Windblowne

whispered. He gathered the kite into his arms and looked around.

The wall curved majestically around the crest, dwindling away to tiny points in both directions. It was about ten feet thick. Everything was quiet, except for a soft hush of wind and a few distant chirps. At least there are birds here, Oliver thought. He could guess now why there were no birds on Lord Gilbert’s Windblowne. They had all fled from the hunters.

“Why would they build this wall?” he whispered. The kite lay limply in his hands, unresponsive. And why was he still whispering, he asked himself. Something about this Windblowne made him whisper.

Summoning his courage, he stood and crossed to the other side of the wall, half interested in and half frightened by what he might see.

Below him, spilling down to the distant foothills, was a perfectly normal Windblowne. There were all of the familiar treehouses of neighbors and shops and schoolmates. Tiny dots of townspeople were hurrying along Windswept Way. The light wind brought with it the sounds of a living town—the murmur of voices, the pealing of a water clock as it sounded the half hour, the knocking of hammers as they repaired damage from the winds. He could even see the Volitant Dragon. He smiled. Windblowne had never looked so good.

All seemed well in the town, other than the partly leafless oaks. The effects of Lord Gilbert’s machine were becoming more evident. Oliver could see through bare patches in many of the trees.

“Here’s the plan,” Oliver whispered to the kite. He stopped, then spoke in a normal voice. “Here’s the plan. I’ll climb down, hurry into town, and find the mayor.” He thought of the mayor complaining about his mother’s sculptures. “No, the mayor is a fool. And the Watch is useless. I’ll find the great-uncle Gilbert from this world and warn him. Maybe he can help.” It was a hasty plan, but it would have to do.

There was also the matter of breakfast. The wind brought with it the smell of food cooking all over the mountain. Oliver felt as though he could eat an entire side of bacon and a few dozen eggs, all by himself. He leaned over the edge and looked down at the dizzying drop. Quickly deciding that he was not willing to jump off and hope the kite could carry him down safely, he began to hunt around for other means of descending. He saw nothing except a few oak branches, swaying gently just within reach.

Like anyone from Windblowne, a few days earlier he would never have considered climbing an oak. It was far too dangerous. But Oliver had done a lot of dangerous things in the past few days, and something as innocuous as descending an oak unaided didn’t seem that perilous any longer.

He removed his pack and fastened the kite to the kite straps, then hurried along the lonely curve of wall until he found a sturdy branch poking over. He hopped on. The branch swayed under his weight as he wriggled his way to the trunk. Oliver was surprised to discover that tree climbing was rather fun, and not really that dangerous— although he wouldn’t want to be up there during the night winds. He climbed down through the wide-spreading branches. There was no sign of Windswept Way, but he knew that if he muddled down-slope he would come across it soon enough. With the wall blocking the route to his destination, he had no choice but to use the main road.

He crashed through the forest, wading through mounds of oak leaves.

He had not been crashing for long before he heard familiar, unpleasant voices. Voices that made him want to retreat into the trees. He braced himself. “I’ve got nothing to be scared of,” he whispered to the kite. “I’ve been through worse than this.”

He peeked out from behind the nearest oak. He saw a duplicate Marcus and a duplicate Alain and a few other nasty faces from school. They were shuffling along oddly, heads down, as though they had not noticed the beautiful day. A few were looking up worriedly at the oaks. There was no duplicate Oliver among them—and why would there be? Oliver was never welcome among their counterparts in his own Windblowne. Looking up and down the Way, he saw a few other Windblownians, mostly adults, shuffling, oblivious to midsummer and to the fact that there ought to be a Festival going on.

But of course, there was no Festival here. Not with that wall.

Maybe this is a bad idea, Oliver thought uneasily. But he had to brave the town sooner or later.

Steeling himself, he stepped onto the Way.

Oliver expected the usual laughs and ridicule. Instead, the group stared at him in surprise. “Hey!” Marcus said. “Who are you?”

The plan was not going well.

“Uh,” said Oliver, thinking fast. “I’m Oliver One—I mean, I’m Oliver.”

There was a collective gasp. “Don’t be a jerk,” Marcus snapped, balling one hand into a fist. Alain joined him, looking just as angry.

“That’s not funny,” said Alain. “Whoever you are, you’d better get off our mountain.”

Marcus and Alain closed in, fists up. Oliver backed away, congratulating himself on his brilliant strategy.

“Sorry,” he pleaded, waving his hands defensively, “I, uh …” He turned to run.

There was another collective gasp; then a voice from the back of the group squeaked, “A KITE!”

Oliver turned back in surprise. Marcus and Alain were retreating, and now it was their hands that were waving in defense.

That’s better, thought Oliver. He slipped the kite from its straps and held it high. “Yes, it’s a kite!” he announced.

“Do you like it?” He whooshed the kite dramatically around his head.

The response was a satisfying scattering of his tormentors. One or two of them screamed. “We’re telling the Watch!” Marcus yelped, and ran.

Oliver watched as they disappeared down the Way. That, he thought, was the weirdest thing yet. He held up the kite for inspection. “How did you do that?” he asked. “You need to teach me that trick.” The kite seemed to shiver—or was it the wind?

Oliver chuckled at the thought of the others alerting the Watch. Was he supposed to be scared? He had faced killer hunters and mad geniuses. The Watch was no threat to him. By the time those fat old men finished their ample breakfasts and puffed their way up the mountain, he would have had plenty of time to get to Great-uncle Gilbert’s treehouse on this world.

As for getting to the treehouse … He looked around. The Way had emptied. Oliver was not sure what was going on here, but clearly he stuck out in his flying clothes. There was no help for that, but he had to make his way around a bit more carefully. He’d have to abandon the Way, and stick to the forest, and—

“HALT!” a powerful voice shouted. “Halt in the name of the Windblowne Watch!”

Oliver whirled around.

A group of men were running up the Way—young, strong men. They reached him before he could recover from his shock. Oliver recognized them all. In his own Windblowne, each of them was a promising young flier, the kind of man who hoped to be a champion someday. But here they were dressed in the uniforms of the Watch.

The Watchmen circled him, keeping a wary distance.

“Listen!” Oliver said quickly. “I know what’s wrong with the oaks. I—”

One of the men was wearing captain’s colors. “Drop the kite!” he ordered.

“But—”

“Drop it!” shouted the captain. He stepped closer, a hand moving to his hip. Oliver saw that he was carrying a club.

Everything was silent but for wind caressing the oaks and, far off, a swallow’s sudden cry.

“Yes, sir,” said Oliver meekly. “Sorry,” he whispered to the kite as he set it carefully on the ground.

“Now step away!” the captain ordered, his muscles bulging authoritatively under his uniform. Unlike the rumpled uniforms of the Watch in Oliver’s Windblowne, these men’s outfits were crisp and pressed and fit perfectly.

Oliver thought they were being a little silly but felt it would be better not to tell them this. He stepped away from the kite.

The captain looked around at the other Watchmen. “Bear,” he said to the largest and strongest-looking. “Get the kite.”

“Uh, captain,” Bear said, “I’m not touching that thing.” Murmurs of agreement came from the other Watchmen.

The captain grimaced. “Right,” he said. “We’ll ask the mayor what to do. For now, go to the Goldspar Inn and get a blanket. Toss it over the kite and weigh it down with rocks. We’ll deal with it later.”