“Well,” Oliver said, “I took your advice and went to see Great-uncle Gilbert.”

“Who? Oh, yes,” said his father. “Your mother’s crazy old uncle.”

“That’s the one,” said Oliver. “He’s full of stories about Windblowne. He told me some interesting things about the mountain’s history. I thought you might like to hear them.”

“That would be wonderful!” Oliver’s father leaned forward and pushed his journal aside. “Perhaps I could put them in another book!” Oliver had never seen his father so excited.

“Great,” said Oliver, yawning. “But we’ll have to talk about it tomorrow. I need some sleep. It’s been a long week.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” said his father. “How was the Festival, anyway?”

“Oh … the Festival. It was fine,” Oliver replied. And with a grin, he dashed upstairs to bed. 


Windblowne would not have been possible without the love and wisdom of my wife, Miriam Angress; the eternal patience and counsel of my fellow writers John Claude Bemis, Jennifer Harrod, and Jen Wichman; the insight of my brother-in-law, Percy Angress; my terrific agents, Josh and Tracey Adams of Adams Literary; and my magnificent editor, Jim Thomas. Much is also owed to the faith and encouragement of my readers Claudia Lanese, Indigo Sargent, and Daniel de Marchi; to the editorial assistance of Chelsea Eberly; and to my parents, Merle and Donna Messer.

about the author

Blown into this world as a baby, Stephen Messer spent his childhood flying kites on windswept hilltops in Maine and Arizona. He has lived in deserts and in megacities, on alpine mountains and in lowland swamps. Nowadays he lives with his wife in an old house surrounded by oak trees in Durham, North Carolina. Sometimes, on windblown nights, it seems as if the house has been transported to another world.

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