“You have no idea,” said Two wearily.
“How do you know?” said Oliver in irritation. “What’s this thing you want so badly?”
Two kept staring, saying nothing. Then, to Oliver’s surprise, he asked, “What are your parents like?”
“My parents? Why would you want to know about them?”
Suddenly he remembered what Lord Gilbert had said about Two’s parents’ “disappearance.” Of course Two would be interested in Oliver’s parents.
Reluctantly, Oliver told Two about the sculptures that littered the yard, creating an eyesore and an embarrassment. He told Two about the long, boring books that almost no one read.
“They sound really nice,” said Two. He had an odd and wistful expression on his face.
“Well, they’re my parents.” Oliver didn’t know what else to say. The look on Two’s face was strange and a little scary. “What happened to yours?”
Two’s eyes had a faraway look. “Six years ago, Lord Gilbert began experimenting with a machine that would create free power for the whole town. He said he’d discovered unusual properties of the oaks and that he could draw energy from them without harming them.”
“That’s crazy,” said Oliver.
Two nodded. “A lot of people thought so, but back then everyone in Windblowne loved Lord Gilbert. He’s a brilliant inventor, and he’d made all kinds of devices that made life better for everyone. They were willing to let him try. I used to follow him around all the time, begging him to let me help him with his experiments. We were both inside the control booth the first time he switched on his new machine. But something went wrong. There was an enormous flash of light, and we were both knocked unconscious. When we came to, we discovered that everyone on the mountain had vanished. They were just … gone.”
“Everyone in the entire town?” said Oliver. He remembered his mother mentioning another leaf death that had occurred six years ago.
“Yes. After that, Lord Gilbert seemed to go a little mad—”
“A little?”
“A lot,” admitted Two. “He thought everyone had died. But he kept up his experiments with the machine. He convinced himself that if he could make the machine work, then the sacrifice was worth it. He had me help him wire up every oak on the mountain.”
“You mean those black strings?” said Oliver.
“Wires,” corrected Two.
“But what if they weren’t killed?” asked Oliver, hastily covering his mistake. “What if they just got sent to another world?”
“Neither of us thought of that,” said Two. “At least, not until the crimson kite arrived.” Then a queasy look came over him, and he began a fit of coughing. Oliver waited impatiently. Anything he learned about this world might be something that would help him escape.
“So the crimson kite flew here,” prompted Oliver.
“Yes,” Two replied, recovering. “It flew in on the night winds, carrying a letter from your great-uncle. He was searching for a reply from someone—anyone—from another Windblowne. This changed everything for Lord Gilbert. He realized his machine could transport people between worlds and had already done it once by accident.”
“You should have tried to find the people from your Windblowne,” advised Oliver.
Two looked annoyed. “Don’t you think that was the first thing I thought of? I wanted to find my parents again. But it turned out to be impossible. What happened back then was an accident. There was no information on where everyone went, or even that they went anywhere at all. The new version of the machine tracks exactly where it sends things. Anything that travels to another world through the machine can be called back by Lord Gilbert anytime he wants. But the original machine couldn’t do that. Lord Gilbert didn’t seem to care anymore, though. He’d become convinced that other worlds were more primitive than ours and that they could be improved by his inventions. He thinks he’s going to be the savior of all the worlds.”
“But there’s something Great-uncle Gilbert knows that Lord Gilbert doesn’t,” said Oliver, proud. “No one gets sick from traveling with the kite. And the kite doesn’t need to draw energy from the oaks.”
“Yes,” said Two, “and that makes Lord Gilbert wild with anger. He corresponded with your great-uncle, letters flying back and forth with the crimson kite. He wanted to know how the kite worked. But your great-uncle is a little, well …”
“Paranoid?” said Oliver. “But he had reason to be, didn’t he? The first time I met him, he accused me—I mean, accused you—of lying to him and betraying him.”
Two looked away. He was silent for a few moments. Then: “The crimson kite offered to take me to your Windblowne. I flew to your crest and found my way to your great-uncle’s treehouse—”
“I know,” Oliver interrupted. “I saw your trail.”
“And I saw you,” said Two. “I saw you fly your kite. Well, I saw you destroy it.”
Oliver gaped. “You were spying on me?”
Two looked alarmed. “Yes, but—”
“Then you know I’m no good with kites!” said Oliver. “You know I can’t help you make new hunters. Why are you letting Lord Gilbert think I can? When he finds out, he’ll send me to a hell-world! He’ll send you to a hell-world!”
Two struggled to his feet. “You don’t know what it’s like!” he said between bouts of hacking coughs. “You don’t know what it’s like living here! Your great-uncle was the first friend I’d ever had!”
“Friend?” said Oliver. He jumped to his feet. “You kidnapped him and stole all his kites! You helped Lord Gilbert banish him to a hell-world! What kind of friend is that?”
But any answer Two might have given was interrupted by Lord Gilbert’s voice, which erupted out of Two’s handvane.
“Two! Come down immediately! We have work to do!”
The Olivers looked at each other. Two seemed on the verge of saying something, then bit his lip. “I’ll explain later,” he said. But Oliver could tell he was lying. Two limped from the room.
Watching him leave, Oliver wondered about the spars in the hidden drawer. Was it possible that Two intended to use them for the same thing Oliver did—to escape? If he left via kite, Lord Gilbert wouldn’t be able to pull him back through the machine. He caught himself wondering what would happen to Two after Oliver took the spars—then reminded himself that Two had betrayed Great-uncle Gilbert. He doesn’t deserve my sympathy.
Lord Gilbert’s voice came again, this time out of a panel in the wall. “Oliver One! Downstairs now!”
Lord Gilbert, covered in soot and still wearing his helmet, was waiting for Oliver in the living room. “Well?” he barked. “The repairs will be completed shortly. Have you come to your senses? Are you ready to start with the hunters?”
“Yes, of course,” said Oliver innocently. “The joints on each hunter have to be oiled. And I’m going to oil them.”
“Much better,” said Lord Gilbert, peering at Oliver. Then Two called something from outside, and Lord Gilbert rushed away.
Oliver had no intention of oiling the hunters. But what if Lord Gilbert checked the can? Thinking hard, Oliver went to the laboratory and removed the lid from the oilcan. Then he went into the kitchen and carefully poured the entire contents into the sink. Black liquid bubbled down the drain. Satisfied, Oliver replaced the can in the laboratory. Now Lord Gilbert would never know.
Back in the laboratory, he hunted for a ruler to get an idea of the length of the required spine, but he couldn’t find anything like one. With the inactive hunters on every side, he felt as though someone were constantly looking over his shoulder. He suspected one of the many inexplicable devices that filled the laboratory would do the job, but he had no idea which one. He searched through them all, looking for anything useful, but was afraid of raising suspicions by disturbing too much of anything when he was supposed to be oiling.
He suffered through a morose supper with Lord Gilbert and Two, who apparently had gotten the machine in working order. L
ord Gilbert groused about the disruption to his schedule. Two coughed quietly. Oliver left the table as soon as he could, claiming he needed to get a lot of rest for a big day of fixing hunters tomorrow. He lay on a sofa converted to a makeshift bed in the living room, listening to a commotion from the next room as Lord Gilbert and Two dealt with some kind of kitchen catastrophe. Despite himself, he drifted off into a nervous sleep before he could find out what the catastrophe was.
He was woken by the sound of Lord Gilbert storming upstairs, growling, “First the machine, now something’s wrong with the pipes! My Olivers will fix it tomorrow.” Two followed soon after, limping up.
The strange lamps that filled the treehouse with light were extinguished. After waiting as long as he could bear, Oliver rose from the couch, alone downstairs in the darkened treehouse, bathed by white moonslight gleaming in through the windows. He wished it weren’t the month of Two Moons. His escape would be easier under cover of total darkness.
Outside, the winds howled, sounding oddly far away, unlike in Oliver’s treehouse at home, where drafts whistled in through the cracks. There were no drafts in Lord Gilbert’s perfectly built treehouse.
Oliver crept into action.
11
Oliver climbed carefully, carefully, placing each foot delicately on the next step as he inched upstairs, quiet as a ghost. In his own treehouse, there would have been cacophonous creaks and groans no matter how gingerly he went. Here, in Lord Gilbert’s flawless treehouse, the stairs were silent.
In the dark bedroom, Two’s breathing was slow and raspy. Oliver listened for a minute, making sure Two was really asleep. No chances, Oliver, he warned himself. No mistakes.
He crawled to the workbench, thinking quiet thoughts. He felt for the mechanism that opened the secret drawer. His groping fingers found it—
CLICK!
Oliver cringed. Was that the same click as before? Had it sounded quite as much like an explosion the first time? It seemed to echo through the room—CLICKCLICKCLICK!
With stern orders to stop imagining things, he held his breath and reached daintily into the drawer. There was a slight clatter, and then he had all of the spars in his hand. He stole ghostily downstairs to the laboratory, tremendously pleased at how well the plan was going.
He stumbled around in the dark until his hand found a lamp. Remembering what he’d seen Lord Gilbert do, he felt for a switch and pressed it. The room flooded with soft light. Well done, he thought smugly. He was learning his way around this strange world.
The moment the light came on, the caged hawk in the corner began chittering fearfully. “Shhh!” Oliver hissed. He stepped back, and the hawk quieted. On a workbench near the cage was the broken hunter. The thing lay on its side, glass eyes dull and empty, one wing stuck awkwardly straight up, exposing a puzzle of wires beneath. It was no wonder the caged hawk was upset.
“I’ll take you with me when I leave,” Oliver whispered. “I won’t let them do that to you.” He thought of releasing it right away, but turning a panicked hawk loose in the laboratory seemed like a superb way to blow his cover. No more mistakes.
He turned his attention to the poor crimson kite, pinned to a workbench, looking discouragingly dead.
Carefully, Oliver removed the pins and clasps restraining the kite, despairing at the damage, feeling inept. Under the artificial light, the bright crimson silk looked wan and sickly. His fumbling hands seemed to cause even more damage and more rips. Tears sprang to his eyes—could the kite feel pain?
At last the kite was free. Tenderly, Oliver smoothed the silk. His heart pounded. This was where things would get tricky.
Trying not to clatter, he arranged the sticky spars on the workbench. He chose one that looked to be spine length. Taking a deep breath, he tried to fix the spar in place. Too long. He tried another. Too short. He held his breath. Would the third one be just right? No, it didn’t fit either. He felt warm tears on his cheeks as he pushed and pulled, trying to fit at least one of the spars, feeling the last of his confidence draining away.
At last he found a spar that looked exactly right. Carefully, carefully, measuring with his eyes, he tried to snap it into place. But the spar was just slightly too long. Automatically, he looked around for a knife.
Then he froze. No mistakes, Oliver. He hated to admit it, but if he started messing about with knives or any other tools, he’d probably make things even worse.
He eyed the almost-right spar. It was so close—maybe if he just pushed a little harder, he could snap it in. After all, this kite had survived the force of the night winds—if it could do that, it could probably survive the force of his clumsiness. With a firm nod, he prepared to push.
“No!” A harsh whisper came from behind him. Oliver whirled.
Two stood holding a knife.
Oliver lunged, not thinking about the knife or the fact that he was completely unarmed.
Two threw one arm around Oliver’s neck. “Quiet, you idiot!” he coughed into Oliver’s ear. “You’ll wake Lord Gilbert.”
Oliver paused, panting, muscles tensed, wanting to fight.
Two released Oliver’s neck and spoke through clenched teeth. “If you try to jam that spar in, it will snap! Give it to me.”
Oliver offered it sheepishly.
Two placed the spar on the bench. Oliver watched, feeling foolish, as the boy worked rapidly, making precise measures, then in a swift slice notching a tiny cut at the end of the spar.
“Now try it,” said Two calmly, returning the spar.
“Uh, better not,” whispered Oliver. “You do it.”
Two sighed wistfully. “No. It’s your kite. You have to.”
Surprised, Oliver accepted the spar. He leaned over his kite.
“Now gently,” instructed Two in a low voice. “No jamming.”
Gently, thought Oliver. With an echoing snap, he pressed the spine into place. A ripple flowed through the sails.
The Olivers stood riveted, watching intently.
But there was nothing else. No other ripple, not a tremble or a flutter. The crimson kite lay on the workbench, completely still.
The Olivers stood grieving and silent.
At last Two spoke, his voice plaintive. “What now?”
Oliver, devastated, tried to think. “You tell me,” he whispered. “You’re the kite expert!”
Two shrugged helplessly. “No, I’m not. I mean—not when it comes to this kite. I don’t really understand how it works. I just tried to copy what your great-uncle did. I used spars pruned from the same oak he used, an oak next to his treehouse—”
“Of course!” said Oliver impatiently. “The sick oak. The riven oak. The same tree.”
“What?”
“Oaks which dwell across the worlds,” Oliver recited. “The oaks in both our worlds are connected. The riven oak in my world is dying, too.”
The other boy looked alarmed. “You really meant that?”
“Yes,” said Oliver. “Why?”
“If I used a spar from the riven oak,” Two whispered, “then the hunters will be able to track the kite. Not its precise location, but they’ll be able to narrow it down to a handful of worlds. They’ll find you eventually.” He looked at the crimson kite doubtfully. “Although it doesn’t look like it can fly anywhere anyway.”
“Maybe it only needs to feel the night winds,” Oliver said. “Let’s take it to the crest.” He gathered the kite tenderly in his arms.
A soft bump came from the floor above.
Both Olivers turned and looked at the stairs leading up to Lord Gilbert’s room.
“Come on!” said Two. “The wind hatch.”
“Wait,” said Oliver. He reached for the cage. The hawk resumed its terrible noises.
“Leave it!” said Two, grabbing Oliver’s arm. “There’s nothing you can do—Lord Gilbert will just send the hunters to capture it again.”
“No,” said Oliver, yanking free. “At least it will have a chance. And I promised.”
> They went into the kitchen, and Two pressed a button on the wall. The wind hatch in the floor rose silently.
Climbing proved difficult for Two in his weakened state, so Oliver descended twice, once with the cage and once with the kite. At the bottom of the lighted shaft was an enclosure, with a sliding door to the outside.
“Come on,” said Two, speaking loudly now so as to be heard over the wind. He reached for the door handle but had trouble pulling it open.
“Need some help?” asked Oliver, his arms full of cage and kite.
Two coughed weakly, shivering, sweat pouring down his brow. “No,” he said. He put both hands on the door and, with a great effort, slid it open.
Outside, the night was wild and frightening. The mad, raging winds were equal to the winds of recent nights in Oliver’s Windblowne, which had been the worst he’d ever seen. They almost seemed to scream at him. Oliver cried out and nearly fell.
“What’s wrong?” shouted Two.
“The winds,” hissed Oliver through clenched teeth. “Can’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?” said Two. “Come on, we have to hurry!”
But Oliver couldn’t hurry anywhere, not like this. The winds were somehow causing his headache, boring into his skull with an insistent, aching cry. He tried to focus his attention elsewhere, on the kite and his great-uncle and—
The hawk sensed open air and was battering at the sides of its cage. Oliver dropped to one knee and fumbled for the door latch, hanging on to the kite while trying not to lose a finger. At last the door popped open. There was a blur—a shriek—and the hawk was gone.
With a spinning heave, Oliver hurled the cage as far as he could into the forest, hoping that the winds would smash it to bits on an oak. “Let’s go!” he said. The headache was still there, but he’d been able to push it down to a manageable level.
Together, the Olivers pushed their way through the windstorm. The winds pulled at the crimson kite, but Oliver kept it close to his body. Not yet, he told the winds. Wait for the crest.
Windblowne Page 9
