Great-uncle Gilbert grimaced. “You think I’m a madman, don’t you?” he growled. “Well, you’re right. I am. My mind is filled with twists and turns and contradictions. But I do know one thing, and that’s kites. Here, look at this one!” He snatched a kite from a nearby bench and thrust it at Oliver.
Oliver turned it around in his hands. The kite was made of slick black silk and a confusing tangle of oaken spars. Oaken spars! No one used oak for kite spars; it was far too heavy. Anyway, the thing hardly looked like a kite at all. Some of the spars came together in sharp points, and there were torn bits of colorful fabric clinging to them, and a few splinters.
“That,” said Great-uncle Gilbert, “is one of my proudest creations. It is a kite that eats other kites. Swoops right down on them and chomps them to bits. The fools banned it from competition! Be careful now,” he said abruptly.
With a start, Oliver realized that he had somehow gotten his hand caught inside the kite. He pulled, but his hand was stuck fast.
“I can’t get it out,” said Oliver.
“You’d better,” said Great-uncle Gilbert.
There was a sudden sharp pain in his hand, and Oliver yelped. He yanked hard, his hand burst free, and some of the spars snapped shut. He hurled the kite-eater away. It flew gracefully across the room, and Great-uncle Gilbert snatched it out of the air. “Good kite,” he said approvingly, and placed it gently back on the workbench.
Oliver, stunned, said nothing, but rubbed his aching hand.
“You think that’s something?” Great-uncle Gilbert snickered. “I don’t even keep my best kite in here. I keep it hidden with my most valuable possessions, where
Oliver wondered if he meant the plain crimson kite. If so, then it wasn’t quite as amazing as his great-uncle claimed. He decided to humor the old man. “Where who can’t find it, Great-uncle Gilbert?”
“I’m not leaving until you agree to help me with a Festival kite,” said Oliver.
“Now, now, my boy,” said Great-uncle Gilbert. He took another fighting kite from a rack and fiddled with its spars. “You need to forget about the Festival. I have! Other matters of far greater importance, far greater danger, have presented themselves, and I will be very busy in days to come. You should occupy yourself with something else as well.” He leaned toward Oliver, his voice falling to a whispered warning. “Something far, far away from the crest!”
This was too much for Oliver. First it was his parents, who were barely aware the Festival existed and certainly weren’t going to do anything to help Oliver prepare for it. Now his great-uncle, who had once been a Festival champion and who owned the most splendid workshop and kites in all of Windblowne and thus in all the world, wasn’t going to help him either. Oliver had opened his mouth to tell Great-uncle Gilbert exactly what he thought of his entire, useless family when he was interrupted by a thumping noise coming from behind the kite racks.
Great-uncle Gilbert spun about, ran to the racks, and threw his back against them. “Shhh!” he hissed over his shoulder. “Not now!”
Oliver gaped. “Who do you have in there?” he said accusingly.
“What are you talking about?” cried Great-uncle Gilbert. “I don’t hear any thumping! Don’t be preposterous!”
He turned his head to one side. “Stop that! Stop that right now!” he hissed again. “I’ll let you out in a minute. I was just getting rid of him!” The steady
“No, you weren’t!” snapped Oliver.
“Yes, I was!” shouted Great-uncle Gilbert, and Oliver found himself propelled out of the workshop, his great- uncle’s hands gripping his shoulders. He was pushed through the living room and out the front door. Oliver staggered as his great-uncle released him at the top of the steps. He turned. Great-uncle Gilbert was blocking the doorway, breathing heavily. The steady thumping could still be heard behind him.
“Well,” his great-uncle said quickly, “that was a lovely visit, thank you. We shouldn’t do it again anytime soon. And you must avoid the crest at all costs. That’s how
Oliver sagged against the door. His final hopes had rested in someone who turned out to be a complete lunatic. Lunacy must run in the family. His mother was headed that way too, and Oliver supposed he would be next.
He turned wearily and plodded down the steps. Now what? Oliver looked at the abandoned clock, ticking remorselessly away in the cluttered yard.
The day had become cold and gray while he was indoors, and chill winds blew over him as he trudged off. He pulled his jacket closer. The winds made eerie sounds as they threaded through the oaks, bringing with them that scent of decay from the strange, sick oak, as well as the rattling patter of its dead leaves. Oliver was filled with foreboding. The giant oaks were waving their branches as the winds came through, and it looked to Oliver as though they were waving helplessly.
Oliver shook it off. He didn’t intend to go crazy like the rest of his family. Not yet anyway. He was determined to enter the Festival somehow and show them all.
He turned down the hidden path toward Windswept Way, toward home. He walked quickly. He did not like the sound of the winds in the oaks, wailing and mournful. Oliver’s walk turned into a jog, and then he found himself running for the shelter and warmth of home, chased by the cry of the winds.
That night, Oliver quivered in bed, wide-eyed and sleepless. Outside, the winds howled. The treehouse creaked and groaned. Oliver thought the winds sounded angry enough to rip the treehouse from the tree’s embrace and send it spinning away. Oliver longed to run across the hall and place his hands on the trunk to reassure himself of its solidity and strength, but he didn’t dare leave his bed.
He could not fathom how his parents slept through this unusually powerful windstorm, but they seemed completely undisturbed. Oliver’s heart pounded and his mind raced. He was covered in sweat, his sheets twisted into knots.
But then
something crashed against the treehouse so close to him that the wall shook and Oliver nearly screamed. He pulled the covers back over his head. And then a sound came again,
like a person rapping on the shutter. He lifted his head cautiously from beneath the blankets. That had really sounded like
someone knocking to get in. But no one could possibly be out at night, sitting on an oak branch, rapping on the window next to Oliver’s bed. He waited for several seconds.
Oliver rolled over and yanked the curtains aside. Moonslight flashed on something flickering among the lashing branches.
He pulled up the window.
The winds invaded with a roar and nearly threw him from his bed. He clung to the windowsill as Great-uncle Gilbert’s kite, the simple long-tailed crimson kite, came crashing in, slamming into walls and bouncing off the floor and ceiling. It thrashed uncontrollably as Oliver struggled to close the window. Then the winds slackened briefly,
