Windblowne

by Stephen Messer

  “What is that thing?” asked Oliver.

  “This,” proclaimed Lord Gilbert, “is one of my most clever and useful inventions. I call it the Handvane Mark IV—HM IV for short!”

  Oliver was unimpressed. “What good is a handvane without any vanes? You can’t read the wind.”

  Lord Gilbert rolled his eyes. “An utter waste of time. The HM IV can do far more interesting things.”

  “Doesn’t look like it’s doing much right now,” Oliver observed.

  “Just you wait, Oliver One.” Lord Gilbert smirked. The lights on the HM IV, which had been blinking randomly, began flashing on and off in unison. “This is just one of the wonders you’ll discover, my boy, living here under my command!”

  “That sounds great,” said Oliver, standing. He edged toward the door. “I’ll just need to get my kite and fly home and get a few of my things.”

  With a surprisingly agile leap, Lord Gilbert was in front of him, blocking his way. “Oh no, Oliver One … you can’t go home again, ever. You are far too useful to me. I’ve long needed another assistant of Two’s caliber, and now I have one!”

  “I’m leaving,” announced Oliver. He moved to push past Lord Gilbert.

  “Sit down,” said Lord Gilbert.

  “No.”

  “Sit!” commanded Lord Gilbert.

  Oliver sat.

  Or, more precisely, he fell, and Lord Gilbert slid a chair underneath him on the way down. Oliver’s entire body had gone numb. He tried to move, but nothing below his neck would respond. He looked at Lord Gilbert, who gave him a wink. Oliver saw that he was twisting a dial on the HM IV.

  “Don’t despair, my boy,” Lord Gilbert said, resuming his mad pacing. “You wouldn’t have gotten far anyway. My beautiful and deadly hunters would have seen to that! As they will see to your crimson kite. Then the dissection can begin.”

  “Dissection?” said Oliver, straining to move his arm.

  “Ah yes,” said Lord Gilbert. “You wouldn’t know about such things. But you’ll learn! A dissection involves slicing up the device into its constituent components, so that I can learn how it performs the transport without damaging its cargo.”

  Oliver glared at Two. “Liar! You said it wouldn’t be hurt! You—”

  “I didn’t know!” protested Two. “I thought—”

  “Olivers!” shouted Lord Gilbert. “Rule one in this house is that there is to be no fighting! Oliver One, you really must learn some manners. Manners are one of the first things I was forced to teach young Two here, after his parents’ disappearance.”

  His parents’ disappearance? Oliver struggled futilely to move his legs. “I want the kite and I want my great-uncle!”

  “Your one-track mind, my boy,” said Lord Gilbert severely, “is becoming quite irritating. I see that I shall have to teach you some manners as well, now that you are living here with me.”

  “I’m not living with you,” said Oliver, glaring. “I’m taking the kite and finding my great-uncle and going home.”

  Lord Gilbert licked his lips. “Oh, you will live with me indeed. You shall assist me with my experiments. And you shall make me many more hunters.”

  Oliver was stunned. “You want me to make them?”

  “Of course!” snapped Lord Gilbert. “Using your extraordinary kitesmithing talents, the same as Two. I provide the brains and he provides the kite! I need more hunters, many more, and with two of you I can double the output!”

  Oliver was just opening his mouth to tell the bitter truth about his kitesmithing skills when the HM IV suddenly emitted a loud, birdlike chirp. Lord Gilbert grinned. “Ah, my creations have returned.” He twisted the dial on the HM IV, and Oliver sensed feeling returning to his arms and legs. He stood immediately.

  “Now don’t get any ideas, Oliver One,” warned Lord Gilbert. He waved the HM IV threateningly. “Let’s go see my hunters.” He gestured, and Oliver went grudgingly onto the balcony at the top of the steps. Lord Gilbert followed.

  Oliver stepped outside into a blustery, late-morning wind. Instantly, his piercing headache returned. He closed his eyes, wincing.

  “Something wrong?” asked Lord Gilbert idly, coming alongside.

  Not wanting to show any weakness, Oliver took his hands from his head, formulating a sarcastic reply. He opened his mouth to deliver it—

  and opened his eyes—

  In all the history of Windblowne, going back 455 years, the giant oaks had always stood unyielding. They gave the people of Windblowne homes and protection. No one in Windblowne could ever consider harming an oak.

  Or so Oliver had thought.

  If you had asked him what the most terrible, horrible thing you could possibly do to an oak would be, Oliver might have said, with a shudder, “Cut it down.”

  Now Oliver saw there was a far worse fate, and it was the fate of the great oak nearest Lord Gilbert’s treehouse.

  For Lord Gilbert had touched another button on the HM IV, and the big metal gates next to the treehouse had slid smoothly aside, revealing an oak, or what was left of one.

  The oak had been stripped of its branches and split down its center. The two broken halves leaned out to either side, where they sagged against supporting struts made of metal. Tubes running into the tree seemed to be collecting sap, and the oak was scorched and burned in many places. It was pierced by spikes covered with blinking lights. Surrounding all of this was a mass of cables, spilling from the base of the tall metal shaft and spiraling around the oak before twisting into openings connected to humming machines. Amid the jumble of machines was a large, mirror-like disc, the place at which all of the tubes from the mutilated oak converged. The oak was ripped and gutted and torn and broken. The ground around the tree, however, was well-tended, and another machine was carefully applying water around the roots.

  Horror-struck, Oliver realized the oak was still alive.

  “I see you’re admiring my project,” said Lord Gilbert proudly. “Isn’t it marvelous? All those little machines working as one.” He glanced at the sky. “Ah, my hunters have returned. And they’ve brought me a present!”

  Oliver, glad to look at anything besides the tortured oak, looked up. Seven dark dots, arcing and weaving, had appeared against the sky.

  Lord Gilbert went on. “A kite, Oliver One, can be more than a silly toy made from bamboo and silk. It can also be a beautiful, deadly predator, a hunter of the sky, made much more dangerous by my brilliant—” He broke off, frowning and flicking buttons on the HM IV. “Why haven’t they got it yet?”

  The dark dots drew closer. Oliver could see that one of them was the crimson kite, darting about, trying to break free from the orb of hunters that surrounded it. At each dart, one of the hunters flew swiftly to intercept. With each of these maneuvers, the kite was forced closer to the treehouse. In seconds they were directly overhead.

  Lord Gilbert muttered angrily and jabbed a button on the HM IV, and the shrieking hunters collapsed upon the kite.

  Oliver cried out as the crimson kite burst free in a desperate dive.

  One hunter, wings folded, dove after it.

  The kite streaked directly at the machine, threading a harrowing path through the wires, the hunter only inches behind. At the last moment, the crimson kite pitched upward. Unable to react, the hunter slammed into the mirror disc with a thunderous crack. Blinking lights went wild as sparks and smoke exploded from the machines around the oak. The hunter ricocheted off the disc, banged into the metal treehouse wall, and collapsed onto the balcony.

  Lord Gilbert howled and raced to the balcony railing.

  Oliver found himself at the top of the steps, shouting. For a moment he thought the crimson kite might be able to fly to him, and they could somehow escape. But the remaining five hunters had taken a tactically commanding position above the disc. The crimson kite flew straight into them and was attacked immediately. Then all of them were obscured by the smoke pouring from below.

  Oliver whirled toward the damaged hun
ter, which was writhing and jerking on the balcony floor.

  Oliver had never seen anything like this kite. It had the trim frame and bowed spars of a fighter but the shape of a hawk, with an array of metal spars forming a skeletal head and body. Knifelike talons protruded from the ends of what would be its legs. The sails were made of something, not silk, that Oliver didn’t recognize. One of its wings flicked up, and Oliver saw gears and spokes, meshing and grinding as the hunter struggled on the balcony. It flipped itself onto its back, and beneath the head Oliver spotted a metal box with a kind of screen that emitted horrid sounds—buzzes and whirs and hisses and shrieks like nothing Oliver had ever heard before.

  And then something on the metal box clicked open. A glass eye.

  Oliver stumbled backward, frightened, as the thing jerked about, shrieking, metal talons scrabbling on the balcony.

  The flock of hunters flew out of the smoke. Four of them glided gracefully to the balcony railing. The last circled just overhead, screeching triumphantly. Oliver saw the crimson kite twitching helplessly, clenched in metal talons.

  Lord Gilbert glared at Oliver. “Well,” he said, his voice tight with anger, “it seems your friend put up quite a fight.” He touched a button on the HM IV, which gave a whistle, and held out his arms.

  The hunter swooped in toward the balcony and released its quarry. The kite fell into Lord Gilbert’s hands.

  Lord Gilbert’s face was filled with fury. Oliver looked at the kite and cried out. It had been terribly hurt. Half its tail was torn away, and there were two long slashes in its sails. Lord Gilbert clenched it in quivering hands that had turned bloodless white. The kite trembled painfully, ripped and wounded and helpless.

  Then Lord Gilbert’s look of fury vanished, and his face went suddenly, terribly, cold. “You,” he said grimly, “you’ll never escape from me again.”

  And then, with one swift and devastating move, he grasped the spine of the crimson kite and snapped it in half. The crack echoed through the silent forest. The kite’s trembling ceased. Lord Gilbert threw the shattered spar to one side, then hurled the kite to the floor, where it lay crumpled and still.

  Oliver screamed and lunged at Lord Gilbert.

  9

  Oliver reached for Lord Gilbert’s throat.

  Halfway through the lunge, he froze and crashed to the balcony deck. He found himself looking at one of Lord Gilbert’s exquisitely polished shoes, unable to move a muscle. The shoe reached out and tucked itself under his shoulder, then flipped him onto his back.

  He stared up at Lord Gilbert, whose smirking face was framed by the branches of his oak tree. “Naughty, naughty,” said Lord Gilbert, lifting a finger from the HM IV and wagging it at Oliver. “Mustn’t attack your legal guardian—rule number two.” Whistling, he retrieved the crimson kite from where it lay in a crumpled heap. He spread it on the railing and examined it. He seemed cheerful again after his brief bout of fury.

  Out of one corner of his eye, Oliver could see the wounded hunter, still sputtering and sparking on the balcony floor.

  “Prop him up against the wall. I don’t like him lying there,” Lord Gilbert said. Two’s face came into view. Oliver felt hands under his shoulders. He was dragged to a wall and propped awkwardly against it. Two would not meet his eyes.

  Two crept over to the injured hunter and knelt beside it, stroking it gently as it lay writhing on the deck. A breeze blew over them all, bringing a swirl of dead oak leaves that pattered against Oliver’s skin. His skull buzzed with pain.

  He fought to speak, but this time he could not even move his jaw.

  “Hmmm,” muttered Lord Gilbert as he handled the crimson kite. “Perhaps that was a bit hasty.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” said Two, sounding upset. He was cradling the hunter in his hands. “You didn’t have to kill the kite.”

  “It damaged my beautiful machine,” said Lord Gilbert calmly. “Punishment was required.” He shot a wink in Oliver’s direction.

  He crumpled the kite in his fist and gathered the broken pieces of spine. Then he strode to the edge of the balcony and surveyed his machine.

  “A broken hunter was just what we needed,” he said over his shoulder to Two. “Oliver One can begin his training by learning how to fix it. Take it inside for now, and fetch my helmet. I have to repair the machine. And you,” he said to Oliver, “you may get up, once your ability to move returns. But my hunters are watching, so resist thoughts of mischief, unless you’d like a nice scratch.”

  Oliver lay against the wall, bursting with rage and despair. There was also a terrific itch on his left leg that he was trying to ignore. The hunters were lined up together on the balcony rail, perfectly unmoving. Oliver could see their eyes, made of dead, black glass, staring out fixedly at nothing.

  Across the balcony, Two was murmuring to the hunter. His face was twisted with its own rage and despair.

  Then the other boy rose, cradling the hunter gingerly, and walked past Oliver into the treehouse. He muttered as he passed, his voice trembling, “It’s not their fault they’re like this. He forces them to obey him.”

  Oliver lay motionless, not sure if he ever really wanted to move again.

  Lord Gilbert, swinging the remains of the crimson kite and whistling happily, strolled along the line of hunters. “Beautiful, are they not?” he said to Oliver. “I suppose they must seem like magic to your primitive mind.”

  Oliver struggled to work his tongue, but the most he could manage was a strangled moan.

  Lord Gilbert frowned. “What’s that, boy? You want to know more about my hunters? Of course! They are magnificent creations, much superior to your great-uncle’s primitive kites, as you have seen.” He grasped the nearest hunter by its wing. “Wings made of a synthetic fiber I developed, far tougher than silk! Watch!” He pinched the wing hard and pulled. The hunter shrieked and struggled. “Can’t be torn!” gasped Lord Gilbert, pressing a button on the HM IV. The hunter quieted.

  He moved to the next kite and ran his finger along one of the metal spars that formed the hunter’s wing. “This alloy, also my invention, is lighter and stronger than steel.”

  “Mlp!” gulped Oliver. It looked to him like the hunter shuddered at Lord Gilbert’s touch.

  “And, of course, the brain,” said Lord Gilbert, touching the next hunter between its eyes. “My second-proudest creation.” He stroked the hunter’s head, just above the blank, glassy eyes. “I take the brain straight from the living hawk, with its predatory intelligence completely intact. The perfect hunter.”

  Oliver would have shivered, if he could.

  “I conceived of the hunters while watching Two waste his time with those ludicrous bamboo kites. I knew his talents could be put to far better use. And so they have, and so yours will as well!”

  Oliver would have laughed. Lord Gilbert was going to be very disappointed with his talents.

  There was a loud bang, and lights on the machine began flashing. “Two!” shouted Lord Gilbert.

  Two reappeared. “Your helmet, sir.”

  Lord Gilbert jammed the helmet onto his head. The thing included a big pair of protective goggles and several thin metal spines pointing straight up. He looked perfectly ridiculous, and perfectly pleased with himself, as he strutted to his machine and opened a flashing-light panel next to the mirror disc. He soon had his arms deep within, working, and he barked orders to Two, who scurried about with a screwdriver, obeying.

  “I need to run a test,” announced Lord Gilbert after a few minutes. “Get onto the disc, boy.”

  “What?” said Two in disbelief. “I can’t!”

  “What?” said Lord Gilbert. “Why not?”

  “I’m—” Two coughed. “I’m—”

  “You’re what?” snapped Lord Gilbert impatiently. “Sick? You’re not sick, you’re just weak. You can easily make several more trips before you expire. My machine is nearly perfect! Get onto the disc.”

  Two’s eyes flashed to Oliver’s, who look
ed away. There was nothing he could do, even if he wanted to, though a tingling feeling was covering his scalp, and he felt he might be able to move his neck.

  “Now!” ordered Lord Gilbert.

  Two limped reluctantly toward the riven oak, stepping onto the mirror disc.

  Lord Gilbert jabbed a button on the HM IV.

  A blinding flash of light.

  A deafening BANG.

  Oliver’s ferocious headache surged, and he shut his eyes against the pain. When it faded, he opened his eyes. His view was obscured by a rustling cascade of dead oak leaves showering down. When the leaves cleared, he looked at the disc.

  Two had vanished.

  Lord Gilbert seemed unconcerned, coolly manipulating controls and whistling his jaunty whistle.

  Then, with a flourish, Lord Gilbert reached out and twisted a large knob. There was another FLASH and another BANG, and when Oliver opened his eyes and another cascade of leaves had fallen past, he saw that Two was standing on the disc once more.

  Standing—but not for long. The boy swayed, leaning against a railing at the back of the disc, then collapsed onto his knees, clutching his stomach.

  “Well?” shouted Lord Gilbert tensely, pulling off his goggles.

  Two shook his head and muttered something that Oliver could not hear.

  Lord Gilbert pounded a fist on the flashing panel, then went back to fiddling with knobs as Two rolled onto his back in what looked to be terrible agony.

  Oliver craned his neck. The leaf cover was evaporating with each flash and bang. The autumn oaks were becoming winter oaks, rapidly, and not from the gentle, natural fall of the seasons but from the ruthless, artificial violation of Lord Gilbert’s machines. The sinister black strings and sap-filled tubes and metal spikes—these were what was causing the oak leaves to fall.