He found Two flying a kite in the crisp, fresh winds. Two was surrounded by hunters. Some of them were watching him fly his kite. Others were taking off, landing, taking off again, and chasing each other across the sky.
Two had attempted to help Oliver with his kite-flying, but after a few botched outings that seriously damaged some of Two’s finest kites, Oliver had decided it just wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t worried about it. He had other interests now. Reaching into his pack, Oliver removed Great-uncle Gilbert’s handvane—really his own handvane now, as his great-uncle had given it to him—and snapped it onto his wrist.
Two began reeling in his kite. It was a magnificent golden dragon, with tails that spun in all directions. Beside him lay a few more of his kites. Oliver had helped him pack them up the night before. There was also a suitcase full of carefully folded clothes, backpacks full of kitesmithing tools, and a portfolio of kite designs. Oliver shrugged one pack onto his shoulders, and Two gathered up everything else.
“Are you ready?” asked Oliver.
Two shifted his feet nervously and looked around the crest. “I don’t know.” His voice shook just slightly.
“Come on,” said Oliver gently. “Everything’s arranged. They can’t wait to meet you. But if you don’t want to go today, we can go tomorrow. There’s no rush.”
Two took a deep, shuddering breath. “No. I’m ready.” He held out his hand. “Let’s go.”
Oliver took Two’s hand and closed his eyes. Far off, beneath the blustery gusts of this peak, Oliver heard the hollow roar of winds within the Crest Wall.
Two’s hand gripped his arm tightly as Oliver stepped through the winds.
In a moment they stood on the crest again, this time surrounded by the wall.
Two gasped. He turned slowly, taking in the sight. “They did all of this because their Oliver was blown away on the winds?”
Oliver nodded. “And he took a few others with him.”
Two looked at his folded kites. “Do you think they’ll really tear it down?”
“They might,” said Oliver. “I talked to the captain, and most of these Windblownians are sick of the wall. They just have to get over their fear. Maybe you can help with that.”
Two was still scanning the wall. “Is that her?” he asked suddenly, pointing.
In the distance, a tiny figure was rapidly descending a rope ladder.
“Yes,” said Oliver. “That’s Ilia.” He waved, and Ilia waved back, swinging comfortably with one hand from the rope ladder. “I’d better go.”
Two turned to him, a stricken look on his face. “What if … what if they don’t like me? Maybe we should go back.”
“No,” said Oliver, “this will be your Windblowne now. This will be your home.”
Two took one uncertain step, then another. With each step he moved more quickly toward Ilia, who had reached the ground and was running toward him.
As Oliver stepped back into the winds, he looked toward the top of the wall, just above the rope ladder. The setting sun illuminated two familiar figures waiting there, a man and a woman huddled together, watching as Two approached Ilia.
Then Oliver stepped across worlds, back to Great-uncle Gilbert’s new home.
He arrived amidst the full force of the night winds. The crimson kite was waiting. Oliver leapt and grasped its lashing tail, and they soared up into the mist.
Part of him didn’t want to go home just yet. Part of him wanted to catch his first glimpse of the ocean tonight. But the part of him that was drawn toward home was stronger, and so he settled for a flight through the dark, wind-lashed Way Between Worlds, listening to the voices of the many worlds now available to him.
Morning arrived, the mist brightened, and they soared on powerful wind toward Oliver’s crest. Below him, he saw an enormous crowd of people surrounding the peak, where a stage had been erected.
“The Festival awards ceremony!” Oliver said. “I completely forgot.”
The kite dipped, asking if he wanted to land near the stage.
“No,” said Oliver, after thinking for a moment. “Take us down near the oakline.”
They shot over the crowd and the stage. Oliver saw heads turning and heard voices beginning to shout. The granite jumping marker passed beneath them, and Oliver made a clean landing at the oakline. He looked up at the powerful oaks, already putting out new green shoots on their branches, which were tossing as if in greeting. Oliver waved back to them, just in case. There were more cries from the direction of the stage, but Oliver hurried into the forest. He was too tired to deal with any of that yet.
He found Windswept Way and began the spiral walk downward. He passed a member of the Watch, bleary, plump, and old, and smiled at him. The Watchman smiled back.
“Almost back to normal!” the Watchman called to him proudly. “Another fine Festival.”
Oliver found it hard to believe that the Festival had happened at all. The food stands had been taken down, the banners and flags removed, and the extra tables in front of the inns taken in. Even the posters that had littered the roads a few days ago had been swept clean, some by industrious Windblownians but most by the incessant winds.
He saw a girl bounding up the Way. It was Ilia, late for the awards, clutching a lion kite.
“Hullo, Ilia.” Oliver grinned.
Ilia stopped short. “Oliver! You overslept, too? Aren’t you going to the awards?”
Oliver yawned. “I don’t think so. I’m really tired.”
Ilia gaped, then said, “Is that your kite?”
“Yes,” said Oliver proudly, realizing the kite must look strange, flying along without a line. “You should come see it fly. Meet me on the crest tonight, just before the night winds?”
Ilia stared at him as though he were mad.
“Oh, one more thing,” said Oliver. He reached into a buttoned inside pocket and found a kite charm.
Then he waved and headed for home.
He passed some other kids who were also racing for the crest. They aimed the usual taunts in his direction, but Oliver hardly noticed.
His treehouse, when he reached it, seemed somehow more welcoming, even though nothing about it had changed. Oliver was happy to see flickering light in his mother’s blazing forge through the open doors of her workshop, and the open shutters of his father’s study.
His mother came out of the workshop, dragging her newest sculpture. She must have won the battle with the mayor, for most of her sculptures stood proudly along the Way. Oliver smiled as he saw that several of them had been sold.
He went to help her.
“Oh! Hullo, dear,” his mother said, surprised, as Oliver put his shoulder to the sculpture and pushed. They settled it in its appointed spot and stood back, looking it over.
This one reminded Oliver of the regal oaks of the one-moon world. He had a feeling that sometimes his mother must hear the winds whispering, too.
“I really like this one,” he said.
“Really?” she replied with pleasure. “You do? You’ve never said that before! Thank you!” And then she swept in and gave him a fierce and proud hug.
Embarrassed, Oliver extricated himself and escaped up the treehouse steps.
His father was sitting at the kitchen table, pen scratching away. Oliver began to build a fire.
His father looked up. “Hullo, Oliver!”
“Hullo, Dad.”
“It’s good to see you, son. While the Festival was on, you were out at all hours, up early and back late—I don’t think we saw you at all, now that I think about it!”
“Well, I
His father smiled and resumed writing.
“You’re interested in history, aren’t you?” Oliver asked.
His father dropped his pen. “Why, yes, of course! Very much!” He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry it’s never interested you.”
