Windblowne Part 9

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. Lord 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 makes.h.i.+ft 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 ita"

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 rooma"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, gla.s.s 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 eyesa"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 closea"maybe if he just pushed a little harder, he could snap it in. After all, this kite had survived the force of the night windsa"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 meana"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 treehousea""

"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 b.u.mp 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 doa"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 b.u.t.ton 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, s.h.i.+vering, 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 anda"

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 blura"a shrieka"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.

Oliver shuddered as they pa.s.sed the riven oak. The gates had been left open, and the oak's moonslit silhouette loomed over them like a beast with two arms, writhing in agony. The foul shadows of Lord Gilbert's machines hunched around, clutching at the tree. Somehow the shadows seemed hunched around Oliver, too. He hurried past, shadows on each side, peering for a way through, and then he realized Two was no longer with him.

The boy had found a pocket of calm on the leeward side of one of the machines. His whole body was shaking, and tears tumbled down his cheeks.

"Come on!" Oliver shouted.

Two shook his head, struggling to speak. Oliver leaned in close, trying to catch his words, which were faint and whispery against the wind.

"a would have done anything for that. I'm sorry."

"Anything for what?" said Oliver.

Two seemed to be drifting away. "It's my faulta"I helped him a but after today a I realized I couldn't take your family from you.a"

"My family?"

"a yes a if I were there and you were trapped here a"

"That's why you helped him kidnap Great-uncle Gilbert," said Oliver suddenly. "That's why you were making a kite to escape. You wanted my family. My life. You wanted to trade places with me."

Two nodded. "I'm sorry."

Oliver stood wondering. A few days ago, the idea that someone would risk dying so that he could have Oliver's parents and Oliver's life would have seemed like the most absurd idea imaginable. But now his parents looked pretty good, compared to a great-uncle who performed scientific experiments on you, who cut the brains out of hawks, and who planned to destroy the giant oaks on one world after another. And with Two's kitesmithing talents, he'd probably be a big hero back home.

"You can still have it!" said Oliver eagerly, much to his surprise. "Sort of, anyway! We can both escape! My parents will help you!" Affection for his parents suddenly flooded him. He grasped Two's arm. "Come on! You can make it!"

"I don't think so," sighed Two, shaking his head.

"You have to!" said Oliver, tugging. "What will Lord Gilbert do when he finds out I've escaped?"

"I don't know," said Two weakly. He reached out to stroke the crimson kite. "But even if the kite can fly, could it carry two of us?"

Oliver looked down at his poor, torn kite. He didn't think it could carry even one. "I don't know," he said. "But we can at least try."

Two shook his head. "I"a"he cougheda""I can't make it to the crest in these winds." He slid down the side of the machine.

"Come on!" ordered Oliver. "You can!" He fought to pull Two to his feet.

"No!" croaked Two, his eyes wide with fear.

Oliver began to argue, then realized Two was not looking at him; he was looking at something over Oliver's shoulder.

Oliver turned.

High in Lord Gilbert's treehouse, windows blazed with light.

12.