Windblowne (16 page)

“Ilia?” Oliver whispered nervously. Had she fallen?

“Hurry up!” Ilia’s voice snapped from above. “I can see them coming!”

Then Oliver saw it—the slightest break in the tangle, just to his right. He climbed over and up, fast as he could,
and clambered through a cleverly concealed trapdoor and into a small, snug treehouse.

Ilia was peering into a miniature brass telescope that pointed through a tiny window.

“Who’s coming?” Oliver wheezed, glad to feel a solid floor beneath him. “The hunters?”

“No,” said Ilia. “Just some of the Watch.”

“What will we do? We’re trapped!”

“Don’t worry,” Ilia replied. “I’ve got this treehouse entirely camouflaged.”

Oliver looked all around, marveling. The treehouse was large enough for both of them to move about comfortably. There were open crates scattered around that were full of interesting things like ropes and pulleys and gears and more telescopes, and even a bow and some arrows. There were more throwing stones for the red knit pouch, and a threadbare rug on the floor, some dry food, a few canteens, and candles. Windows looked in all directions, and there was another window in the roof, covered by a sliding door.

“Who built this?” said Oliver in wonder. “It’s amazing.”

“I did,” said Ilia, beaming. “I’ve been working on it a little bit at a time, for years.”

“And no one knows about it?”

“Nope,” said Ilia. “You’re the first. Do you really like it?”

“Yes,” said Oliver. Suddenly he had the feeling he might be blushing. He grabbed one of the telescopes and fumbled with it. “I bet you can see whatever goes on in Windblowne from up here.”

“Well, I can see a lot of things. Especially now, because the oaks have been losing their leaves. Everyone is trying to pretend that nothing’s wrong, but I’m really worried.”

“I am, too,” said Oliver.

“They think the wall is going to protect them from everything,” Ilia muttered.

Oliver settled on a pillow, stretching out his aching legs. “Yes, the wall,” he said. “What is that for?”

“You don’t know?” said Ilia skeptically. “Where are you from, anyway?”

“I’m, uh, from the valley.”

“Hmmm,” said Ilia. “You’re from the valley, and you made a kite that could fly in the night winds, and you flew over the wall with it this morning?”

“Yes?” lied Oliver.

Ilia raised one eyebrow. “Pretty impressive for someone from the valley.”

“I could have gotten this kite from Windblowne,” Oliver suggested. “Maybe I didn’t make it myself.”

She stared at him. “Don’t you know that no one here makes kites anymore? I was six years old when they started building the Crest Wall, and that was the last time I saw a kite in the sky. I can still remember it.”

“Why did they build it? Why stop people from flying kites?”

Ilia lowered her eyes. “Because of the Lost.”

“Who are the Lost?” Oliver asked.

She sat heavily on a pillow, tossing her pouch next to the pile of stones.

“Something happened,” she began. “Years ago, just before the Festival of Kites. A group of children were flying their kites on the crest. A big gust of wind blew up, and somehow one of the children was carried away. Everyone shouted for him to let go of his kite, but he refused. He disappeared into the sky.”

“I see,” said Oliver.

“They searched for him for days, all through the valley and the plains, trying to find where he might have come down. There was no sign of him anywhere. His parents were frantic.” As Ilia told the story, her face became weary,
with the same sad expression that Oliver had seen on the faces of so many townspeople below.

Oliver thought about his family’s treehouse, and the shuttered workshop, and his father’s downcast face. He had a very good idea of the name of the boy who had been blown away by the winds. “Did … that boy … make the kite himself?”

Ilia looked at him strangely, then shook her head. “No. His great-uncle, a famous master kitesmith, made it for him. Everyone went to him after the boy disappeared, but his great-uncle had no idea what had happened. He searched as hard as anyone for his grandnephew.”

Oliver swallowed. “And they built the wall because of that?”

“No,” said Ilia. “They built the wall because of what happened next.”

Muffled shouts came from below. Ilia and Oliver ran to the windows.

“Have they found us?” Oliver said anxiously.

“No,” whispered Ilia, telescope to eye. “They’re just searching the forest. Keep your voice down.”

They sat back on the pillows. “So what happened next?” prompted Oliver.

“Several nights later,” Ilia continued solemnly, “four more children disappeared. Their parents went to wake them in the morning, and their beds were empty.”

Oliver thought of his empty bed, back in a Windblowne that seemed very far away.

Ilia crawled to one of the crates and rummaged. She handed Oliver a piece of paper, old and crumpled.

He opened it and read:

The note was in his handwriting.

“They found one of these notes in the room of one of the Lost—after he disappeared,” said Ilia. “His flying clothes were gone, just like the other three. None of them were ever seen again.”

“And they built the wall because of that?” asked Oliver.

“Partly,” Ilia said, “but also because of what happened next.”

Oliver waited.

“Windblowne went crazy,” Ilia said. “They blamed the great-uncle. The Watch—they were all old men back then—went to his treehouse to arrest him. When they got there, he was packing. He said he was going to search for the children. The Watch tried to stop him, and that’s where the story gets really weird. The Watch claimed they were attacked by kites. Some said it was five kites, some said ten—and some said it was really only one. Whatever happened, when they returned, they were covered in bites and bruises and there were a few broken arms.”

Oliver thought about the kite-eater, far away in his Windblowne. By now, it had probably chewed most of the way through those books.

Ilia went on. “And the great-uncle was gone. No one ever found him, or the kites, or the children. But after that, everything in Windblowne changed. Everyone became afraid. They built the wall to keep anyone from going to the crest, and they destroyed every kite they could find. They said kites, the same ones that had attacked the Watch, had stolen the Lost away, and that no kites would be allowed in Windblowne again.”

“But the kites didn’t steal them,” Oliver pointed out. “The notes told them to come to the crest!”

“Yes,” she sighed. “But they destroyed the note they found, too. They wanted to blame someone, so they blamed the great-uncle and his kites and ignored everything that told another story.”

Oliver shook his head. No wonder the other children had gotten so angry with him when he claimed to be Oliver.

“I miss him,” Ilia said. “He was my best friend. Everyone said he must be dead, but his great-uncle said he wasn’t and that he would be able to find him. But nobody would listen.” She paused, studying Oliver, studying his kite. “I know this is a stupid question,” she said, hesitating, “but … you look a lot like … I mean, it’s been five years but …” Her voice trembled. “Are you Oliver?”

“Yes,” said Oliver. “And no. Not your Oliver.”

He told Ilia everything, from the moment he had first met Great-uncle Gilbert to his escape from Lord Gilbert’s Windblowne. Ilia, at first stunned into silence, became increasingly excited as the tale went on.

At last she burst out, annoyingly, just as Oliver was coming to the part where he bravely fought off a flock of Lord Gilbert’s hunters. “This means,” she exclaimed, her
eyes bright, “that when Oliver … I mean, my Oliver … disappeared, he traveled to another world!” She jumped to her feet, beaming. “Maybe he’s the Oliver who’s living with Lord Gilbert!”

“No,” said Oliver. “He’s lived in that Windblowne his whole life. His parents disappeared along with everyone else.”

“Oh,” said Ilia, disappointed. “Well, you travel to lots of worlds! You’ll find him!”

Oliver shook his head, wishing he could get back to the part where he knocked two hunters aside with a single blow. “No, I’m sorry. I think there’s a lot of these worlds—thousands … millions. And I can’t choose where I go. Not with a broken kite.”

“That means …,” said Ilia, then paused. “That means when you leave, you’ll never come back again?”

Oliver was certain he detected a quaver in her voice.

“No,” said Oliver, as manfully and courageously as he could manage. “I don’t think so.”

“But the kite can still do things,” Ilia pointed out. “I saw it carry you up the wall. And you said it grabbed you around the arm before you took off from Lord Gilbert’s world.”

“Y-yes,” said Oliver, thinking, stroking the kite. “It’s still alive. But I think it takes a lot of energy and wind before it can do those things, and it’s exhausted afterward.” He looked at Ilia. It all sounded so weird, he had stopped expecting anyone to believe him. But she sat gazing at him solemnly. There was no doubt that she trusted him. He remembered another Ilia trusting him once before too, and winced before continuing. “And it can’t guide me to the right Windblowne. We just have to go wherever the wind takes us. I thought I could use my great-uncle’s handvane for guidance, but it’s broken, too.”

He took Great-uncle Gilbert’s handvane from his pack.

Ilia gasped. “A handvane! I haven’t seen one in years. And it’s so beautiful!”

“Here,” said Oliver.

Ilia traced her finger over the intricate carvings. “You have so many amazing things.”

Oliver had not thought about it. “I guess I do,” he said, trying to boast a little bit but not too much.

Ilia spun the vane, which settled firmly on west. “How would this help guide you between worlds?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver admitted. “I just thought it
might. I mean, handvanes can tell you a lot of things, like when the winds are about to change, and where the next winds might come from. And Great-uncle Gilbert made this one, so …” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s no good.”

“I think it’s pretty good,” said Ilia, smiling and returning the handvane. Oliver placed it back in his pack, more carefully this time.

“So what are you going to do next?” asked Ilia.

“Well,” said Oliver slowly, “I’m trying to find my great-uncle, but I don’t know how to find him or if I ever will. I’ll just have to go from world to world, trying to find where Lord Gilbert left him, and then maybe I can stop Lord Gilbert in time to save the oaks and the other Windblownes and Olivers and …” To his shame, his voice was shaking. But when he put it all out like that, the situation sounded hopeless. Anyone who paid attention could tell the oaks were dying, and there wasn’t much time left.

He tried to recover his manly tone, but he did not feel manly anymore. He felt like just another Oliver who had been blown away from home.

He looked at the crumpled note, which was both
familiar and foreign at the same time. “Why would those kids do what your Oliver told them?” he asked, thinking that if he wrote such a note, everyone would pass it around, laughing about how his family got weirder every day. They certainly wouldn’t light out for the crest at midnight under perilous circumstances.

“Oh, of course they would!” said Ilia, surprised. “Why wouldn’t they? I mean, you and your family were just about the most respected people in Windblowne! Probably still are, in your world.”

“Er … yes,” said Oliver. “Of course. Just checking.”

Great
, he thought. One Oliver is a master kitesmith, the next a legendary leader of men. Well, children. Still, it looked like he was just about the weakest Oliver out there.

He looked at the note again, the childish scrawl somehow infused with greatness. Then something occurred to him.

“The notes,” he said, holding up the crumpled paper. “You said they destroyed the one they found. They didn’t find this one?”

“No,” she said. “They didn’t.”

“Why not? Whose was it?”

Ilia’s face went tight. “It was mine.”

“Yours? But—”

“I never saw it,” she said bitterly. “I snuck out that night to climb trees. When I came in that morning, the note was on my pillow. But it was too late. Midnight had passed. I was meant to be one of the Lost”—her voice caught—“but now I’ll never know what happened.”

A few minutes of silence passed. Ilia stared at the floor. Oliver toyed with one of the telescopes, feeling embarrassed. The Oliver of this world had been Ilia’s best friend. A best friend would probably know what to say in a situation like this. But he had no idea, any more than he knew how to fix the crimson kite.

The silence was broken by a distant, echoing shout.

“The Watch again,” said Ilia, standing. “Don’t worry, they’ve never found my treehouse.”

“But they’ll keep looking for me,” said Oliver. “And if they don’t find me, then the hunters will. It will be a lot harder to hide from them.”

It was true. The hunters would continue their relentless search, and eventually they would find him. He couldn’t protect the crimson kite forever, or his family, or his Windblowne. Wherever he flew, he would bring
danger to everyone he met, just like he was bringing danger to Ilia now.

“Maybe we
could
hide from the hunters,” said Ilia, growing excited. “I could camouflage the roof, too. You could live in my treehouse! I could bring you anything you needed. They’d never find you!”

Oliver shook his head. “Thank you,” he said with regret. “But no. I can’t hide. I have to find Great-uncle Gilbert.”

Ilia opened her mouth again, then closed it and turned away.

She stepped over to one of the crates and rummaged. At last she found a piece of fabric, which she handed to Oliver. “If you ever do find my Oliver, will you give him this? It’s a piece of the tail from a kite his great-uncle flew to win the Festival Grand Prize, decades ago. It was a gift to him, and it was his proudest possession. I … I want him to have a memory of home. I want him to know that I miss him.”