Windblowne Part 19

"Yes," said Oliver. "That's Ilia." He waved, and Ilia waved back, swinging comfortably with one hand from the rope ladder. "I'd better go."

Two turned to him, a stricken look on his face. "What if a what if they don't like me? Maybe we should go back."

"No," said Oliver, "this will be your Windblowne now. This will be your home."

Two took one uncertain step, then another. With each step he moved more quickly toward Ilia, who had reached the ground and was running toward him.

As Oliver stepped back into the winds, he looked toward the top of the wall, just above the rope ladder. The setting sun illuminated two familiar figures waiting there, a man and a woman huddled together, watching as Two approached Ilia.

Then Oliver stepped across worlds, back to Great-uncle Gilbert's new home.

He arrived amidst the full force of the night winds. The crimson kite was waiting. Oliver leapt and grasped its las.h.i.+ng tail, and they soared up into the mist.

Part of him didn't want to go home just yet. Part of him wanted to catch his first glimpse of the ocean tonight. But the part of him that was drawn toward home was stronger, and so he settled for a flight through the dark, wind-lashed Way Between Worlds, listening to the voices of the many worlds now available to him.

Morning arrived, the mist brightened, and they soared on powerful wind toward Oliver's crest. Below him, he saw an enormous crowd of people surrounding the peak, where a stage had been erected.

"The Festival awards ceremony!" Oliver said. "I completely forgot."

The kite dipped, asking if he wanted to land near the stage.

"No," said Oliver, after thinking for a moment. "Take us down near the oakline."

They shot over the crowd and the stage. Oliver saw heads turning and heard voices beginning to shout. The granite jumping marker pa.s.sed beneath them, and Oliver made a clean landing at the oakline. He looked up at the powerful oaks, already putting out new green shoots on their branches, which were tossing as if in greeting. Oliver waved back to them, just in case. There were more cries from the direction of the stage, but Oliver hurried into the forest. He was too tired to deal with any of that yet.

He found Windswept Way and began the spiral walk downward. He pa.s.sed a member of the Watch, bleary, plump, and old, and smiled at him. The Watchman smiled back.

"Almost back to normal!" the Watchman called to him proudly. "Another fine Festival."

Oliver found it hard to believe that the Festival had happened at all. The food stands had been taken down, the banners and flags removed, and the extra tables in front of the inns taken in. Even the posters that had littered the roads a few days ago had been swept clean, some by industrious Windblownians but most by the incessant winds.

He saw a girl bounding up the Way. It was Ilia, late for the awards, clutching a lion kite.

"Hullo, Ilia." Oliver grinned.

Ilia stopped short. "Oliver! You overslept, too? Aren't you going to the awards?"

Oliver yawned. "I don't think so. I'm really tired."

Ilia gaped, then said, "Is that your kite?"

"Yes," said Oliver proudly, realizing the kite must look strange, flying along without a line. "You should come see it fly. Meet me on the crest tonight, just before the night winds?"

Ilia stared at him as though he were mad.

"Oh, one more thing," said Oliver. He reached into a b.u.t.toned inside pocket and found a kite charm. Ilia, it read. He pa.s.sed it to her. "Thank you," he said. "It did bring me luck."

Then he waved and headed for home.

He pa.s.sed some other kids who were also racing for the crest. They aimed the usual taunts in his direction, but Oliver hardly noticed.

His treehouse, when he reached it, seemed somehow more welcoming, even though nothing about it had changed. Oliver was happy to see flickering light in his mother's blazing forge through the open doors of her workshop, and the open shutters of his father's study.

His mother came out of the workshop, dragging her newest sculpture. She must have won the battle with the mayor, for most of her sculptures stood proudly along the Way. Oliver smiled as he saw that several of them had been sold.

He went to help her.

"Oh! Hullo, dear," his mother said, surprised, as Oliver put his shoulder to the sculpture and pushed. They settled it in its appointed spot and stood back, looking it over.

This one reminded Oliver of the regal oaks of the one-moon world. He had a feeling that sometimes his mother must hear the winds whispering, too.

"I really like this one," he said.

"Really?" she replied with pleasure. "You do? You've never said that before! Thank you!" And then she swept in and gave him a fierce and proud hug.

Embarra.s.sed, Oliver extricated himself and escaped up the treehouse steps.

His father was sitting at the kitchen table, pen scratching away. Oliver began to build a fire.

His father looked up. "Hullo, Oliver!"

"Hullo, Dad."

"It's good to see you, son. While the Festival was on, you were out at all hours, up early and back latea"I don't think we saw you at all, now that I think about it!"

"Well, I was busy," Oliver agreed. "But it's good to see you again, too."

His father smiled and resumed writing.

"You're interested in history, aren't you?" Oliver asked.

His father dropped his pen. "Why, yes, of course! Very much!" He sighed heavily. "I'm sorry it's never interested you."

"Well," Oliver said, "I took your advice and went to see Great-uncle Gilbert."

"Who? Oh, yes," said his father. "Your mother's crazy old uncle."

"That's the one," said Oliver. "He's full of stories about Windblowne. He told me some interesting things about the mountain's history. I thought you might like to hear them."

"That would be wonderful!" Oliver's father leaned forward and pushed his journal aside. "Perhaps I could put them in another book!" Oliver had never seen his father so excited.

"Great," said Oliver, yawning. "But we'll have to talk about it tomorrow. I need some sleep. It's been a long week."

"Yes, I imagine so," said his father. "How was the Festival, anyway?"

"Oh a the Festival. It was fine," Oliver replied. And with a grin, he dashed upstairs to bed.

acknowledgments.

Windblowne would not have been possible without the love and wisdom of my wife, Miriam Angress; the eternal patience and counsel of my fellow writers John Claude Bemis, Jennifer Harrod, and Jen Wichman; the insight of my brother-in-law, Percy Angress; my terrific agents, Josh and Tracey Adams of Adams Literary; and my magnificent editor, Jim Thomas. Much is also owed to the faith and encouragement of my readers Claudia Lanese, Indigo Sargent, and Daniel de Marchi; to the editorial a.s.sistance of Chelsea Eberly; and to my parents, Merle and Donna Messer.

about the author.

Blown into this world as a baby, Stephen Messer spent his childhood flying kites on windswept hilltops in Maine and Arizona. He has lived in deserts and in megacities, on alpine mountains and in lowland swamps. Nowadays he lives with his wife in an old house surrounded by oak trees in Durham, North Carolina. Sometimes, on windblown nights, it seems as if the house has been transported to another world.

end.