Stephen Messer - Windblowne

Then he waved and headed for home.

He passed 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.

Embarrassed, 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 late—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 … the Festival. It was fine,” Oliver replied. And with a grin, he dashed upstairs to bed.

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 assistance of Chelsea Eberly; and to my parents, Merle and Donna Messer.

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.