Oliver pulled the kite free, and it flew up on the breeze, beating the air. Oliver had to snatch its tail to keep it from being carried away.
Oliver whooped with joy. He whooped again, his cry echoing through the silent mountain.
His mind raced. Something had brought the crimson kite back to life, but what? The crimson kite’s spars were made from the riven oak. Great-uncle Gilbert and Two had used spars from this oak to craft parts of the kite. Close to this oak in this strong, vibrant world, the crimson kite could fly, and who knew what else it—
The kite beat and thrashed, pulling at Oliver.
He whooped a third time, and a fourth, thrilled by the sound of his voice, thrilled at how powerful he sounded as his voice filled the forest, echoing between oaks, primitive and wild.
There was a distant crash. It was a little like the crash he had heard before, except closer.
Oliver went silent.
There was another crash, still distant—but closer still.
He looked around uneasily. He began to wonder why none of the birds had returned.
Another crash. This one even closer.
The crimson kite flew to his side.
Another crash, and something heavy, falling.
Oliver looked around wildly. He bent over and picked up a thick branch that had fallen from the riven oak.
A crash, a crack, and then—
Oliver jumped. The smashing sound was steady now, and
closer. Something immense was coming through the forest, and it was coming fast.
Oliver hurtled through the oaks. Whatever was thundering after him was fast, much faster than he was, and it
was gaining rapidly. Whatever it was, the thing
behind him had to be the size of a treehouse—the crashing and cracking sounds
were deafening. What could he do? Should he play dead? He remembered hearing that that worked with lowland bears. But the thing behind him was no bear. Bears probably played dead
to escape from
climb any of them. But he knew of one oak—Ilia’s oak—that had low-hanging branches, if he could just get there before being flattened or devoured or skinned alive
or however this thing normally disposed of its prey.
He ran for Ilia’s oak as the bellow of the giant creature rolled over him, bringing with it a horribly warm stench. At last he spied the tree, with its unusually low-hanging branches—except that in this world, low-hanging still meant far above Oliver’s head.
He snatched the crimson kite from his pack. “I need you. Please,” Oliver begged.
He jumped as high as he could, discovering that the fear of being eaten alive can add several inches to your vertical leap. The several inches were of little use, however, and he was on his way back down when the tail snapped taut on his wrist. He shot ten feet straight up and grabbed the lowest branch just as the kite failed and fell. Oliver scrambled furiously upward, trying to be Ilia-like, pulling the kite with him.
The oak shuddered and groaned. Oliver clung fiercely, too terrified to look down. A hideous roar shook the tree, and a wave of foul breath enveloped him, making him gag. The oak shook again, and there was another roar.
The oak leaned, creaking. Could the crimson kite fly him anywhere else? No, it was exhausted now, draped limply over a branch. He pulled the kite the rest of the way up.
Silence. Oliver took the opportunity to put a few more branches between himself and the ground. He could hear an impossibly heavy tread rumbling around. Loud snorts and a rotting smell came wafting up through the branches. Oliver tried to peer down but could not see a thing through the leafy cover.
What had happened to the branch he’d picked up? He remembered shoving it into his pack right before he started running. And it was still there, poking uncomfortably. He pulled it out, wondering if he should throw it at the creature. He gave it a few practice waves.
The kite shivered on its branch.
Oliver held the branch closer, and the kite shivered a little more.
Even this one piece of the riven oak had a small effect on the kite. It—
it didn’t really matter, because sooner or later that enormous thing was going to knock him out of the oak and eat him.
The heavy tread sounded like it was backing up. Oliver braced himself for a tremendous charge, one that would knock him flying from the oak.
A thundering gallop began. He gripped the kite and braced his legs and closed his eyes and—
and then he could not hear the galloping. He couldn’t hear anything but an enormous, howling wind, striking from all sides. It was almost as bad as the creature’s attacks. Oliver pressed himself against the oak. The winds screamed around him in primal agony, a sound worse than anything Oliver had ever heard, and he screamed, too.
Through his closed eyelids he saw a flash of light, brighter than a thousand hunters appearing at once, explode over the mountain. It faded, and Oliver opened his eyes.
The winds fell, and the galloping sound returned. But this time the gallop was going in the other direction. The creature was running away. Through a small break in the leaves Oliver caught a glimpse of a broad, scaly back disappearing into the brush, leaving behind a path of flattened foliage.
Something had frightened off the monster, and whatever it was, Oliver could feel it, too. Something about this world’s living energy, the energy that had made him shout in joy, that had made the birds sing, that had made the oaks grow to wild heights, had vanished.
All around him, the forest was changing color.
For a moment Oliver thought the forest was on fire. All of the leaves were turning yellow and red, as though fire were spreading everywhere at once. As Oliver watched, the yellow and red burned into brown, and then, in a terrible convulsion, the leaves of every oak on the mountain fell in a thick cloud, an ocean of dead leaves. Winter had come in an instant.
Great-uncle Gilbert’s strange words, scrawled in that ancient manuscript, came to Oliver. He did not need a
