His father sniffed and raised his head, his pen finally stopping. “Say, that smells good. Hullo, Oliver!”
“Good morning,” Oliver replied, concentrating on his bacon. He added eggs to the skillet, and more bacon for his father.
His mother gulped down her juice and stood abruptly, yanking on a hat. “Yes, good morning, dear. If anyone needs anything, I’ll be busy in my workshop! No time to dawdle!” She grabbed Oliver and gave him a fierce kiss on the top of his head; then out the door she went. Oliver knew she wouldn’t be back until dark.
His father was looking around the kitchen as though seeing it for the first time. “Ah yes, the Festival,” he said. “I suppose it is about that time, isn’t it? I’d forgotten!”
Oliver brought their breakfasts to the table and began to eat.
His father’s wandering gaze settled on Oliver. “So,” he said. “Are you flying a kite in the Festival, lad?”
Surprised, Oliver paused with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. He shook his head.
“Why not?” said his father. “You like kites, don’t you?”
Oliver hardly knew what to say. He had not thought it possible, but his father had reached a new low point in his sad history of oblivion. Oliver waited for him to go back to his writing. But the man kept staring at him, a vaguely puzzled expression on his face. He had actually put down his pen, although his hand was still resting on it. It occurred to Oliver that his father must be waiting for an answer, so he said, “I don’t have a kite.” Oliver assumed this would bring the conversation to an end.
“Oh,” his father said brightly. “You should make one!”
Oliver stared at his plate. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
Now his father was musing aloud, tapping his pen on his paper. “You know who could help you make a kite?” he said.
“No,” said Oliver, hoping desperately that his father wasn’t about to offer.
“Your mother’s uncle. Your great-uncle, I suppose. Name of Gilbert. I seem to recall he was a champion kitesmith, decades ago. Still lives in Windblowne somewhere, if I recall.” His voice trailed off and he glanced back at his papers.
Oliver stared at his father, astonished. The fact that he had a relative who lived in Windblowne and was a former champion kitesmith, and that his parents had never bothered to mention it to him, was almost beyond belief. Almost. Only his parents, the biggest crackpots in Windblowne, could have failed to understand the importance of this fact.
His father, naturally, did not realize that he had just imparted to Oliver the most significant and startling information his son had ever received. His pen hovered over a page. Oliver knew he had to act quickly. “Dad?” he asked.
“Eh?” said his father, tapping the pen, lips pursed.
“Where does Great-uncle Gilbert live?”
“Windblowne, I believe.”
Oliver stifled his frustration. “Yes, but where in Windblowne?”
“Not sure,” his father said. The pen was scratching across paper again. “Never laid eyes on him. Hear he doesn’t like people. Stormed off in a fury forty years ago over some kite business. Kicked up a giant fuss and got his name scrubbed from the records. Said he never wanted anything to do with anyone again. Hid himself away in a treehouse off in the forest and that was that. Quite the crackpot!”
His father bent over the page, and Oliver knew the conversation was over.
But he had learned everything he needed. Oliver knew exactly where Great-uncle Gilbert must have taken himself. The secret path! The mysterious person Oliver had tracked yesterday! There was a master kitesmith living near the path, and he was a relative, and Oliver had found him!
Cheered by his amazing powers of deduction, he attacked his breakfast. Surely his great-uncle could teach him how to make a champion kite. Oliver would convince him to help, appealing to family ties and so on. Oliver nearly choked, stuffing food in his mouth. He had to get up there and find his great-uncle.
He bolted out the front door and raced down the spiral stairs. There, to his horror, he saw his mother arguing with the mayor again. Oliver tried to slip by unnoticed.
“This is art! ART!” his mother was proclaiming to the red-faced mayor. She had pushed all of her sculptures next to the Way. A few early Festival tourists had already gathered, their heads cocked quizzically.
“Your … art,” fumed the mayor, his eyes darting toward the tourists, “will scare off all of our …
Oliver walked faster, but it was too late. His mother spotted him.
“Oliver!” said his mother with delight. “What do YOU think of my latest piece?” She pointed proudly to the last sculpture in line.
Oliver glanced at it dismally. Just like all the others, it was a meaningless jumble of metal and junk welded together. He wanted nothing to do with it. But his mother and the mayor were both watching him expectantly.
“It’s, umm … tall,” he offered. Now that he actually looked at it, he thought there might be something else about the sculpture, something interesting and familiar and a bit disturbing. Another brown leaf drifted by, and Oliver tracked it, his gaze flicking between leaf and sculpture.
His mother’s face fell. “That’s all?” she said.
Oliver groaned. Why was he standing here analyzing statuary when there were kites to be crafted and a great-uncle to be found? “I don’t know,” he said in a rush. “I have to go.” He raced away as the mayor beamed in triumph.
The Way was busier today than it had been all year. Windblowne was filling up for the Festival. Tourists were tramping up the mountain from the inns, looking curiously at everything.
Oliver found that without his flying clothes he blended in with the tourists. Normally his clothes would mark him as a Windblownian, and Festival tourists would look at him with respect (since they didn’t know any better). But now they ignored him as they trudged, puffing with exertion. The only difference between them and Oliver was that he was not short of breath. A Windblownian could walk up and down the mountain all day without tiring.
Oliver passed one plodding, grumbling tourist after another. Some of the ones going up held kites; some of the ones coming down held pieces of kites. The handful whose kites were still intact were boasting to their friends. The others had forlorn faces with which Oliver could sympathize. Those with the broken kites would soon be buying new kites at one of Windblowne’s kiteshops, which was exactly how the residents of Windblowne had planned things.
He was passing his favorite kiteshop now, the Volitant Dragon. Oliver thought that the Dragon had to be the greatest place on the mountain. It was built so high up in its oak you had to crane your neck to see it, and you might miss it were it not for the red wooden dragon that hung beside the Way, announcing boldly:
Vivid banners fluttered in the windows, advertising special Festival discounts. Oliver knew the discounts were a sham. All kiteshops doubled their prices during the Festival.
Just ahead stood the sentinel oaks, branches dipping. There came a break in the flow of tourists, and Oliver plunged into the brush.
He knew now the path must have been concealed intentionally. His great-uncle had done it to keep people away. Oliver was filled with admiration at the clever camouflage. How Oliver had ever noticed the path in the first place, he had no idea. For the first time in his life, he felt a rush of family pride. He supposed that if his great-uncle was a master kitesmith, then he must be good at a lot of other things, too. Oliver could not wait to meet him.
Halfway up the path, he began to search for the trail he had noticed yesterday, the one leading off into the forest’s depths. It was not so easy to find. The mountain’s little details changed from day to day as the wind did its work. Briefly, Oliver feared that he would not be able to locate it again. Then he noticed a flash of reflected light coming from beneath a few brown leaves, several feet off the path. He knelt, brushing the leaves aside, and gasped.
A golden kite charm lay half buried in leaves and dirt.
