Windblowne (8 page)

And then that kite, circling high and smoothly, flapped its wings.

Oliver blinked and peered harder. Flapping wings? It couldn’t be a kite. Now that it had flown closer, it looked more like a hawk, hunting its prey.

The crimson kite pulled violently, yanking Oliver aside.

“Ouch! What?” he said, struggling to hold his ground.

A second hawk had risen to join the first. While Oliver watched, a third rose from the oaks to join the others.

Suddenly the crimson kite stopped pulling and crept under Oliver’s arm. It huddled there, eerily still.

The hawks circled, circled, in the bright blue sky. The circles brought them closer to Oliver, until they were nearly over his head. He developed a distinctly hypnotized, mouselike feeling as he realized that he was utterly still too, just like the crimson kite.

And as they drew near, he realized they were not hawks.

They were kites after all, and he’d seen their dark shapes before. They were the fighting kites that had attacked Great-uncle Gilbert. Silhouetted against the sky, they looked exactly like hawks.

The fighters dove.

Oliver threw himself to the ground as the crimson kite shot away. The three fighters rocketed after it. In the morning sunlight, something within their sails flashed and gleamed in a very unkitelike way. The crimson kite streaked into the forest, the fighters close behind.

Oliver scrambled to his feet, blood pounding. He raced toward the peak for a better view, and heard voices.

He slid to a halt a few yards short of the peak. Voices rose from the other side, coming closer:

“It’s back! The hunters spotted it; they—”

A second voice interrupted. Oliver could not make out the words. The voice was crackled and muffled as though the owner’s head were wrapped in silk and he had a terrible cold.

The first voice spoke again, sounding out of breath. “Yes, sir, I’ll find it right away, I—”

Then the owner of the voice came rushing over the peak.

Oliver found himself face to face with a boy dressed in a familiar flying outfit, with fur-lined boots and leather gloves and a wool cap exactly like the ones Oliver was wearing.

“Who are you?” gasped Oliver.

Last night, looking into this boy’s face had been like looking into a mirror. But in the daylight, the face was not quite identical. The other boy looked somewhat gaunt, with sunken eyes and a pale complexion. His left hand was wrapped in a large bandage.

The sunken eyes widened with delight. “Hullo, Oliver!” the boy said with a smile and a cough.

“You kidnapped Great-uncle Gilbert,” said Oliver, stunned, advancing on the boy
.

“Yes!” said the other boy, stumbling back. “I mean, no!”

“Who are you?” said Oliver again. “Are you my twin? What are those things chasing my kite?”

“No, no, I’m not your twin,” the other boy said desperately. His smile had been replaced by wide-eyed fright as Oliver came closer. He coughed again. “The crimson kite will be fine—don’t worry. The hunters are just going to capture it, that’s all. It won’t be hurt!” He held out his kite like a shield.

Oliver glanced at the kite—a beautiful green-and-black power kite he could not help admiring—then
snapped back to the other boy. “Hunters? Those fighting kites? Who were you talking to?”

Now the other boy looked terrified. “Why don’t you come back to the treehouse with me? Great-uncle Gilbert can explain everything!”

Oliver stopped short. “Great-uncle Gilbert? He’s back?” That had been a very brief kidnapping.

“Y-yes. He’s fine,” said the other boy. “Please, just come with me.”

The other boy was lying. Oliver could see it instantly. The way his eyes shifted and his voice pitched unnaturally high. Oliver wondered if he himself looked this obvious when he told lies. He remembered involuntarily a couple of the worst lies he had told, and cringed.

Then he noticed the other boy’s handvane. The instrument had the usual vanes showing the wind’s direction and speed, but it also had a flat, shiny surface on which glowed some large numerals. Oliver had never seen anything like it.

“What kind of handvane is that?” he asked, pointing.

“Oh, this?” said the other boy. He looked at his wrist. “It’s just a regular handvane.”

“I’ve never seen a handvane like that,” said Oliver accusingly.

“Oh, right!” said the other boy. “Well, it’s partly a watch, also.”

“A watch?”

“It tells time,” the other boy said evasively. “You’ll know everything soon, from Great-uncle Gilbert.” He hurried past Oliver, who followed right behind, wondering how a handvane could tell time. In Windblowne, water clocks at the bottom of the mountain kept the time and rang out hourly to be heard all over the mountain. Judging from the sun, Oliver thought those clocks should have rung by now, but he had not heard a single bell. And the crest was still deserted.

“Well? Have you caught it?”

Oliver jumped. It was the crackled, muffled voice, and it seemed to be coming from the other boy’s handvane. “What was that?” Oliver asked.

The other boy touched something on his handvane, and the crackling noise stopped. “I told you, Great-uncle Gilbert will explain everything,” he said over his shoulder.

“You’re lying!” said Oliver.

But the other boy did not reply. Instead, in a smooth and perfect motion, he tossed his power kite into the air and leapt. He soared expertly down the crest, a flawless jump, and landed near the oakline. Oliver fell to his knees as he watched the boy tumble upon landing, then pick himself up and scurry, limping, down the formerly secret path. This was a heartbreaking sight, because this twin, even when sick, was obviously a jumper of great skill and, judging from his kite, an expert kitesmith, too.

Oliver stood and raced down the crest, down the formerly secret path, which now appeared to be immaculately groomed all the way to Great-uncle Gilbert’s treehouse—

Oliver stopped, shocked, as the treehouse came into view.

Not only had the secret path somehow been cleared out during the night, but Great-uncle Gilbert’s treehouse had been completely rebuilt. Whereas before his home had been carefully camouflaged so that you could not find it unless you were standing right in front of it, this new treehouse revealed itself proudly, glinting and flashing in the sunlight. Where the treehouse had once sagged, it was now flat, and where it had veered off at
odd angles, it was now straight. It loomed larger and taller. The new treehouse looked as though it were made mostly of metal, something Oliver had never imagined was possible.

In fact, this entire treehouse was the product of skills and materials stranger than anything Oliver had ever seen.

The front door slid open smoothly. A figure strode out—Great-uncle Gilbert.

But it wasn’t Great-uncle Gilbert, Oliver realized. Yes, this man had the same wild hair, and the same piercing blue eyes, and something like the same face. But unlike Great-uncle Gilbert, this man was wiry and trim, and instead of a robe, he wore a strange-looking outfit tailored to fit his body closely, all white with long sleeves and pants, and shiny shoes.

Another difference between this man and Great-uncle Gilbert was that he seemed deliriously happy to see Oliver. His face wore an expression of immense pleasure, with a smile that lit his face from ear to ear, revealing a perfect set of completely white teeth. He had his hands in his pockets and was rocking back and forth on his heels excitedly.

The other boy, who was standing at the foot of the steps, spoke. “I’ve caught—I mean, I’ve brought him, Great-uncle Gilbert.”

“Now, now,” admonished the man severely. “You are to use my new title at all times.”

The other boy swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Gr—I mean, Lord Gilbert,” he said shakily.

Lord Gilbert nodded, satisfied, then fixed his attention on Oliver. “Welcome, Oliver, welcome!” he proclaimed happily. “Welcome to your new home!”

“My new home?” said Oliver
.

“My new home?” said the other boy.

Lord Gilbert frowned. “This could get confusing.” He pointed at Oliver. “You shall be known as One.” He pointed at the other boy. “And you shall be Two!”

“Why am I Two?” said the other Oliver, looking wounded. “I was here first.”

“You failed in a crucial assignment,” sniffed Lord Gilbert. “You’ve been demoted.”

Oliver, utterly dumbstruck, did not participate in this argument. He gaped at all of the metal piled up in that smooth, shining treehouse. And then to the side there were enormous gates—more metal!—from behind which a metallic shaft emerged and rose straight up, tall
as an oak. All of the black strings from the giant oaks twisted into this shaft and wove down through it until they disappeared behind the gates. Whatever was behind the gates hummed and throbbed. Oliver could feel it vibrating in the ground and smelled a putrid odor.

Then came wind, blowing rattling leaves around his feet, and then the persistent headache that had plagued him since he had landed stabbed back, now many times worse. The world spun, and Oliver cried out, staggering, holding his head in his hands.

“Goodness!” cried Lord Gilbert. “Oliver One is unwell. Take him inside, Two, and put some breakfast in him. The trauma of his arrival has overwhelmed his primitive brain!”

Two hurried Oliver inside. Lord Gilbert strode behind. The front door opened for them with a faint
whir
. Oliver stumbled, the pain in his head leaving him unable to resist. The pain stopped abruptly when the door
whirred
shut behind them, sealing them off from the outdoors. Oliver found himself in the kitchen. He blinked stupidly.

The whole room was filled with bright light, but there was not a lamp or a window to be seen. Instead, light
glared from flat panels in the ceiling. A low, whining hum came from all directions. In his great-uncle’s treehouse, this room would be the kitchen, and there would be a woodstove, an icebox, and other comforts. But here, everything seemed to be made of cold, shining metal, with polished and curved surfaces, or else a kind of white surface resembling candle wax that had been melted and shaped. But it had to be the kitchen, as there were some gray cubes frying on a counter—without a fire!—and though Oliver was not sure what the cubes were supposed to be, they did have a baconish smell. Oliver’s stomach rumbled.

While he stood there, rumbling and dumbstruck, Lord Gilbert began to pace, babbling gleefully. “I, of course, am Lord Gilbert, though you may refer to me simply as ‘Lord,’ if you wish. Although,” he said, tapping a finger against his chin, “perhaps you could call
me
‘Lord Great-uncle,’ as I shall be more family to you than
he
ever was. No, that sounds absurd. ‘Lord Gilbert’ will do.”

“What?” said Oliver, trying to gather his wits. He realized that he was still blinking stupidly and tried to make himself stop.

“For example, I intend to provide you with a new kite
to replace your old one,” Lord Gilbert continued, rubbing his hands together. “Two here has many kites. You can have your pick! Two won’t object, will you, Two?”

“No, sir,” whispered Two. He stood with his head bowed, shivering, staring at the floor.

“And though it is quite unexpected, I am simply delighted to have you here!” Lord Gilbert grinned in evident pleasure. “Two has been very useful to me—very useful!—and now your efforts will be doubled!”

This snapped Oliver back to his senses. “My efforts? What’s going on? Where’s my great-uncle? What’s happened to his treehouse?” he demanded. He had intended that to sound tough and confident, but it emerged rather squeakily. Lord Gilbert’s beaming smile was making him nervous. Everything in this shining, polished kitchen had thrown him off balance.

“Oliver One,” Lord Gilbert said conversationally, “it occurs to me that you have absolutely no understanding of your current situation.
He
never bothered to explain anything to you, did he?”

Oliver simmered. He understood
he
to refer to Great-uncle Gilbert. He was humiliated to admit that his great-uncle had indeed never explained all of these twins
and metal treehouses, or anything else at all, for that matter.

“Sit down,” instructed Lord Gilbert with a superior grin, “and
I’ll
explain everything.”

Oliver sat reluctantly.

Lord Gilbert sat down as well. He laced his fingers together and sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled. He fixed his eyes on Oliver. “I will attempt to explain this in terms that a primitive person from a backward world would understand—”

“Primitive?” interrupted Oliver. “I—”

“Silence!” commanded Lord Gilbert. “I am simply concerned about your mental well-being. Giving you the truth all at once could short-circuit your delicate mental—”

“It will not short-circuit anything,” said Oliver. He did not know what
short-circuit
meant, and he wasn’t about to admit it.

“Very well,” sighed Lord Gilbert. “You are lucky, boy. You have traveled from one Windblowne—an unsophisticated, backward place—to another Windblowne—an advanced, forward-thinking place. A different world entirely.”

Oliver was surprised. Or rather, he expected to feel surprised. But he remembered Great-uncle Gilbert asking him if he were Oliver from
this
mountain, and he remembered his great-uncle’s scrawled poem:
whisper to me, of oaks which dwell across the worlds
. And he remembered landing here and how the colors and scents and especially the sound of the winds had not been quite right.

Lord Gilbert got up and paced, lecturing. “Travel between these worlds is possible, of course—”

“Another world,” whispered Oliver. “Great-uncle Gilbert discovered how to travel to another world!”

A pained expression came over Lord Gilbert’s face. “Yes, months ago, with a sort of beginner’s luck,
he
accidentally stumbled upon the secret, though I’d seen hints of it years before that. Naturally, it is up to me to perfect the process, to mechanize and maximize it! I’ve nearly mastered it with my own machine—”

“Nearly?” said Oliver.