“Great-uncle Gilbert!” shouted Oliver.
He quickly searched the rest of the treehouse. There was no sign of his great-uncle.
He stopped in the living room, looking at what was left of the strange maps and overturned barrels. The crimson kite had recovered and was swooping in agitated circles around and around the room. Oliver looked out the bashed-in window into the windblown night. Feeling useless, he picked up the fallen board and shoved it back into place.
He heard a noise, like a faint grinding, almost as though something were … chewing.
Oliver ran back into the workshop.
The kite-eater was still pinned under the enormous book, or rather, part of the book. It had already managed to chew through some of it. Bits of torn paper surrounded the abused book and the kite-eater, which snapped its jaws savagely when Oliver entered.
“Oh no you don’t!” said Oliver sharply. Setting down the lamp, he ran to the shelf of his father’s books and reached up for the next one. As he hauled it down, he noticed the title—
Gasping with the effort, Oliver lugged the book over to the kite-eater and threw it on top of the pile. Then another book. Then another. The kite-eater gnashed its jaws. “Sorry,” Oliver panted, “but you’re not eating that kite.”
The crimson kite was peeking into the workshop. “You can come in,” Oliver said. “I’ve got the kite-eater trapped.”
Oliver had always talked to his kites, but he’d never had the impression that one of them might be listening. Or if they were, it was only so they could do the exact opposite of whatever he asked. For example, “No, please, not in the tree” was interpreted to mean “Please dive directly into that tree,” or “Watch out for the crowd of people” meant “Smash into the crowd of people in order to humiliate me as much as possible.”
And that record remained unchallenged, as the crimson kite shook dubiously and refused to enter.
Oliver looked around. Most of his great-uncle’s beautiful kites had been stolen. They’d apparently been stolen by that other boy, who in the confusion and blinding flashes had looked just like him. Somehow the boy had been able to make his escape under the cover of those flashes, and he’d managed to kidnap Great-uncle Gilbert and thoroughly ransack his workshop in the process. Everything of value was gone.
Almost everything, Oliver realized. The kite rack that concealed Great-uncle Gilbert’s secret room, where he kept his most valuable possessions, was still in place.
Oliver pushed and pulled in every direction, but the rack refused to yield. He took a hammer that had fallen to the floor and tried to pry the rack from the wall. He even gave it a few kicks, which resulted in nothing but a minute or two of hopping around in pain. The kite-eater seemed to be enjoying the spectacle—it had stopped chewing on the book and was watching Oliver avidly. Oliver had a sense that it was grinning at him. “Stop that,” he ordered, “unless you want another one of those books on you.” The kite-eater quickly resumed chewing.
Oliver inspected the kite rack. From all appearances, it was part of a solid wall. He thought back to what he had seen through the window. His great-uncle had not actually been anywhere near the rack when it slid aside. He had been somewhere else in the room, somewhere Oliver couldn’t see from where he had been crouched. Turning the oil lamp up to its brightest level, Oliver surveyed the workshop.
Across the room, just above the shelf from which Oliver had pulled all the books, he spotted the tiniest depression in the wall. A hidden button, nearly invisible.
Oliver gave a whoop of triumph. “I’m brilliant,” he said to the kite-eater. The kite-eater replied by snapping at his ankle as he passed by. Oliver pushed the button. There was a click, and behind him the kite rack slid smoothly aside.
Oliver was disappointed to discover that the secret room was more of a secret closet. It was small and terribly dusty. On the back wall was a peg on which a single kite could be hung. Below that were a few dust-coated items sitting on shelves.
One of these items was a small chest, ornately carved. Oliver ran his finger over the intricate designs, leaving a trail in the thick dust. He tried to open the chest, but it was locked.
The next shelf held a soft velvet pillow, upon which lay a handvane. Though the pillow was covered in dust, the handvane was not. Oliver could tell right away that this was one of his great-uncle’s personal creations. It was carved from oak, and though it looked delicate and fine, Oliver suspected that it could stand up under the fiercest windstorm. He lifted it reverently and fastened it onto his wrist.
As it snapped into place, he felt a moment’s hesitation. Was this stealing? No, he decided—this was preserving. After all, Great-uncle Gilbert’s abductor might return for further pillaging. Oliver ought to protect one of the old man’s most valuable possessions. The fact that Oliver needed a new handvane was just a coincidence.
The only other thing in the closet was a book, which lay on the lowest shelf. It was not one of his father’s books, though it was equally enormous. The cover was rough and leathery. There had once been a title, but it was now too faded to read. The book had a musty odor, and dull jewels were set into the cover. Oliver reached out gingerly and lifted the cover, the spine creaking quietly. He held the oil lamp close.
On the yellowed first page were words written in a style so elegant and ancient that Oliver could scarcely read them:
MYTHS & FOLK-LORE OF WINDBLOWNE 
Fascinated, Oliver turned the delicate pages. The book was filled with lavish illustrations and dense type, most of which made no sense to him.
He lifted the heavy book to look closer, and it fell open to a page that Oliver could see had been consulted often. The margins of this and the following pages were filled with tiny notes and sketches drawn in a loose and rambling hand that Oliver suspected was Great-uncle Gilbert’s. At the top of the first page in this section it said:
Oliver leafed through it in wonder. Here were pictures of things he recognized. There were many drawings of tall oak trees, including his home oak and the oak that held the Volitant Dragon, though they all looked odd without treehouses in them. Next to one of these drawings was a passage that seemed to have particularly interested Great-uncle Gilbert. It was underlined, and the notes beneath it were more legible than the others. Oliver read:
… but legends concerning the giant oaks of Windblowne remain pleasant stories for children, and for fools and madmen as well, who claim that in the whisper of winds passing through the oaks, a great mystery is revealed.
Underneath this, in his great-uncle’s scrawled hand, Oliver read:
Oliver shuddered, remembering the despairing cries he had imagined on the winds.
He felt something nudge his arm, and looked down. It was the crimson kite, gently brushing him, its tail swirling clear of the kite-eater’s jaws.
He slammed the book shut. The kite fled from the workshop.
