And then he heard it—an oncoming roar. The oaks behind him signaled their warning with a furious flailing: The night winds have come!
Oliver’s kite was torn to shreds instantly. He was thrown to the ground, his breath knocked from him. He grabbed desperately for his things, but they were whipped away—his pack, his handvane torn from his wrist, all gone. Oliver crawled back to the safety of the oaks as broken branches smashed into the ground around him, leaves and dirt stung his face, and winds screamed in his ears. He reached the trunk of the nearest oak and struggled to his feet. He leaned, heart pounding, his chest thick with fear. He could have been killed.
Numbly, Oliver staggered back through the oaks to his hidden trail. Everything was gone. All of his equipment. His hope of entering the Festival. His kite. Everything.
And when he put his hand into his pocket, he discovered that he had lost Ilia’s golden kite charm, too.
He stumbled brokenly down the mountain, fighting tears, hardly hearing the din raised by the oaks as the night winds battered and raged. On another night he would have listened in rapture, but tonight the sounds seemed full of despair.
Oliver had lost his lamp along with his pack, and he might have wandered in complete darkness if his way were not lit by the two moons, which traveled together through the night sky every midsummer. Nahfa, the larger, and Aspin, his smaller companion, signaled the start of the Festival when they drew near each other in the sky. Normally he would have stopped and gazed at them shining together, but tonight they only reminded him that he would be watching the Festival from the sidelines again this year, as he probably would every year for the rest of his life.
Consumed with dark thoughts, he plodded down, shoving branches aside. In his misery and fatigue, he did not notice the slim form that slipped from the shadows, wearing a heavy wool cap fastened under its chin, watching him intently as he disappeared down the secret path, toward Windswept Way and home.
2
When Oliver woke, his bedroom was still dark. Normally he left his heavy curtains open so that the morning sunlight would wake him. Last night he had left them closed, and now his room was cheerless and dim. He sat up, blinking, wondering how late it was. It had been nearly sunrise when he had finally gone to bed.
He had spent hours eliminating everything from his room that reminded him of his failures. Gone from the walls were the paintings of kites. The racks for kitesmithing supplies were bare, and the chest that normally held reels and twine stood empty. Nothing lay on the workbench except a book titled Careers in Mining, which sat open to page one. Last night, he had resolved to stay up and read as much of it as he possibly could. Today, he resolved to read page two.
Even his not-so-secret drawer had been yanked open and emptied. He had tried to build it in the side of his workbench, as a place to hold his most treasured possessions, but since he was as skilled in carpentry as he was in kitesmithing, the drawer was crude and obvious and terribly unsecret. Anyway, it had held only kite supplies, and was empty now, so he didn’t care if it was secret or not.
He dressed slowly. With no kite, he had no reason to wear his flying clothes, and so he dressed only in a simple tunic, jacket, and trousers. In his closet he found his fur-lined boots, which he promptly kicked under the bed, where they joined the rest of his crumpled flying outfit. He peered around the room for something else to kick, but there wasn’t much left. He wondered if a tourist had come across the bundle of kiting gear lying beside the Way. Maybe they’d be able to make something useful out of Oliver’s things. Oliver certainly hadn’t.
Downstairs, his parents were sitting at the breakfast table. His mother was wearing her dusty smock and wolfing down cold meat and berry juice while waving her knife in the air and talking to his father. Oliver saw that no fire had been made in the stove, so he began to build one.
“This sculpture will be the best yet in the Anguish series,” his mother said excitedly, stabbing the air with her fork. “It represents my finest achievement in anguish!”
“Yes, dear,” his father said remotely, in much the same tone as he had asked Oliver for tea. His pen did not hesitate as it flew across the pages. He was still dressed in his nightclothes and had nothing before him but his papers and an untouched glass of juice.
“I mean it,” she continued. “We’ve got tourists coming from all over for that thing. The Festival, I mean. Some of them will be the sort who can appreciate art, unlike that fool mayor!”
“Yes, dear.”
“When they see Anguish Number Seven out there projecting despair, they’ll forget all about those frivolous kites and start focusing on the world around them! There’s another leaf death in progress, just like six years ago. Something must be done!” She thumped the table. Dust rose from her smock and hung, undecided, in the air.
“Yes, dear.” The pen scratched away.
They continued in this fashion as Oliver coaxed the fire to life. He wondered if his mother would be having this conversation with thin air if he and his father walked out of the room, and decided that she probably would. When the flames were leaping in the stove, Oliver began to fry bacon. The smell filled the kitchen.
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?”<
br />
“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 … guests! Move it!”
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:
THE VOLITANT DRAGON
WINDBLOWNE’S TREASURE
—The World’s Grandest Kites—
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.
Ilia’s charm! thought Oliver at first. Relief swept over him. I’ve found it! These small golden charms were common among the children of Windblowne. They were etched with the child’s name and affixed to a kite before its first flight to bring good luck. Years ago, Oliver had bought one for himself, as his parents had not seen the point. He had promptly lost both his kite and the charm, as the wind tore the kite away and it flew—escaped, some said—over the oaks and away from Oliver forever.
He’d lost Ilia’s charm too, or so he had thought. He lifted the charm gingerly and turned it over, looking for her name, but found instead:
Oliver
Oliver was stunned. He had found his own charm again, years after watching it disappear into the clouds. It seemed impossible—how could the charm be here, so many years later, lying right on the path? This could mean only one thing, Oliver decided. His luck had finally changed. He pocketed the charm with a grin. His great-uncle would help him and he would be a Festival hero after all. He swaggered down the side trail, grinning happily.
He soon found the chickens.
At first it was just one chicken, a large and startling one, fluffing out its wings and bawking at him. Oliver edged by rather fearfully, wondering what one did if a chicken attacked. He turned and saw another chicken, and another—a whole flock. Most of them, blessedly, were ignoring him, squabbling and pecking in a clear space in which vegetables were growing in a disorganized fashion. Here and there were rusting tools and scattered stacks of lumber. Oliver realized he must be close to his great-uncle’s hidden treehouse. He scanned the oaks.
There it was, only two oaks away. The treehouse was built lower to the ground than most, and it blended in with its home oak in a way that made it difficult to spot if you weren’t looking right at it. The whole thing was a madcap jumble, as though the builder had simply added rooms as he went along. A short staircase came straight down to the ground at a precarious angle.
Between the chickens and the rusting tools and the accidental garden, the scene reminded him uncomfortably of his own family’s cluttered yard, except instead of being covered with abstract sculptures, it looked like the inside of a workshop that had been hit by a tornado.
He looked up through the branches of this healthy, giant oak, taking note of its subtle distinctions, adding it to a small gap in his map of which he had been unaware until now.
He could see that smoke was puffing from the chimney. Oliver jogged toward the staircase, a few chickens clucking angrily and scattering out of his way, then went up and rapped on the front door.
He heard what sounded like the scraping of a chair and fast-moving steps. Oliver waited for his knock to be answered.
And waited.
And waited some more. He knocked again.
No answer.
Oliver was beginning to get the distinct impression that there wouldn’t be one. His great-uncle obviously didn’t want to be bothered, but of course he did not realize that the person knocking was a member of his family. And not one of the weird ones, but one who had a normal and healthy interest in kites. Oliver knocked again, harder, and waited.
And waited.
Yes, his great-uncle’s desire for privacy was understandable, but at the same time, the Festival would begin in three days, and Oliver had no time to waste. Pounding on the door any longer would simply be rude, however. Maybe he could wave at him through a window. Once Great-uncle Gilbert saw the family resemblance, he would surely welcome Oliver.
There was a balcony that ran around the first floor of the treehouse, with a number of windows in view. Oliver circled it, peering in. The first room was a kitchen. But the second …
Oliver sucked in his breath.
At least a dozen pristine kites were hanging from the ceiling; they looked as if they had never been flown. Any one of them could have taken the Festival prize for craftsmanship. Oliver had never seen such intricate designs and clever construction. The kites were not only beautiful, composed of delicate hand-painted silks, but they possessed advanced aeronautic features that showed they were intended to be operated only by the most skilled fliers. Scattered on several workbenches were another dozen kites in various stages of completion, and each looked as promising as the finished ones. Along the walls were sliding racks stuffed with more kites. Oliver longed to see them. They were all masterpieces, with one exception.
On the centermost workbench lay a flat, diamond-shaped kite, the type usually given as a first kite, to be flown only on nearly windless days. Oliver thought it wouldn’t be a very nice kite to get, even as a first kite. Its silk was a lovely crimson, but otherwise the kite was artless and unimaginative. The only interesting feature was its long tail, which had been haphazardly decorated with odd-shaped bits of cloth. The tail was coiled up next to the kite and was so long that it spilled down to the floor.
Windblowne Page 2
