Stephen Messer - Windblowne

“It listened to you!” said Two.

“I wasn’t sure that it would,” Oliver admitted.

Two tried to rise but fell back into a sitting position. Oliver looked at him, worried. “Are you going to be all right?”

Two shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. You have to take the kite and get out of here right now. Lord Gilbert has all kinds of machines and secret weapons you haven’t even seen yet. He can’t be stopped.”

Oliver stroked his kite, which fluttered firmly in response. “I have secret weapons now, too.”

He heard the winds blowing from the riven oak, a painful cry, but he knew he could not go to the oak, not yet. He had to stay on the crest, where he and the winds were strongest. He knew Lord Gilbert would come for them.

Lord Gilbert did not disappoint.

Down the mountain, the pillar of light brightened. The buzzing in the air—and the cry of pain in Oliver’s head—grew louder. Oliver could see sparks jumping along the wires.

“What’s he doing?” Oliver asked, beginning to worry. Despite what he had told Two, he had not counted on any secret weapons.

“It’s the disc,” said Two miserably, sinking again to his knees. “It …”

A dark blotch appeared in the pillar of light, rising from the oaktops. Oliver could see a silhouette growing larger—a man, perched on the mirror-like disc. The disc was rising smoothly along the metal shaft, and Lord Gilbert was riding it to the top.

The disc reached the very top of the shaft, and with hardly a pause, it detached and rose into the air.

Oliver gasped. The disc could fly.

Bolts of lightning flashed from the bottom of the disc as it drifted toward the crest, carrying Lord Gilbert majestically.

Oliver took a step back. He had not expected anything like this.

Two moaned with fear. “It’s too late,” he cried.

Oliver murmured to his kite, keeping his voice low in case Lord Gilbert had some means of listening. He whispered his final plan, and the kite twisted urgently, quivering but resolute. Oliver felt a surge of love for the kite. He hoped they both survived the next few seconds.

The disc approached. Bursts of lightning from beneath the disc stabbed through the darkness, leaping from the platform to the wires. Lord Gilbert, on the platform, continued wobbling toward the crest, his fingers dancing on the HM IV. The tower of light from the treehouse threw everything into weird, broken shadows, and the winds screamed as they blasted against the crackling cage of lightning. The sounds should have stifled anything Lord Gilbert had to say, but his voice was amplified like thunder:

“OLIVER! RETURN TO YOUR MASTER!”

“Oliver One or Oliver Two?” shouted Oliver.

The voice made a sound of strangled rage. “BOTH OF YOU! OBEY ME AT ONCE, OR—”

Two broke from behind Oliver, running toward Lord Gilbert. The disc was hovering just above the ground now, thirty feet away from them.

“No!” shouted Oliver. “Don’t!”

Two made a hideous sound, unleashing years of misery and pain and humiliation into a single cry. He brandished a thick spar, whittled to a point. Oliver had not seen him take it from beneath his jacket.

Lord Gilbert laughed, and his hand twitched on the HM IV. Two froze, then fell, his arm still raised in defiance.

Oliver could only watch helplessly. If he got too close to Lord Gilbert, the HM IV would paralyze him, too.

“You ruined my plumbing!” screeched Lord Gilbert, pointing at Oliver.

“Why don’t you come and get me, then?” Oliver could see that the disc was having trouble with the gale. It bucked and swayed, requiring Lord Gilbert to continually adjust course with the HM IV.

“Having trouble?” Oliver taunted.

Lord Gilbert spat and made more motions on the HM IV. The disc made a strained hum as it fought its way uphill. Oliver felt a numbness creeping up his legs.

Oliver wobbled on the grass as he watched Lord Gilbert draw near. The winds coiled around him. The crimson kite held its sails wide open, gathering wind, ready.

Oliver could no longer feel his feet. He sagged to his knees.

“Go!” he shouted, and released the crimson kite.

The kite streaked toward Lord Gilbert, fast as the winds. As Oliver tipped over, now completely paralyzed, he saw Lord Gilbert raise an arm to protect himself—the arm that wore the HM IV. The kite smashed into the device at blinding speed. Lord Gilbert screamed, and the HM IV went tumbling down the mountain, sparking and bouncing. A crimson blur—the kite—went hurtling in another direction.

And the numbness was gone.

The cloud of hunters dispersed instantly, their cries fading into the distance.

Two rose shakily to his feet.

Oliver pushed himself onto his hands and saw Lord Gilbert jump free of the out-of-control platform, which crashed away at the mercy of the winds.

Then Lord Gilbert was stumbling after the HM IV.

The crimson blur came by. Oliver grasped the tail of his kite. They covered the distance to Lord Gilbert in a second. Oliver released the kite’s tail, and with the winds at his back, he leapt onto the old man, grabbing his arm.

“You’re coming with me,” said Oliver. He closed his eyes and stepped into the winds.

Oliver found that the journey from one world to the next was considerably more difficult when dragging a spitting, screeching, struggling great-uncle by one arm. He could feel Lord Gilbert’s thin wrist beneath his fingers, and he could feel a hand clawing at him, but he pretended those things were a thousand miles away. New worlds called to him from all directions, and Oliver told them, Someday, someday …

Then he was stepping onto rocky ground, the soft murmur of the desolate desert winds all around him.

Lord Gilbert screamed, and Oliver released him in distaste.

The old man backed away, chest heaving, eyes bulging as he gazed wildly at the vast, moonslit distances of the desert mountain. “The hell-world! How did you do this?” he breathed.

Oliver shook his head. “This is not the hell-world. The hell-world is something you made for yourself.”

Lord Gilbert grabbed for Oliver, but Oliver leapt aside. “Stop it!” Oliver ordered. “Stop it or I’m leaving.”

Lord Gilbert’s eyes narrowed, but he came no closer. “You’re going to leave me here anyway, aren’t you? You intend this world to become my prison.”

“Whether it becomes your prison or not is up to you,” said Oliver.

“You can’t abandon me here,” snarled Lord Gilbert, stumbling backward onto a rock. “I’ll die.”

“No,” said Oliver. “You won’t die. And I’m not abandoning you.” He pointed down the mountain. “You’ll find a house down there. You’ll see that it’s been stocked with delicious roots and berries. There’s a spring nearby. Follow my great-uncle’s example, and you’ll see that you can live well.”

“No!” screamed Lord Gilbert. “I’ll find a way out! I’ll kill every one of these trees if I have to! I’ll make them give me their secrets!”

“Harm one of these trees,” said Oliver through gritted teeth, “and I will know. I’ll be back here the instant it happens. And I’ll take you to a world that will make this one seem like paradise.”

And with that, Oliver stepped back into the winds.

The broken halves of the riven oak still leaned away from each other, but they were nearly touching now, held in place by an ingenious system of splints and rope.

“Be patient,” Great-uncle Gilbert had told Oliver. “It will heal, but we mustn’t rush it.”

Oliver was astonished at the progress Great-uncle Gilbert had made in just two days. The machines and spikes and tubes were gone. The black wires had been stripped from the surrounding trees. Oliver’s head still ached when he came near the riven oak, but the pain lessened each day.