stronger, and so he settled for a flight through
the dark, wind-lashed Way Between Worlds, listening to the voices of the many worlds now available to him.

Morning arrived, the mist brightened, and they soared on powerful wind toward Oliver’s crest. Below him, he saw an enormous crowd of people surrounding the peak, where a stage had been erected.

“The Festival awards ceremony!” Oliver said. “I completely forgot.”

The kite dipped, asking if he wanted to land near the stage.

“No,” said Oliver, after thinking for a moment. “Take us down near the oakline.”

They shot over the crowd and the stage. Oliver saw heads turning and heard voices beginning to shout. The granite jumping marker passed beneath them, and Oliver made a clean landing at the oakline. He looked up at the powerful oaks, already putting out new green shoots on their branches, which were tossing as if in greeting. Oliver waved back to them, just in case. There were more cries from the direction of the stage, but Oliver hurried into the forest. He was too tired to deal with any of that yet.

He found Windswept Way and began the spiral walk downward. He passed a member of the Watch, bleary, plump, and old, and smiled at him. The Watchman smiled back.

“Almost back to normal!” the Watchman called to him proudly. “Another fine Festival.”

Oliver found it hard to believe that the Festival had happened at all. The food stands had been taken down, the banners and flags removed, and the extra tables in front of the inns taken in. Even the posters that had littered the roads a few days ago had been swept clean, some by industrious Windblownians but most by the incessant winds.

He saw a girl bounding up the Way. It was Ilia, late for the awards, clutching a lion kite.

“Hullo, Ilia.” Oliver grinned.

Ilia stopped short. “Oliver! You overslept, too? Aren’t you going to the awards?”

Oliver yawned. “I don’t think so. I’m really tired.”

Ilia gaped, then said, “Is that your kite?”

“Yes,” said Oliver proudly, realizing the kite must look strange, flying along without a line. “You should come
see it fly. Meet me on the crest tonight, just before the night winds?”

Ilia stared at him as though he were mad.

“Oh, one more thing,” said Oliver. He reached into a buttoned inside pocket and found a kite charm.
Ilia
, it read. He passed it to her. “Thank you,” he said. “It did bring me luck.”

Then he waved and headed for home.

He passed some other kids who were also racing for the crest. They aimed the usual taunts in his direction, but Oliver hardly noticed.

His treehouse, when he reached it, seemed somehow more welcoming, even though nothing about it had changed. Oliver was happy to see flickering light in his mother’s blazing forge through the open doors of her workshop, and the open shutters of his father’s study.

His mother came out of the workshop, dragging her newest sculpture. She must have won the battle with the mayor, for most of her sculptures stood proudly along the Way. Oliver smiled as he saw that several of them had been sold.

He went to help her.

“Oh! Hullo, dear,” his mother said, surprised, as Oliver put his shoulder to the sculpture and pushed. They settled it in its appointed spot and stood back, looking it over.

This one reminded Oliver of the regal oaks of the one-moon world. He had a feeling that sometimes his mother must hear the winds whispering, too.

“I really like this one,” he said.

“Really?” she replied with pleasure. “You do? You’ve never said that before! Thank you!” And then she swept in and gave him a fierce and proud hug.

Embarrassed, Oliver extricated himself and escaped up the treehouse steps.

His father was sitting at the kitchen table, pen scratching away. Oliver began to build a fire.

His father looked up. “Hullo, Oliver!”

“Hullo, Dad.”

“It’s good to see you, son. While the Festival was on, you were out at all hours, up early and back late—I don’t think we saw you at all, now that I think about it!”

“Well, I
was
busy,” Oliver agreed. “But it’s good to see you again, too.”

His father smiled and resumed writing.

“You’re interested in history, aren’t you?” Oliver asked.

His father dropped his pen. “Why, yes, of course! Very much!” He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry it’s never interested you.”

“Well,” Oliver said, “I took your advice and went to see Great-uncle Gilbert.”

“Who? Oh, yes,” said his father. “Your mother’s crazy old uncle.”

“That’s the one,” said Oliver. “He’s full of stories about Windblowne. He told me some interesting things about the mountain’s history. I thought you might like to hear them.”

“That would be wonderful!” Oliver’s father leaned forward and pushed his journal aside. “Perhaps I could put them in another book!” Oliver had never seen his father so excited.

“Great,” said Oliver, yawning. “But we’ll have to talk about it tomorrow. I need some sleep. It’s been a long week.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” said his father. “How was the Festival, anyway?”

“Oh … the Festival. It was fine,” Oliver replied. And with a grin, he dashed upstairs to bed.

Windblowne
would not have been possible without the love and wisdom of my wife, Miriam Angress; the eternal patience and counsel of my fellow writers John Claude Bemis, Jennifer Harrod, and Jen Wichman; the insight of my brother-in-law, Percy Angress; my terrific agents, Josh and Tracey Adams of Adams Literary; and my magnificent editor, Jim Thomas. Much is also owed to the faith and encouragement of my readers Claudia Lanese, Indigo Sargent, and Daniel de Marchi; to the editorial assistance of Chelsea Eberly; and to my parents, Merle and Donna Messer.