Windblowne

fliers,” he said to the kite, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll be right at home.”

Oliver rose to his feet, still in semi-darkness, to see what this new world was like.

The stiff morning carried rich and familiar scents of forest and soil. He could not see the oaks yet, but he could smell them, strong and woody and alive. Just as the grass here was thicker, the smells were also more potent, more vital.

The sunlight grew, and Oliver saw the oaks. They were half again as tall as any oaks he had ever seen. Their leafy tops were lost in low clouds and whirlpools of mist.

Oliver fell to his knees in the grass, closed his eyes, and breathed.

Then he noticed other smells, scents of death and decay and things dark and distant. These smells brought to mind images of the riven oak and its odious, sick scent.

Sounds came on the winds too, but these sounds were very different from the keening cries on Lord Gilbert’s world and the hollow moan on the Crest Wall world. Was it music? Singing? Whatever it was, it was sad and sorrowful and it pulled tears from him before he realized it was happening. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

Pull yourself together, Oliver!

He got up off his knees.

“I’ve got to find the Great-uncle Gilbert who lives here,” Oliver said to the kite, determined. “I’ve got to warn him. I’ll make sure not to get arrested this time.”

The kite gave a tug so weak that Oliver thought he imagined it. Then it tugged again, and he looked down at his sore and burning arm, where the tail was still wrapped.

He took a couple of curious steps in the direction of the tug.

tug tug

The kite wanted to go somewhere.

Oliver took a few more steps in that direction, as the wind made long, rippling rows in the waving grass. But for the second time in two days, and in his memory, he felt lost. The size of the oaks seemed to have confused his map.

“Wait,” Oliver ordered. He turned in all directions, looking, listening.

In the light of morning, with the mist now dissipated, Oliver could see only the towering oaks and lush green grass and dark blue sky, and he could hear only twittering birdsong and windy sighs. There were no signs of any town whatsoever. Oliver had the feeling of being alone in a mysterious, primitive world. He felt a tingling on his skin, and the rich, potent air and the damp golden light seemed to be going to his head. His mind began to swim with wild thoughts that he could run as fast as the wind and stand as tall and as strong as an oak. That he could face down Lord Gilbert and his hunters and anything else that came his way. The air was filled with power, and so was he. He wanted to run and shout and—

tug

Oliver shook his head. He had to keep his wits about him. The truth was, he was wet, cold, lost, and entirely vulnerable should any hunters appear. Any minute now there could be half a dozen flashes and everything would be over for him and the kite and all of the Windblownes. He had to get off the crest, into the shelter of the forest.

“Fine, I’ll follow you,” he said. “But we have to be more careful this time.”

The kite only continued its gentle, wistful tugging.

Oliver allowed the tugging to lead him. He bounced toward the oakline, buzzing from the heady air.

When they reached the oaks, he crouched and peered around, chilled and shivering. Everything was wetter here too, and the rips in what was left of his flying outfit were letting in the water. He rubbed his arms for warmth and tried to get his bearings.

tug

“Wait,” whispered Oliver. He checked Great-uncle Gilbert’s handvane, still fastened to his wrist. It had survived the rolling without a scratch, though it still pointed off in its own direction, oblivious to the wind. His instruction to fly west did not seem to have produced anything useful. The last two flights had been short—perhaps the kite did not have the strength for a longer trip. His great-uncle could not be in this Windblowne. Lush, green, vibrant, this world was anything but a hell-world.

The morning birds obviously felt the same way. They had started in with earsplitting songs. Oliver was glad that they were happy, but they made it a little hard to think.

He was just wishing they would shut up—

when they did. They shut up instantly, but not before forming a huge black cloud, blotting out the sky, twisting like a tornado. Then the cloud evaporated, leaving an empty sky.

The world was dead quiet.

In the silence, Oliver heard a faraway sound. It was soft, but it had the feel of a sound that would be very loud if you were close by, like a slow, immense, and distant crash.

Something fell, he thought.

Oliver studied the leaves spreading out over his head. He knew this oak. He looked over at the next one—and in that moment, all the surrounding oaks clicked into place on his map. The oaks were far bigger than the oaks in other worlds, but they were still his oaks, the oaks of Windblowne. Oliver knew precisely where he was. He was at the entrance to the secret path.

Or at least, he was at the spot where the entrance ought to be. The path was not there. There was just more brush, and no sign that anyone had ever cleared away any of it to make his own private way to the crest.

tug

But that was where the kite wanted to go.

Oliver fastened the kite to his pack, leaving its tail on his arm for comfort. Then he drew a long breath— nearly tipping over from the dizziness—and started off into the forest.

That crash had probably been nothing. Nevertheless, he slipped quietly from oak to oak, through the dense, unspoiled forest.

After a while, he noticed he was bouncing again. He had started running and jumping, without being aware of it.

Slow down! he ordered himself.

The burst of energy this world had given him was surging back. He kept wanting to shout. He almost wished he had the Watch captain’s gag with him.

Silent, he thought. Quiet as a shadow. At least until he knew more about this world. Though his emotions were bobbling all over the place, he tried to concentrate on that single task.

He crept slowly and carefully through more wild forest. Soon he found his great-uncle’s oak—

and nothing else at all. He was not surprised to discover that there was no treehouse, of metal or wood. Nothing to indicate a great-uncle of any variety had ever lived here. Just more thick forest all around, and the mournful wind.

He walked closer to the oak. He peered up along the trunk, scanning … and then he saw something deep within the gnarled bark of the tree. He pushed his fingers in and felt something cold and rusty. It felt like the head of a bolt, the sort of thing that, once upon a time, might have been used to secure a set of steps.

Great-uncle Gilbert’s treehouse—no, this would not have been his treehouse, it would have been someone else’s, someone who died long before Great-uncle Gilbert was born. Which he had never been. Not in this Windblowne, anyway. Judging by the jumping marker and the ancient bolt, the Windblowne that had once inhabited this mountain had disappeared centuries ago.

He continued around the oak and saw, for the first time since his arrival, something not filled with vigor and life.

The riven oak.

In this world, it was withered, half the height of its neighbors and bent precariously to one side. Most of its leaves had fallen.

The riven oak in Lord Gilbert’s world must be very close to death. Oliver had promised to save the oak. He wasn’t doing a very good job.

On his back, the kite had begun to quiver, then thrash about in its straps.