Windblowne

the kite flew over Oliver’s head and out into the night, and the window slammed home.

Oliver fell back on his bed in astonishment. Somehow, improbably, the winds had gotten hold of the hidden kite. It was a colossal piece of luck. Now he possessed something his great-uncle wanted. Or he would possess it, anyway, as soon as he chased down the wayward kite.

This is a really stupid idea, said a little voice in the back of Oliver’s head. But Oliver had ignored that voice before, and he was going to ignore it now. He fished his rugged flier’s outfit from under the bed, dressed quickly, and raced from the room.

Using the front door was out of the question. With the winds hammering at the walls, opening the door would invite disaster. Oliver went straight to the emergency wind hatch in the tiny room off the kitchen. He lifted the trapdoor and put one foot on the first rung of the ladder.

Below him the ladder descended through the protected wind shaft and then along the trunk into battering darkness. He wavered. The odds of catching the kite were terribly low, and the odds of breaking a leg were terribly high. Should he really do this? The plan was sheer madness. Runs in the family, thought Oliver. Flattening himself against the trunk, he descended swiftly and dropped into the open winds.

He braced himself against the turbulence, his back to his solid home oak. The world was wild around him. Everything not rooted firmly in the ground had been lifted and thrown. The scream of the winds as they tore through the oaks was deafening, as though the night had life and was warning him back. Trembling, Oliver recalled childhood tales of wicked boys and girls who had been carried off by the winds, never to be seen again.

But I must have the kite, thought Oliver. I’ll catch it and come straight home. And I’m not going anywhere near the crest.

He staggered away from the oak. The moment he abandoned the oak’s solidity he became disoriented, all sense of direction lost in the churning night. The winds came up from behind and pushed him forward, and he fought back, peering about for the kite. At first he feared that it might have been blown too far away to catch, but then he spied a crimson blur.

The kite was flitting among a line of oaks. None of them were oaks that Oliver recognized. For a confused instant, he felt as though he had stepped into another world. Seven trees stood before him, looming in the dark; seven anguished silhouettes, broken and tortured. Then the winds shifted, the shadows changed, and Oliver realized he was not looking at seven oaks racked in pain but seven sculptures lining Windswept Way—his mother’s art.

His map restored, he ran, stumbling as the winds lashed him. His exposed face stung as twigs and leaves became missiles in the driving winds. He could barely keep the kite in sight, with all of the weird and distracting shadows changing each moment. He saw that it had moved upward on the Way. He gave chase, but the kite bobbed just out of reach, flying tantalizingly close and then darting away just as Oliver closed his fingers.

Suddenly the kite ducked sideways, into the forest. They had come to the secret path, and the kite had flown between the sentinels as though it knew the way. In fact, the kite had been flying in an oddly deliberate fashion all along.

With a crash, Oliver went headlong into the brush.

The kite reached the turn to Great-uncle Gilbert’s treehouse and slipped off the path. Oliver slipped after it.

Then light exploded through the oaks, a brilliant split-second flash that lit the forest in stark relief.

Oliver was momentarily blinded. When he opened his eyes again, the kite had disappeared.

He ran through the trees, moonslight spilling across his path, until he reached the clearing.

He arrived in the midst of a battle.

The seconds that followed were entirely confusing. Oliver saw Great-uncle Gilbert flying two of the bladed fighting kites, one in each hand, with astonishing skill. The kites were cutting tight circles on their short tow-lines. The old man was fending off three other kites, dark, speed-blurred shapes. But who was flying those kites? Oliver couldn’t see anyone else in the clearing.

“Great-uncle Gilbert!” Oliver shouted.

Great-uncle Gilbert glanced over. “Oliver!” he cried. “No!”

The distraction was all the dark kites needed. Two of them dove in, and Great-uncle Gilbert’s fighting kites disappeared in snapping spars and shreds of silk. The third attacked Great-uncle Gilbert directly, hooking onto his robe. Oliver whirled around. Where were the fliers?

A shout of pain came from the treehouse. Then someone, a boy, burst through the front door and pounded down the wooden steps.

The other boy was dressed in a flier’s outfit, exactly like Oliver’s. His arms were full of folded kites.

“Go!” cried the boy.

There was another dazzling flash.

Oliver’s vision spun and wavered, and it seemed as though he were seeing double. Two treehouses, two of every oak. He looked at the other boy. He was seeing double there, too. When he looked the boy in the face, he could have sworn that the face he saw was his own.

Two dark kites flew to the boy, hooking onto his gloves.

There was another blinding flash, and for a minute Oliver staggered about the clearing, groping, completely blind.

When his vision recovered, the clearing was empty. He saw no sign of Great-uncle Gilbert or any of the kites, or the other boy.

He looked toward the treehouse.

The front door was wide open, dim light spilling from within. Every few seconds something blew from inside —candlesticks, papers, odd bits of furniture—filling the air with swirling debris.

From within the treehouse there came a tremendous crash.

5

Oliver raced up the steps.

Inside, the treehouse was in shambles. The winds had reduced everything to pure chaos. Oliver pushed against the door and shoved it closed. He looked around the living room. His great-uncle’s supplies had been knocked over, bits of the fighting kites had been smashed around, and the wall once covered with battle plans now had only a few scraps remaining. One of the barricaded windows had been bashed open. There were several long, deep slashes in the fallen board, as though a powerful animal had raked its claws across it. Somehow, an oil lamp tucked in one corner had survived, its weak flame casting a weirdly flickering glow. Oliver hurriedly retrieved it.

“Great-uncle Gilbert!” Oliver cried. “Hullo!”

A terrific ruckus came from the workshop. Oliver ran toward the sound, nearly tripping on an overturned stool, and burst into the room.

“Great-uncle …,” Oliver began, but the words died away. He set the lamp aside. His great-uncle was not here, and neither were most of his kites. The shelves were empty, the workbenches cleared—even the kite racks stood open and bare. Only two kites remained—the crimson kite, which was being madly chased around the workshop, and the ravenous black kite-eater, which was doing the chasing.

Oliver leapt. He fell upon the kite-eater and pinned it to the floor. Pain shot through his hand as the kite-eater caught him in its jaws. Oliver cried out and pulled; the kite-eater heaved and struggled. He looked desperately for a weapon. Nearby, on the floor, he spotted a book. Not just any book but a heavy, familiar, boring book. Just the book, in fact, to trap a kite-eater. Oliver grabbed for it with one hand, hauled it over with a tremendous grunt, and rolled aside, pulling it onto the kite-eater as he went.

He had finally found a use for one of his father’s massive tomes. It made the perfect restraint for an aggressive kite. Oliver crawled backward, panting from the unexpected wrestling match. At first he feared that even this book would not be enough to hold down the kite-eater, but no matter how much it twisted and fought and snapped its jaws, it could not escape the sheer weight of The Social and Cultural History of the Lower Warfeld Valley in Late Mid-Age Macherino. Oliver knew the feeling well.

The crimson kite collapsed onto a workbench, seemingly exhausted, its sails heaving.