Stephen Messer - Windblowne

The front door was wide open, dim light spilling from within. Every few seconds something blew from inside—candlesticks, papers, odd bits of furniture—filling the air with swirling debris.

From within the treehouse there came a tremendous crash.

Oliver raced up the steps.

Inside, the treehouse was in shambles. The winds had reduced everything to pure chaos. Oliver pushed against the door and shoved it closed. He looked around the living room. His great-uncle’s supplies had been knocked over, bits of the fighting kites had been smashed around, and the wall once covered with battle plans now had only a few scraps remaining. One of the barricaded windows had been bashed open. There were several long, deep slashes in the fallen board, as though a powerful animal had raked its claws across it. Somehow, an oil lamp tucked in one corner had survived, its weak flame casting a weirdly flickering glow. Oliver hurriedly retrieved it.

“Great-uncle Gilbert!” Oliver cried. “Hullo!”

A terrific ruckus came from the workshop. Oliver ran toward the sound, nearly tripping on an overturned stool, and burst into the room.

“Great-uncle …,” Oliver began, but the words died away. He set the lamp aside. His great-uncle was not here, and neither were most of his kites. The shelves were empty, the workbenches cleared—even the kite racks stood open and bare. Only two kites remained—the crimson kite, which was being madly chased around the workshop, and the ravenous black kite-eater, which was doing the chasing.

Oliver leapt. He fell upon the kite-eater and pinned it to the floor. Pain shot through his hand as the kite-eater caught him in its jaws. Oliver cried out and pulled; the kite-eater heaved and struggled. He looked desperately for a weapon. Nearby, on the floor, he spotted a book. Not just any book but a heavy, familiar, boring book. Just the book, in fact, to trap a kite-eater. Oliver grabbed for it with one hand, hauled it over with a tremendous grunt, and rolled aside, pulling it onto the kite-eater as he went.

He had finally found a use for one of his father’s massive tomes. It made the perfect restraint for an aggressive kite. Oliver crawled backward, panting from the unexpected wrestling match. At first he feared that even this book would not be enough to hold down the kite-eater, but no matter how much it twisted and fought and snapped its jaws, it could not escape the sheer weight of The Social and Cultural History of the Lower Warfeld Valley in Late Mid-Age Macherino . Oliver knew the feeling well.

The crimson kite collapsed onto a workbench, seemingly exhausted, its sails heaving.

“Great-uncle Gilbert!” shouted Oliver.

He quickly searched the rest of the treehouse. There was no sign of his great-uncle.

He stopped in the living room, looking at what was left of the strange maps and overturned barrels. The crimson kite had recovered and was swooping in agitated circles around and around the room. Oliver looked out the bashed-in window into the windblown night. Feeling useless, he picked up the fallen board and shoved it back into place.

grrrrrr

He heard a noise, like a faint grinding, almost as though something were … chewing.

Oliver ran back into the workshop.

The kite-eater was still pinned under the enormous book, or rather, part of the book. It had already managed to chew through some of it. Bits of torn paper surrounded the abused book and the kite-eater, which snapped its jaws savagely when Oliver entered.

“Oh no you don’t!” said Oliver sharply. Setting down the lamp, he ran to the shelf of his father’s books and reached up for the next one. As he hauled it down, he noticed the title— The Mountain Before Windblowne —just before the book slipped from his grasp and crashed to the floor, narrowly missing his foot.

Gasping with the effort, Oliver lugged the book over to the kite-eater and threw it on top of the pile. Then another book. Then another. The kite-eater gnashed its jaws. “Sorry,” Oliver panted, “but you’re not eating that kite.”

The crimson kite was peeking into the workshop. “You can come in,” Oliver said. “I’ve got the kite-eater trapped.”

Oliver had always talked to his kites, but he’d never had the impression that one of them might be listening. Or if they were, it was only so they could do the exact opposite of whatever he asked. For example, “No, please, not in the tree” was interpreted to mean “Please dive directly into that tree,” or “Watch out for the crowd of people” meant “Smash into the crowd of people in order to humiliate me as much as possible.”

And that record remained unchallenged, as the crimson kite shook dubiously and refused to enter.

Oliver looked around. Most of his great-uncle’s beautiful kites had been stolen. They’d apparently been stolen by that other boy, who in the confusion and blinding flashes had looked just like him. Somehow the boy had been able to make his escape under the cover of those flashes, and he’d managed to kidnap Great-uncle Gilbert and thoroughly ransack his workshop in the process. Everything of value was gone.

Almost everything, Oliver realized. The kite rack that concealed Great-uncle Gilbert’s secret room, where he kept his most valuable possessions, was still in place.

Oliver pushed and pulled in every direction, but the rack refused to yield. He took a hammer that had fallen to the floor and tried to pry the rack from the wall. He even gave it a few kicks, which resulted in nothing but a minute or two of hopping around in pain. The kite-eater seemed to be enjoying the spectacle—it had stopped chewing on the book and was watching Oliver avidly. Oliver had a sense that it was grinning at him. “Stop that,” he ordered, “unless you want another one of those books on you.” The kite-eater quickly resumed chewing.

Oliver inspected the kite rack. From all appearances, it was part of a solid wall. He thought back to what he had seen through the window. His great-uncle had not actually been anywhere near the rack when it slid aside. He had been somewhere else in the room, somewhere Oliver couldn’t see from where he had been crouched. Turning the oil lamp up to its brightest level, Oliver surveyed the workshop.

Across the room, just above the shelf from which Oliver had pulled all the books, he spotted the tiniest depression in the wall. A hidden button, nearly invisible.

Oliver gave a whoop of triumph. “I’m brilliant,” he said to the kite-eater. The kite-eater replied by snapping at his ankle as he passed by. Oliver pushed the button. There was a click, and behind him the kite rack slid smoothly aside.

Oliver was disappointed to discover that the secret room was more of a secret closet. It was small and terribly dusty. On the back wall was a peg on which a single kite could be hung. Below that were a few dust-coated items sitting on shelves.

One of these items was a small chest, ornately carved. Oliver ran his finger over the intricate designs, leaving a trail in the thick dust. He tried to open the chest, but it was locked.

The next shelf held a soft velvet pillow, upon which lay a handvane. Though the pillow was covered in dust, the handvane was not. Oliver could tell right away that this was one of his great-uncle’s personal creations. It was carved from oak, and though it looked delicate and fine, Oliver suspected that it could stand up under the fiercest windstorm. He lifted it reverently and fastened it onto his wrist.

As it snapped into place, he felt a moment’s hesitation. Was this stealing? No, he decided—this was preserving. After all, Great-uncle Gilbert’s abductor might return for further pillaging. Oliver ought to protect one of the old man’s most valuable possessions. The fact that Oliver needed a new handvane was just a coincidence.