“Good idea, captain!” said Bear, obviously relieved. He ran down the Way.
The captain turned back to Oliver. “You!” he thundered. “You must be from the valley! You think this is some kind of joke?”
“No, sir,” Oliver squeaked, “I—”
“That’s what I thought!” the captain shouted. “Seize him!”
Oliver was seized. Powerful hands grabbed his arms.
“March him down to headquarters,” ordered the captain.
And down the mountain they marched. That is, the Watchmen marched. Oliver dangled. He was hoisted between two of the men and carried off, his feet kicking futilely. Soon they had passed around the first bend and left the kite entirely behind.
This wasn’t good at all.
Oliver recovered his wits. He was a wind-traveling hero, and he wouldn’t be manhandled by a bunch of thugs. “Put me down!” he yelled.
The captain shook his head grimly.
“I said,” shouted Oliver, taking a deep breath, “put me down! I haven’t done anything!”
The captain rolled his eyes and nodded. The Watchmen released Oliver, and he tumbled to the ground.
“Men,” growled the captain, “if the prisoner makes one more sound, gag him.”
One of the Watchmen shoved him. “Keep moving!” the shover ordered.
Oliver craned his neck, spotting the Volitant Dragon, built high in its oak, just like at home. But unlike at home, he didn’t see colorful banners flapping in the breeze or excited children with new handvanes running around its balconies. Instead, there were boarded-up windows, peeling paint, and doors hanging off their hinges. The wooden dragon was still swinging from its post, but it had been painted over, roughly, in peeling brown, and read, in crude letters:CLOSED.
A Watchman shoved him forward. “I said keep moving!”
Oliver twisted. “It’s the Eighth Day of the Second Moon!”
“You’re a smart one,” the Watchman sneered. “Where’s my gag?” the captain muttered, patting his pockets.
Oliver couldn’t help himself. “What happened to the Dragon? Why isn’t there any Festival?”
“Found it!” announced the captain. He jammed a wad of rags into Oliver’s mouth. The Dragon soon passed from view.
“Mmph!” Oliver said. He reached for the gag. A Watchman grabbed for him and pinned his arms.
He turned his head in all directions. No kites, no Festival decorations, no posters littering the streets, no announcements of the day’s schedule. The town felt sad and empty without them.
The Windblownians seemed sad and empty, too. A few looked curiously at him, then hurried on, their heads down and their faces troubled.
An intense longing for Windblowne, his Windblowne, filled Oliver. He wished he could see his treehouse again—
Which, of course, he could. He realized with a start that they were nearly there.
His mother did not have her sculptures crowding the lane—there were no sculptures at all. The lawn was clear and neat, just like any other lawn in Windblowne. The treehouse looked the same as ever, if a bit tidier. But his mother’s workshop was dark and shuttered, and a padlock hung on the door.
Oliver began to feel sick. He spat the gag from his mouth. “Who lives here?”
“You know who lives here,” snapped the captain. “We heard what you told those kids.” He bent down for the gag, then drew his hand back in disgust. “Re-gag the prisoner,” he ordered one of his men, who glared at Oliver.
“But I—” Oliver began. The damp and now dusty gag cut off his protest.
Oliver had not recognized him at first. He had never seen his father without his writing journal in hand, scribbling notes for one of his books. Usually he carried a sling stuffed with other books he was using for his research. He walked everywhere slowly, stopping every few steps to write, as some idea struck him.
In this world, though, Oliver’s father carried nothing. He still walked slowly, but his head was bent, and his step was heavy. He looked terribly sad, and Oliver had the sudden and very unexpected urge to run to him and comfort him.
Oliver tried to dart between the Watchmen. “Mmph!” he said as loudly as he could.
“I hate this kid,” panted the Watchman on his left, fighting for a grip.
They came alongside Oliver’s father, who raised his head leadenly to peer at the strange sight of six burly Watchmen struggling to contain one lively boy.
Oliver’s eyes bulged as they met his father’s. “MMPH!” he cried desperately.
For an instant, his father’s heavy eyes cleared and there was a flash of recognition. But then his father shook his head, muttered angrily, and trudged on.
“Mmph,” groaned Oliver. He stopped fighting. He felt numb with despair. His own father—sort of—had done nothing to help him. His own father had abandoned him to the Watch.
They came to Watch headquarters. The gag was yanked from Oliver’s mouth.
This headquarters looked as much like the one in Oliver’s Windblowne as these Watchmen looked like their fat and beery counterparts. It had bars on the windows and steep stairs on which other young, sharply dressed Watchmen were trotting up and down with serious looks on their faces.
They were the same serious expressions that Oliver had seen on every face in this world. There were no kindly looks, no smiles, no laughter.
Two passing Watchmen were talking urgently. “Leaves falling all over the mountain,” one was saying. “No one knows why.”
“I know why!” said Oliver.
The men peered at Oliver. “What did this one do?”
“Came up from the valley,” answered the captain. “Dressed like a flier. Called himself Oliver. Thinks he’s funny.”
Oliver began, “I don’t th—”
“Up!” ordered the captain.
Oliver put one foot on the lowest step. He wondered if he was going into a jail cell. Would this be his final glimpse of daylight? He looked up, savoring a last moment of sun and wind and sky.…
And saw a little black dot that was rapidly getting larger.
“UP!” demanded the captain.
Oliver whirled and grabbed the captain’s shoulders.
He pointed, shouting, “A hunter! I mean, a … a kite!”
The captain chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, we’re not falling for that. We’ve heard that one befo—”
A shriek shattered the air as the hunter dove straight at Oliver.
Oliver leapt as the hunter struck him a glancing blow. He fell flat on his back, his breath knocked from his body and his head hitting the solid ground. This position gave him an excellent view of the entirely one-sided battle between the Watchmen and the hunter.
