true.
“Can I see your kite?” Ilia asked.
“Uh,” said Oliver.
Ilia seemed to take that as a yes. Slinging the stone into the red knit pouch, she descended, skipping from branch to branch. She landed with a thump beside Oliver and reached out.
Oliver, surprised that she did not seem afraid, held out the kite.
She poked it cautiously. A delighted smile broke out on her face. “What a nice kite!” she said.
“You have no idea,” said Oliver, feeling proud.
“I might,” said Ilia. “I was sitting on the wall this morning, watching the sun rise. I saw you fly down from the sky. I’ve been following you ever since.”
“Oh,” said Oliver.
“You need some help with your oak climbing,” said Ilia.
“Well, it was my first try,” Oliver said defensively. “How did you follow me?”
“Through the oaks,” replied Ilia. She took another stone from her pouch and scanned the sky. “So is that … thing … coming back?”
“It’s called a hunter. And yes. It’s going to bring more with it.”
“Come on, then,” said Ilia. She turned and dashed along the wall. Oliver followed, listening for signs of pursuit from below.
They soon came to an oak with several low-hanging branches. Without breaking stride, Ilia began to climb. Oliver fastened the kite to his pack and climbed after her, glad that she had gone first. He wanted to practice climbing some more before she saw him at it again.
The air seemed to get thinner as they climbed, or maybe Oliver was reaching the physical limits of exhaustion. He felt queasy. He wondered how long it would take him to hit the ground if he fell, how many branches he might hit on the way down. Ilia showed no signs of tiring, and he wasn’t about to ask her to slow down.
“Ilia?” Oliver ventured.
Leaves rustled. He heard a shout, far off.
“Ilia?” Oliver whispered nervously. Had she fallen?
“Hurry up!” Ilia’s voice snapped from above. “I can see them coming!”
Then Oliver saw it—the slightest break in the tangle, just to his right. He climbed over and up, fast as he could, and clambered through a cleverly concealed trapdoor and into a small, snug treehouse.
Ilia was peering into a miniature brass telescope that pointed through a tiny window.
“Who’s coming?” Oliver wheezed, glad to feel a solid floor beneath him. “The hunters?”
“No,” said Ilia. “Just some of the Watch.”
“What will we do? We’re trapped!”
“Don’t worry,” Ilia replied. “I’ve got this treehouse entirely camouflaged.”
Oliver looked all around, marveling. The treehouse was large enough for both of them to move about comfortably. There were open crates scattered around that were full of interesting things like ropes and pulleys and gears and more telescopes, and even a bow and some arrows. There were more throwing stones for the red knit pouch, and a threadbare rug on the floor, some dry food, a few canteens, and candles. Windows looked in all directions, and there was another window in the roof, covered by a sliding door.
“Who built this?” said Oliver in wonder. “It’s amazing.”
“I did,” said Ilia, beaming. “I’ve been working on it a little bit at a time, for years.”
“And no one knows about it?”
“Nope,” said Ilia. “You’re the first. Do you really like it?”
“Yes,” said Oliver. Suddenly he had the feeling he might be blushing. He grabbed one of the telescopes and fumbled with it. “I bet you can see whatever goes on in Windblowne from up here.”
“Well, I can see a lot of things. Especially now, because the oaks have been losing their leaves. Everyone is trying to pretend that nothing’s wrong, but I’m really worried.”
“I am, too,” said Oliver.
“They think the wall is going to protect them from everything,” Ilia muttered.
Oliver settled on a pillow, stretching out his aching legs. “Yes, the wall,” he said. “What is that for?”
“You don’t know?” said Ilia skeptically. “Where are you from, anyway?”
“I’m, uh, from the valley.”
“Hmmm,” said Ilia. “You’re from the valley, and you made a kite that could fly in the night winds, and you flew over the wall with it this morning?”
“Yes?” lied Oliver.
Ilia raised one eyebrow. “Pretty impressive for someone from the valley.”
“I could have gotten this kite from Windblowne,” Oliver suggested. “Maybe I didn’t make it myself.”
She stared at him. “Don’t you know that no one here makes kites anymore? I was six years old when they started building the Crest Wall, and that was the last time I saw a kite in the sky. I can still remember it.”
“Why did they build it? Why stop people from flying kites?”
Ilia lowered her eyes. “Because of the Lost.”
“Who are the Lost?” Oliver asked.
She sat heavily on a pillow, tossing her pouch next to the pile of stones.
“Something happened,” she began. “Years ago, just before the Festival of Kites. A group of children were flying their kites on the crest. A big gust of wind blew up, and somehow one of the children was carried away. Everyone shouted for him to let go of his kite, but he refused. He disappeared into the sky.”
“I see,” said Oliver.
“They searched for him for days, all through the valley and the plains, trying to find where he might have come down. There was no sign of him anywhere. His parents were frantic.” As Ilia told the story, her face became weary, with the same sad expression that Oliver had seen on the faces of so many townspeople below.
Oliver thought about his family’s treehouse, and the shuttered workshop, and his father’s downcast face. He had a very good idea of the name of the boy who had been blown away by the winds. “Did … that boy … make the kite himself?”
Ilia looked at him strangely, then shook her head. “No. His great-uncle, a famous master kitesmith, made it for him. Everyone went to him after the boy disappeared, but his great-uncle had no idea what had happened. He searched as hard as anyone for his grandnephew.”
Oliver swallowed. “And they built the wall because of that?”
“No,” said Ilia. “They built the wall because of what happened next.”
Muffled shouts came from below. Ilia and Oliver ran to the windows.
“Have they found us?” Oliver said anxiously.
“No,” whispered Ilia, telescope to eye. “They’re just searching the forest. Keep your voice down.”
They sat back on the pillows. “So what happened next?” prompted Oliver.
“Several nights later,” Ilia continued solemnly, “four more children disappeared. Their parents went to wake them in the morning, and their beds were empty.”
Oliver thought of his empty bed, back in a Windblowne that seemed very far away.
Ilia crawled to one of the crates and rummaged. She handed Oliver a piece of paper, old and crumpled.
He opened it and read:
Come to the crest at midnight. Don’t tell
The note was in his handwriting.
“They found one of these notes in the room of one of the Lost—after he disappeared,” said Ilia. “His flying clothes were gone, just like the other three. None of them were ever seen again.”
