place.
“So where’s Great-uncle Gilbert?” he said to the kite. “Where are we, anyway?”
But the kite was simply flying around him in anxious circles.
He rolled onto his stomach and climbed achingly to his feet, rubbing his arm, which burned where the kite had unlashed its tail just before landing. He wondered how many leagues he’d flown—ten? a hundred? Was he in a new land? Would the people here speak a strange language? Would they grasp the epic scope of his accomplishments? Would they object to the new placement of the granite marker?
Oliver looked around, the light of dawn revealing everything—and cried out in dismay.
He’d thought he had shattered half the records in the book. But now he could see he was standing right on the Windblowne crest, exactly at the point from which he’d taken off. There was the granite marker, far off, glinting in the morning sun. He hadn’t set the record after all—unless it was the record for the shortest jump of all time. He wondered if there was a record for the longest jump for the least distance, for surely he’d broken that record many times over. They must have been going in circles the entire time.
Oliver shot the kite a disgusted look. “Couldn’t you have at least set me down a little past the marker?”
The kite’s sails drooped sadly.
“No, it was a great flight, really,” said Oliver hastily. “I just wish we could do it during the day.” He imagined turning circles around the crest, waving at admiring crowds of tourists arriving for the Festival.…
Speaking of which … the crest ought to be busy with preparations. Though dawn had only just broken, he ought to have seen the first trickle of fliers arriving for a few precious hours of practice. He ought to have seen workers arriving to set up reviewing stands for tourists who couldn’t bear to sit on the grass. He ought to have seen Festival officials arriving to put up banners that snapped in the wind, announcing the schedule of events, and carts arriving full of food to sell.
But Oliver could see none of those things, and the only sound he could hear was the light whistle of the cool winds of dawn, sounding strange to him even though he had heard them so many times. This morning they seemed louder, more piercing, and somehow he felt they were even giving him a slight headache.
“Let’s go,” he said to the kite, which was still flyingthose anxious circles. He held out his hand. “Come on! We’ve got to go find help.”
Shockingly, it obeyed instantly, flying directly to him. He tucked the kite under his arm. The kite’s long tail whipped out and wrapped around his waist, and the kite huddled next to his body, pressing against him. It seemed to be shivering, too.
As he walked toward the secret path, his unease increased. He realized that he had not heard a single birdcall. Normally, when dawn broke, birds would fill the air with chirping and song. But Oliver heard nothing but the unsettling whistle of the winds, which pierced right through him and left behind a growing headache. And under his arm, the kite was now noticeably trembling.
“What’s wrong?” Oliver asked irritably.
He stopped. He’d reached the entrance to the secret path.
But the secret path was secret no longer.
Someone had cleared away all of the brush that had disguised the entrance. And the rest of the path had been cleared too, as though it were now a common thoroughfare. Oliver, feeling possessive, considered covering it up again, but he couldn’t see any of the cleared brush nearby.
Oliver felt the kite vibrating under his arm. “Would you relax?” he said anxiously, tightening his grip.
Then he noticed the strings.
They were up high in the oaks—you had to look up to see them—and they weren’t really strings exactly, but Oliver did not know what else to call them. They were long strands of something thin and black, and they were strung from oak to oak, fastened to the trunks somehow, winding
“So where’s Great-uncle Gilbert?” he said to the kite. “Where are we, anyway?”
But the kite was simply flying around him in anxious circles.
He rolled onto his stomach and climbed achingly to his feet, rubbing his arm, which burned where the kite had unlashed its tail just before landing. He wondered how many leagues he’d flown—ten? a hundred? Was he in a new land? Would the people here speak a strange language? Would they grasp the epic scope of his accomplishments? Would they object to the new placement of the granite marker?
Oliver looked around, the light of dawn revealing everything—and cried out in dismay.
He’d thought he had shattered half the records in the book. But now he could see he was standing right on the Windblowne crest, exactly at the point from which he’d taken off. There was the granite marker, far off, glinting in the morning sun. He hadn’t set the record after all—unless it was the record for the shortest jump of all time. He wondered if there was a record for the longest jump for the least distance, for surely he’d broken that record many times over. They must have been going in circles the entire time.
Oliver shot the kite a disgusted look. “Couldn’t you have at least set me down a little past the marker?”
The kite’s sails drooped sadly.
“No, it was a great flight, really,” said Oliver hastily. “I just wish we could do it during the day.” He imagined turning circles around the crest, waving at admiring crowds of tourists arriving for the Festival.…
Speaking of which … the crest ought to be busy with preparations. Though dawn had only just broken, he ought to have seen the first trickle of fliers arriving for a few precious hours of practice. He ought to have seen workers arriving to set up reviewing stands for tourists who couldn’t bear to sit on the grass. He ought to have seen Festival officials arriving to put up banners that snapped in the wind, announcing the schedule of events, and carts arriving full of food to sell.
But Oliver could see none of those things, and the only sound he could hear was the light whistle of the cool winds of dawn, sounding strange to him even though he had heard them so many times. This morning they seemed louder, more piercing, and somehow he felt they were even giving him a slight headache.
“Let’s go,” he said to the kite, which was still flyingthose anxious circles. He held out his hand. “Come on! We’ve got to go find help.”
Shockingly, it obeyed instantly, flying directly to him. He tucked the kite under his arm. The kite’s long tail whipped out and wrapped around his waist, and the kite huddled next to his body, pressing against him. It seemed to be shivering, too.
As he walked toward the secret path, his unease increased. He realized that he had not heard a single birdcall. Normally, when dawn broke, birds would fill the air with chirping and song. But Oliver heard nothing but the unsettling whistle of the winds, which pierced right through him and left behind a growing headache. And under his arm, the kite was now noticeably trembling.
“What’s wrong?” Oliver asked irritably.
He stopped. He’d reached the entrance to the secret path.
But the secret path was secret no longer.
Someone had cleared away all of the brush that had disguised the entrance. And the rest of the path had been cleared too, as though it were now a common thoroughfare. Oliver, feeling possessive, considered covering it up again, but he couldn’t see any of the cleared brush nearby.
Oliver felt the kite vibrating under his arm. “Would you relax?” he said anxiously, tightening his grip.
Then he noticed the strings.
They were up high in the oaks—you had to look up to see them—and they weren’t really strings exactly, but Oliver did not know what else to call them. They were long strands of something thin and black, and they were strung from oak to oak, fastened to the trunks somehow, winding
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