Windblowne (10 page)

Halfway through the lunge, he froze and crashed to the balcony deck. He found himself looking at one of Lord Gilbert’s exquisitely polished shoes, unable to move a muscle. The shoe reached out and tucked itself under his shoulder, then flipped him onto his back.

He stared up at Lord Gilbert, whose smirking face was framed by the branches of his oak tree. “Naughty, naughty,” said Lord Gilbert, lifting a finger from the HM IV and wagging it at Oliver. “Mustn’t attack your legal guardian—rule number two.” Whistling, he retrieved the crimson kite from where it lay in a crumpled heap. He spread it on the railing and examined it. He seemed cheerful again after his brief bout of fury.

Out of one corner of his eye, Oliver could see the wounded hunter, still sputtering and sparking on the balcony floor.

“Prop him up against the wall. I don’t like him lying there,” Lord Gilbert said. Two’s face came into view. Oliver felt hands under his shoulders. He was dragged to a wall and propped awkwardly against it. Two would not meet his eyes.

Two crept over to the injured hunter and knelt beside it, stroking it gently as it lay writhing on the deck. A breeze blew over them all, bringing a swirl of dead oak leaves that pattered against Oliver’s skin. His skull buzzed with pain.

He fought to speak, but this time he could not even move his jaw.

“Hmmm,” muttered Lord Gilbert as he handled the crimson kite. “Perhaps that was a bit hasty.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” said Two, sounding upset. He was cradling the hunter in his hands. “You didn’t have to kill the kite.”

“It damaged my beautiful machine,” said Lord Gilbert calmly. “Punishment was required.” He shot a wink in Oliver’s direction.

He crumpled the kite in his fist and gathered the broken pieces of spine. Then he strode to the edge of the balcony and surveyed his machine.

“A broken hunter was just what we needed,” he said over his shoulder to Two. “Oliver One can begin his training by learning how to fix it. Take it inside for now, and fetch my helmet. I have to repair the machine. And you,” he said to Oliver, “you may get up, once your ability to move returns. But my hunters are watching, so resist thoughts of mischief, unless you’d like a nice scratch.”

Oliver lay against the wall, bursting with rage and despair. There was also a terrific itch on his left leg that he was trying to ignore. The hunters were lined up together on the balcony rail, perfectly unmoving. Oliver could see their eyes, made of dead, black glass, staring out fixedly at nothing.

Across the balcony, Two was murmuring to the hunter. His face was twisted with its own rage and despair.

Then the other boy rose, cradling the hunter gingerly, and walked past Oliver into the treehouse. He muttered as he passed, his voice trembling, “It’s not their fault they’re like this. He forces them to obey him.”

Oliver lay motionless, not sure if he ever really wanted to move again.

Lord Gilbert, swinging the remains of the crimson kite and whistling happily, strolled along the line of hunters. “Beautiful, are they not?” he said to Oliver. “I suppose they must seem like magic to your primitive mind.”

Oliver struggled to work his tongue, but the most he could manage was a strangled moan.

Lord Gilbert frowned. “What’s that, boy? You want to know more about my hunters? Of course! They are magnificent creations, much superior to your great-uncle’s primitive kites, as you have seen.” He grasped the nearest hunter by its wing. “Wings made of a synthetic fiber I developed, far tougher than silk! Watch!” He pinched the wing hard and pulled. The hunter shrieked and struggled. “Can’t be torn!” gasped Lord Gilbert, pressing a button on the HM IV. The hunter quieted.

He moved to the next kite and ran his finger along one of the metal spars that formed the hunter’s wing. “This alloy, also my invention, is lighter and stronger than steel.”

“Mlp!” gulped Oliver. It looked to him like the hunter shuddered at Lord Gilbert’s touch.

“And, of course, the brain,” said Lord Gilbert, touching the next hunter between its eyes. “My second-proudest creation.” He stroked the hunter’s head, just above the blank, glassy eyes. “I take the brain straight from the living hawk, with its predatory intelligence completely intact. The perfect hunter.”

Oliver would have shivered, if he could.

“I conceived of the hunters while watching Two waste his time with those ludicrous bamboo kites. I knew his talents could be put to far better use. And so they have, and so yours will as well!”

Oliver would have laughed. Lord Gilbert was going to be very disappointed with his talents.

There was a loud bang, and lights on the machine began flashing. “Two!” shouted Lord Gilbert.

Two reappeared. “Your helmet, sir.”

Lord Gilbert jammed the helmet onto his head. The thing included a big pair of protective goggles and several thin metal spines pointing straight up. He looked perfectly ridiculous, and perfectly pleased with himself,
as he strutted to his machine and opened a flashing-light panel next to the mirror disc. He soon had his arms deep within, working, and he barked orders to Two, who scurried about with a screwdriver, obeying.

“I need to run a test,” announced Lord Gilbert after a few minutes. “Get onto the disc, boy.”

“What?” said Two in disbelief. “I can’t!”

“What?” said Lord Gilbert. “Why not?”

“I’m—” Two coughed. “I’m—”

“You’re what?” snapped Lord Gilbert impatiently. “Sick? You’re not sick, you’re just weak. You can easily make several more trips before you expire. My machine is nearly perfect! Get onto the disc.”

Two’s eyes flashed to Oliver’s, who looked away. There was nothing he could do, even if he wanted to, though a tingling feeling was covering his scalp, and he felt he might be able to move his neck.

“Now!” ordered Lord Gilbert.

Two limped reluctantly toward the riven oak, stepping onto the mirror disc.

Lord Gilbert jabbed a button on the HM IV.

A blinding flash of light.

A deafening
BANG
.

Oliver’s ferocious headache surged, and he shut his eyes against the pain. When it faded, he opened his eyes. His view was obscured by a rustling cascade of dead oak leaves showering down. When the leaves cleared, he looked at the disc.

Two had vanished.

Lord Gilbert seemed unconcerned, coolly manipulating controls and whistling his jaunty whistle.

Then, with a flourish, Lord Gilbert reached out and twisted a large knob. There was another
FLASH
and another
BANG
, and when Oliver opened his eyes and another cascade of leaves had fallen past, he saw that Two was standing on the disc once more.

Standing—but not for long. The boy swayed, leaning against a railing at the back of the disc, then collapsed onto his knees, clutching his stomach.

“Well?” shouted Lord Gilbert tensely, pulling off his goggles.

Two shook his head and muttered something that Oliver could not hear.

Lord Gilbert pounded a fist on the flashing panel, then went back to fiddling with knobs as Two rolled onto his back in what looked to be terrible agony.

Oliver craned his neck. The leaf cover was evaporating with each flash and bang. The autumn oaks were becoming winter oaks, rapidly, and not from the gentle, natural fall of the seasons but from the ruthless, artificial violation of Lord Gilbert’s machines. The sinister black strings and sap-filled tubes and metal spikes—these were what was causing the oak leaves to fall.

A few more leaves stirred from their branches as a puff of wind blew over the platform. Oliver watched them tumble past. The leaves were identical to those of the sick oak outside Great-uncle Gilbert’s treehouse, and with them came a disgusting scent—a sour odor—where had he smelled it before? Oliver took a deep sniff.…

And then he knew.

Like the ticking gears of a Windblowne water clock, pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

tick
—He had indeed smelled this odor before—outside Great-uncle Gilbert’s treehouse. The smell from the sick oak. Looking down from the balcony, Oliver could see that the sick oak at Great-uncle Gilbert’s treehouse was in the exact same location as the riven oak here.

His great-uncle’s notes:

Oaks which dwell across the worlds. The sick oak there, the riven oak here—they had the same leaves. They were the same tree.

tick
—Oaks on the mountain, losing their leaves in both Windblownes.

Oliver remembered his arrival in this Windblowne, how he had known right away that something was different about the world. The colors, the scents, the sounds, everything had been subtly altered. The only thing that had seemed the same to him was the oak leaves. Somehow, the oaks
were
the same—they lived in both worlds. And the damage from Lord Gilbert’s machines and those black strings was affecting Oliver’s Windblowne as well.

tick—

A crimson kite made from oak. A kite that traveled between worlds. The secret to traveling between worlds lay in the oaks.

Feeling returned to Oliver’s body, and he was able to stand. He looked warily at Lord Gilbert’s hunters. They perched silently in a row, not looking at Oliver, not looking at anything.

He started toward the steps. A cold fury filled him. He would finish the work the crimson kite started. He would smash the machines that were torturing the oak. He’d find a weapon—anything—and hammer them to pieces and pull down the black strings. He was not sure if there was still time to save the tree. But he would do as much damage as possible before Lord Gilbert could stop him.

He had taken only three steps when the nearest hunter raised a metal talon, lowered its
synthetic fiber
wings, and, looking directly at Oliver with its cold, glassy eyes, gave a menacing croak.

Oliver stood motionless. One by one, the other hunters turned their heads and fastened their empty stares upon him.

He took a step back, carefully, then another. The hunters’ gazes did not waver. Not until he felt the treehouse wall behind him did he realize he had been holding his breath.

Oliver heard a chuckle. Lord Gilbert was watching him with amusement. “You see, One,” he said, “things can go very badly for you if you don’t cooperate.” He gave his flashing panel a loving stroke. “My machine is all better. Now your training can begin. Two will teach you everything you need to know about the hunters. I’m sure it will seem intimidating at first, but have no fear. Your natural engineering talents will shine through. Join us in my laboratory!”

Lord Gilbert rushed past Oliver, snatching up the remains of the crimson kite. He continued inside. Two limped up the steps after him.

Oliver, looking at the row of hunters, realized that he had no choice but to follow, for now.

He heard voices from the direction of the workshop, or what Lord Gilbert had called his
laboratory
. He stalked to the doorway.

Right away, Oliver could see that a laboratory was like a workshop, except that all of the normal tools were replaced with more devices that blinked and hummed. There were workbenches made out of that smooth whitish stuff, and long tables, and racks of inscrutable equipment.

And there were fifty-six more hunters.

Oliver knew there were exactly fifty-six, because there were rows of narrow hutches built into all four walls, and each one had a small plate with a number from one to one hundred. In each hutch was a hunter, folded nearly flat. Only the first fifty-six were occupied.

Oliver stopped in the doorway.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Two. “None of these are activated.” He was hunched down on a stool, shivering.

“I’m not afraid,” said Oliver. He stepped into the laboratory and leapt a foot into the air as he heard a scrabbling sound beside him.

The noise came from one of several birdcages hanging in a corner. In the cage crouched a small, quivering hawk with wide, frightened eyes. It was pressed as far as possible from the human occupants of the laboratory.

Next to Two was the injured hunter. He had laid it on a workbench, with its broken wing sticking straight up. It had stopped writhing and jerking. Beside the hunter lay a number of screwdrivers, wrenches, and a few other tools Oliver didn’t recognize.

Lord Gilbert was bent over a kind of tablet on which the crimson kite had been stretched, its sails fixed in
place by pegs. He was peering at it through a metal tube and muttering loudly, “Nothing … nothing!”

Oliver’s eye was caught by a flash of bright blue-green. It was one of Great-uncle Gilbert’s kites, folded flat on top of a stack of other colorful kites.
All of his best kites
, Oliver thought despairingly. Two had taken them all. They must have hoped that one of the others could do what the crimson kite did.

Lord Gilbert looked up from his tube and noticed Oliver. “You!” he said crossly. “Tell me more about this kite. My microscope reveals no unusual features. The sails are made of silk and the spars of ordinary oak. Where did he hide the circuitry?”

“Circuitry?”
said Oliver, irritated. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Actually, Oliver did know of one unusual feature of the kite’s design—the oaken spars—but he wasn’t about to share that with Lord Gilbert.

Lord Gilbert looked him up and down and sighed. “No, you probably don’t.”

“And even if I did,” Oliver continued, “I’d never tell you. I’m not going to help you, ever. I’m not like
him.”
He cast a withering glare at Two, who ducked his head. “And what’s more—”

“Oh, do shut up,” said Lord Gilbert. “Having two of you around is twice as annoying.” He shoved the microscope aside. “A shame I couldn’t force an explanation from the old fool before I banished him to that hell-world. Doubtless a few weeks of suffering will persuade him.…” His eyes fell on Oliver’s arm. “Ah!” he said brightly. “More of
his
craftsmanship!”

“Hey!” said Oliver, backing away. But Lord Gilbert yanked Great-uncle Gilbert’s beautiful handvane from Oliver’s forearm, wrenching his wrist in the process. He held up his prize, turning it about, squinting and muttering.