Windblowne

by Stephen Messer

  All seemed well in the town, other than the partly leafless oaks. The effects of Lord Gilbert’s machine were becoming more evident. Oliver could see through bare patches in many of the trees.

  “Here’s the plan,” Oliver whispered to the kite. He stopped, then spoke in a normal voice. “Here’s the plan. I’ll climb down, hurry into town, and find the mayor.” He thought of the mayor complaining about his mother’s sculptures. “No, the mayor is a fool. And the Watch is useless. I’ll find the great-uncle Gilbert from this world and warn him. Maybe he can help.” It was a hasty plan, but it would have to do.

  There was also the matter of breakfast. The wind brought with it the smell of food cooking all over the mountain. Oliver felt as though he could eat an entire side of bacon and a few dozen eggs, all by himself. He leaned over the edge and looked down at the dizzying drop. Quickly deciding that he was not willing to jump off and hope the kite could carry him down safely, he began to hunt around for other means of descending. He saw nothing except a few oak branches, swaying gently just within reach.

  Like anyone from Windblowne, a few days earlier he would never have considered climbing an oak. It was far too dangerous. But Oliver had done a lot of dangerous things in the past few days, and something as innocuous as descending an oak unaided didn’t seem that perilous any longer.

  He removed his pack and fastened the kite to the kite straps, then hurried along the lonely curve of wall until he found a sturdy branch poking over. He hopped on. The branch swayed under his weight as he wriggled his way to the trunk. Oliver was surprised to discover that tree climbing was rather fun, and not really that dangerous—although he wouldn’t want to be up there during the night winds. He climbed down through the wide-spreading branches. There was no sign of Windswept Way, but he knew that if he muddled down-slope he would come across it soon enough. With the wall blocking the route to his destination, he had no choice but to use the main road.

  He crashed through the forest, wading through mounds of oak leaves.

  He had not been crashing for long before he heard familiar, unpleasant voices. Voices that made him want to retreat into the trees. He braced himself. “I’ve got nothing to be scared of,” he whispered to the kite. “I’ve been through worse than this.”

  He peeked out from behind the nearest oak. He saw a duplicate Marcus and a duplicate Alain and a few other nasty faces from school. They were shuffling along oddly, heads down, as though they had not noticed the beautiful day. A few were looking up worriedly at the oaks. There was no duplicate Oliver among them—and why would there be? Oliver was never welcome among their counterparts in his own Windblowne. Looking up and down the Way, he saw a few other Windblownians, mostly adults, shuffling, oblivious to midsummer and to the fact that there ought to be a Festival going on.

  But of course, there was no Festival here. Not with that wall.

  Maybe this is a bad idea, Oliver thought uneasily. But he had to brave the town sooner or later.

  Steeling himself, he stepped onto the Way.

  Oliver expected the usual laughs and ridicule. Instead, the group stared at him in surprise. “Hey!” Marcus said. “Who are you?”

  The plan was not going well.

  “Uh,” said Oliver, thinking fast. “I’m Oliver One—I mean, I’m Oliver.”

  There was a collective gasp. “Don’t be a jerk,” Marcus snapped, balling one hand into a fist. Alain joined him, looking just as angry.

  “That’s not funny,” said Alain. “Whoever you are, you’d better get off our mountain.”

  Marcus and Alain closed in, fists up. Oliver backed away, congratulating himself on his brilliant strategy.

  “Sorry,” he pleaded, waving his hands defensively, “I, uh …” He turned to run.

  There was another collective gasp; then a voice from the back of the group squeaked, “A KITE!”

  Oliver turned back in surprise. Marcus and Alain were retreating, and now it was their hands that were waving in defense.

  That’s better, thought Oliver. He slipped the kite from its straps and held it high. “Yes, it’s a kite!” he announced.

  “Do you like it?” He whooshed the kite dramatically around his head.

  The response was a satisfying scattering of his tormentors. One or two of them screamed. “We’re telling the Watch!” Marcus yelped, and ran.

  Oliver watched as they disappeared down the Way. That, he thought, was the weirdest thing yet. He held up the kite for inspection. “How did you do that?” he asked. “You need to teach me that trick.” The kite seemed to shiver—or was it the wind?

  Oliver chuckled at the thought of the others alerting the Watch. Was he supposed to be scared? He had faced killer hunters and mad geniuses. The Watch was no threat to him. By the time those fat old men finished their ample breakfasts and puffed their way up the mountain, he would have had plenty of time to get to Great-uncle Gilbert’s treehouse on this world.

  As for getting to the treehouse … He looked around. The Way had emptied. Oliver was not sure what was going on here, but clearly he stuck out in his flying clothes. There was no help for that, but he had to make his way around a bit more carefully. He’d have to abandon the Way, and stick to the forest, and—

  “HALT!” a powerful voice shouted. “Halt in the name of the Windblowne Watch!”

  Oliver whirled around.

  A group of men were running up the Way—young, strong men. They reached him before he could recover from his shock. Oliver recognized them all. In his own Windblowne, each of them was a promising young flier, the kind of man who hoped to be a champion someday. But here they were dressed in the uniforms of the Watch.

  The Watchmen circled him, keeping a wary distance.

  “Listen!” Oliver said quickly. “I know what’s wrong with the oaks. I—”

  One of the men was wearing captain’s colors. “Drop the kite!” he ordered.

  “But—”

  “Drop it!” shouted the captain. He stepped closer, a hand moving to his hip. Oliver saw that he was carrying a club.

  Everything was silent but for wind caressing the oaks and, far off, a swallow’s sudden cry.

  “Yes, sir,” said Oliver meekly. “Sorry,” he whispered to the kite as he set it carefully on the ground.

  “Now step away!” the captain ordered, his muscles bulging authoritatively under his uniform. Unlike the rumpled uniforms of the Watch in Oliver’s Windblowne, these men’s outfits were crisp and pressed and fit perfectly.

  Oliver thought they were being a little silly but felt it would be better not to tell them this. He stepped away from the kite.

  The captain looked around at the other Watchmen. “Bear,” he said to the largest and strongest-looking. “Get the kite.”

  “Uh, captain,” Bear said, “I’m not touching that thing.” Murmurs of agreement came from the other Watchmen.

  The captain grimaced. “Right,” he said. “We’ll ask the mayor what to do. For now, go to the Goldspar Inn and get a blanket. Toss it over the kite and weigh it down with rocks. We’ll deal with it later.”

  “Good idea, captain!” said Bear, obviously relieved. He ran down the Way.

  The captain turned back to Oliver. “You!” he thundered. “You must be from the valley! You think this is some kind of joke?”

  “No, sir,” Oliver squeaked, “I—”

  “That’s what I thought!” the captain shouted. “Seize him!”

  Oliver was seized. Powerful hands grabbed his arms.

  “March him down to headquarters,” ordered the captain.

  And down the mountain they marched. That is, the Watchmen marched. Oliver dangled. He was hoisted between two of the men and carried off, his feet kicking futilely. Soon they had passed around the first bend and left the kite entirely behind.

  14

  This wasn’t good at all.

  Oliver recovered his wits. He was a wind-traveling hero, and he wouldn’t be manhandled by a bunch of thugs. “Put me down!” he yel
led.

  The captain shook his head grimly.

  “I said,” shouted Oliver, taking a deep breath, “put me down! I haven’t done anything!”

  The captain rolled his eyes and nodded. The Watchmen released Oliver, and he tumbled to the ground.

  “Men,” growled the captain, “if the prisoner makes one more sound, gag him.”

  One of the Watchmen shoved him. “Keep moving!” the shover ordered.

  Oliver craned his neck, spotting the Volitant Dragon, built high in its oak, just like at home. But unlike at home, he didn’t see colorful banners flapping in the breeze or excited children with new handvanes running around its balconies. Instead, there were boarded-up windows, peeling paint, and doors hanging off their hinges. The wooden dragon was still swinging from its post, but it had been painted over, roughly, in peeling brown, and read, in crude letters: CLOSED.

  A Watchman shoved him forward. “I said keep moving!”

  Oliver twisted. “It’s the Eighth Day of the Second Moon!”

  “You’re a smart one,” the Watchman sneered. “Where’s my gag?” the captain muttered, patting his pockets.

  Oliver couldn’t help himself. “What happened to the Dragon? Why isn’t there any Festival?”

  “Found it!” announced the captain. He jammed a wad of rags into Oliver’s mouth. The Dragon soon passed from view.

  “Mmph!” Oliver said. He reached for the gag. A Watchman grabbed for him and pinned his arms.

  He turned his head in all directions. No kites, no Festival decorations, no posters littering the streets, no announcements of the day’s schedule. The town felt sad and empty without them.

  The Windblownians seemed sad and empty, too. A few looked curiously at him, then hurried on, their heads down and their faces troubled.

  An intense longing for Windblowne, his Windblowne, filled Oliver. He wished he could see his treehouse again—

  Which, of course, he could. He realized with a start that they were nearly there.

  His mother did not have her sculptures crowding the lane—there were no sculptures at all. The lawn was clear and neat, just like any other lawn in Windblowne. The treehouse looked the same as ever, if a bit tidier. But his mother’s workshop was dark and shuttered, and a padlock hung on the door.

  Oliver began to feel sick. He spat the gag from his mouth. “Who lives here?”

  “You know who lives here,” snapped the captain. “We heard what you told those kids.” He bent down for the gag, then drew his hand back in disgust. “Re-gag the prisoner,” he ordered one of his men, who glared at Oliver.

  “But I—” Oliver began. The damp and now dusty gag cut off his protest.

  We must … I mean, they must not live here anymore, thought Oliver miserably. Then he saw his father.

  Oliver had not recognized him at first. He had never seen his father without his writing journal in hand, scribbling notes for one of his books. Usually he carried a sling stuffed with other books he was using for his research. He walked everywhere slowly, stopping every few steps to write, as some idea struck him.

  In this world, though, Oliver’s father carried nothing. He still walked slowly, but his head was bent, and his step was heavy. He looked terribly sad, and Oliver had the sudden and very unexpected urge to run to him and comfort him.

  Oliver tried to dart between the Watchmen. “Mmph!” he said as loudly as he could.

  “I hate this kid,” panted the Watchman on his left, fighting for a grip.

  They came alongside Oliver’s father, who raised his head leadenly to peer at the strange sight of six burly Watchmen struggling to contain one lively boy.

  Oliver’s eyes bulged as they met his father’s. “MMPH!” he cried desperately.

  For an instant, his father’s heavy eyes cleared and there was a flash of recognition. But then his father shook his head, muttered angrily, and trudged on.

  “Mmph,” groaned Oliver. He stopped fighting. He felt numb with despair. His own father—sort of—had done nothing to help him. His own father had abandoned him to the Watch. He’s not really my father, he told himself. My real father would have helped me.

  They came to Watch headquarters. The gag was yanked from Oliver’s mouth.

  This headquarters looked as much like the one in Oliver’s Windblowne as these Watchmen looked like their fat and beery counterparts. It had bars on the windows and steep stairs on which other young, sharply dressed Watchmen were trotting up and down with serious looks on their faces.

  They were the same serious expressions that Oliver had seen on every face in this world. There were no kindly looks, no smiles, no laughter.

  Two passing Watchmen were talking urgently. “Leaves falling all over the mountain,” one was saying. “No one knows why.”

  “I know why!” said Oliver.

  The men peered at Oliver. “What did this one do?”

  “Came up from the valley,” answered the captain. “Dressed like a flier. Called himself Oliver. Thinks he’s funny.”

  Oliver began, “I don’t th—” “Up!” ordered the captain.

  Oliver put one foot on the lowest step. He wondered if he was going into a jail cell. Would this be his final glimpse of daylight? He looked up, savoring a last moment of sun and wind and sky.…

  And saw a little black dot that was rapidly getting larger.

  “UP!” demanded the captain.

  Oliver whirled and grabbed the captain’s shoulders.

  He pointed, shouting, “A hunter! I mean, a … a kite!”

  The captain chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, we’re not falling for that. We’ve heard that one befo—”

  A shriek shattered the air as the hunter dove straight at Oliver.

  15

  Oliver leapt as the hunter struck him a glancing blow. He fell flat on his back, his breath knocked from his body and his head hitting the solid ground. This position gave him an excellent view of the entirely one-sided battle between the Watchmen and the hunter.

  The men were shouting and running in all directions as the hunter tore through them, talons flashing. Two Watchmen crawled under the steps near Oliver. Oliver thought he heard one of them whimpering for his mother.

  “Men! Remember your training!” the captain shouted, but it was obvious that the training had not included keeping a cool head during a kite attack.

  Oliver worked on getting some air back into his lungs as he struggled to his knees.

  “Mother,” whimpered the steps.

  Pathetic, thought Oliver.

  The hunter was cutting the air in a low, wicked circle. It’s looking for the kite, thought Oliver.

  He hopped backward a few steps, then turned and fled up the mountain, into the oaks. If he went straight up the slope, he would keep crossing the Way. If he could direct himself properly using his map, he would come out of the woods right where he had left his kite.

  He plunged desperately, running when he could, scurrying on all fours where the brush was too thick or the slope was too steep.

  He burst from the trees, right onto the open Way, directly into the path of an elderly woman. It was Marcus’s grandmother.

  “Sorry—” Oliver panted, but the old woman screamed, “It’s him! The boy from the valley!”

  Great, Oliver thought, I’m famous. He had obviously made quite an impression on this Windblowne during his brief visit.

  “I never liked you either!” he shouted as she took a swipe with her cane. Then he shot into the forest again.

  Oliver smashed along, cursing as he was thwacked in the head by low-hanging branches.

  He barreled out onto the Way again, huffing. An excited group of people stood talking nearby. “Four kites!” one of them was saying breathlessly. “They attacked the Watch!”

  Wild rumors were spreading. Oliver adopted a casual saunter and walked, panting, hair full of twigs, across the Way.

  One of the group looked toward Oliver. “Hey—” he started.

  Oliver exploded into
a run. Then he was in the oaks again, slipping and crawling upward. In a few frantic minutes he came again to the Way, and this time he raced straight across the road. Now he was really a spectacle, covered with dirt, more leaves, and spiderwebs. But this time no one looked at him.

  “A whole fleet of them!” someone was shouting. “A whole fleet of kites appeared and demolished Watch headquarters! They’re plucking up the Watch and carrying them off!”

  Oliver wished that were true.

  Closer to the crest now, the mountain was getting steeper. His running felt more like an excruciating plod. Bright spots flashed in front of his eyes.

  He hurtled onto the Way for the fourth time, wildeyed, chest heaving. The kite was just a little higher. He would have to risk running on the open Way.

  As he ran, he heard the shouts of the Watchmen. They had taken the long way around, but they were also much faster.

  Ahead, a crowd had gathered at the place where he’d been forced to abandon his kite. With relief, Oliver saw a blanket on the ground. Someone had covered the kite, just as the captain had ordered. The crowd was keeping a wary distance from the blanket.

  “HALT!” The Watchmen were right behind him.

  Oliver ran through the startled crowd, tossed away the blanket, and seized the kite.

  “A kite!” someone screamed. The crowd stumbled backward, bumping and pushing.

  Oliver whirled around crazily, shouting, “A kite! A kite! Ha ha!” and waving the kite about like a sword, feeling utterly ridiculous.

  The Watchmen shoved their way through the panicked crowd. But even they would not come close to the madly whirling Oliver.

  A piercing scream tore through the air. The hunter had found them.

  This was too much for the timid citizens of this Windblowne, and they scattered like leaves. The Watchmen scattered with them.

  Oliver ran into the forest. He heard a whir as the hunter sliced through the air.

  His chest seemed to think it wasn’t getting enough air. If I had known what was coming, Oliver thought, I would have gotten more exercise.

  Somewhere above, the hunter screeched angrily. Oliver looked up, trying to spot the hunter, trying to—