winds could take a piece of straw and drive it into the trunk of an oak like an arrow—or into the body of a foolish child who defied the night winds.

The kite had nearly reached the peak, dragging Oliver just behind. He felt nearly at the end of his strength. The kite loomed over him. The two moons gleamed beyond.

For one instant, the night winds slackened, just enough for Oliver to gather himself for one last pull.

Then the winds blasted back in all of their fury. The tail snapped taut and pain tore through Oliver’s shoulder. The kite shot into the sky, and Oliver went with it.

Terror flooded him. He had never learned to kite jump, and yet here he was, leaping out from the crest, legs kicking. Already he was too high to let go of the kite, even if he could. His only chance was to hang on and attempt a safe landing.

The kite and Oliver rose rapidly, the barren ground racing below. Oliver saw moonslight glinting off the granite marker.

A new thought replaced the terror: I’m going to come close to the record.

Now he was flying faster, still rising.

I’m going to BREAK the record!

The granite marker sped by in a blur. Oliver would have yelled in triumph if certain death had not been seconds away. He was hurtling straight toward the oaks, a hundred feet off the ground. The kite continued to rise. The oaks came near, then passed beneath them, the tips of their highest branches brushing Oliver’s legs.

Looking down, he saw the treehouses of Windblowne, now far below, and a light escaping through the trees where someone, woken by the winds, moved restlessly, unable to sleep.

Then they passed upward into a chilling mist, and Oliver could see no more.

6

Oliver had always admired carrier kites, immense kites large enough for a person to sit in and be flown high above the mountain. He had admired their daring passengers even more. Though carrier kites were controlled from the ground by teams of fliers, it nevertheless took nerves of oak to soar at such altitude, held aloft only by silk and bamboo and the work of your own hands. But Oliver had now achieved an entirely new understanding of altitude. From where he soared, he would be looking down at any carrier kite that had ever flown. And from the ground, Oliver and the kite would be no more than a speck in the sky.

Oliver thought he ought to feel terrified. Here he was, clinging to the tail of a small kite, miles above the ground in the midst of the most ferocious windstorm he had witnessed in a short life filled with ferocious windstorms. Not only was he in ridiculous danger, but he was also not the boy best equipped to bring this flight to a successful conclusion, one that did not involve breaking every bone in his body and becoming the posthumous laughingstock of all Windblowne.

And yet, he wasn’t frightened. Instead, an unfamiliar feeling surged through him: happiness. He tried a few experimental screams of joy, which were snatched away on the winds.

Perhaps it was that the night winds carried him so smoothly, as though wrapped in a blanket of air, although they must have been hurtling at unheard-of speeds. The crimson kite had lashed its tail firmly around his forearm.

They seemed to be flying through a cloud. Oliver wished he could see the stars, or the lights of passing towns racing by below, or anything at all besides the faint glow of enveloping mist illuminated by the moons.

Still, he was flying higher and farther than anyone had ever flown, he was sure, and he began formulating big plans for his triumphant return to Windblowne. He had broken about seven different records that he could think of, and had set about five others that he had invented along the way. Twelve new records! His homecoming would be grand, even if it took him a few weeks to get back from wherever he landed. He wondered where they would put the granite marker, which would now be emblazoned with his name. The new placement would be many leagues from Windblowne, which was a shame, but at least this record was sure to be unbreakable. In the absence of the marker, Oliver would just have to remind everyone of the accomplishment himself. And in a distant town somewhere, people would gather around the granite marker and ask themselves, “Who was this Oliver, this bold adventurer who descended from the skies? What sort of brilliant flying was required to—”

Abruptly, Oliver noticed that he was no longer being pulled directly behind the kite. He was not flying but dangling, a tiny figure lost in the vast sky. The winds were slowing. Dawn was arriving with surprising swiftness. He became conscious of the miles of empty space below him. Without the strength of the night winds, the kite would not be able to keep both of them aloft.

“Shouldn’t we begin preparations for landing?” Oliver shouted. He attempted a few experimental tugs on the tail, but the kite took no notice.

A brighter glow spread through the mist. “Kite,” said Oliver firmly, hoping that for once a kite would listen to him. “Landing time. Let’s go.” He gave another tug. No response.

Then the kite began to sink, slowly at first, then faster. Oliver was sweating now and kicking his legs. The winds that had carried him along gently for hours were now rushing straight up past him, and not gently. He thought of a thirteenth record he was about to set—first flier to be squashed while flying a kite. No one in Windblowne would be surprised that Oliver had set that record. They could plant the granite marker on the spot where he met his violent end.

Then, in a smooth, silent rush, the mist cleared.

Oliver could see the ground approaching with alarming speed.

They were falling through the last wisps of the dying night winds, straight toward the crest of another mountain.

Since there were no other mountains anywhere near Windblowne, Oliver knew they must have flown very far indeed. He was going to die, alone, on a strange and faraway mountain, a mere splotch on the landscape, with no one to document the twelve records he had just set. At least he would avoid the public embarrassment of record number thirteen.

Oliver shut his eyes and waited for impact.

There was a loud snap, and pain shot through him—but the snap was only the kite’s sails going taut once more, and the pain was only from his beleaguered shoulder. Oliver opened his eyes and saw the ground rushing up below his feet. He tucked his legs, hit the ground hard, and rolled forward onto his back. He looked up at the kite, which hovered over him, dancing back and forth as the final night winds curled away.

“Very funny,” Oliver said.

The kite fluttered proudly.

Oliver lay there for a minute, glorying in the feel of being alive and on solid ground and in possession of an intact skeleton. He had braved the greatest heights ever achieved by a flier. No one needed to know how terrified he had been at the end.

In the thrill of the flight, he had almost forgotten why he had followed the kite in the first place.

“So where’s Great-uncle Gilbert?” he said to the kite. “Where are we, anyway?”

But the kite was simply flying around him in anxious circles.

He rolled onto his stomach and climbed achingly to his feet, rubbing his arm, which burned where the kite had unlashed its tail just before landing. He wondered how many leagues he’d flown—ten? a hundred? Was he in a new land? Would the people here speak a strange language? Would they grasp the epic scope of his accomplishments? Would they object to the new placement of the granite marker?

Oliver looked around, the light of dawn revealing everything—and cried out in dismay.

He’d thought he had shattered half the records in the book. But now he could see he was standing right on the Windblowne crest, exactly at the point from which he’d taken off. There was the granite marker, far off, glinting in the morning sun. He hadn’t set the record after all—unless it was the record for the shortest jump of all time. He wondered if there was a record for the longest jump for the least distance, for surely he’d broken that record many times over. They must have been going in circles the entire time.

Oliver shot the kite a disgusted look. “Couldn’t you have at least set me down a little past the marker?”

The kite’s sails drooped sadly.

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