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Authors: Stephen Messer
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off in all directions.
Oliver stood thinking for several minutes. The kite huddled next to him, shaking all the while.
No fliers on the crest. No Festival preparations. No birds. The secret path revealed. The black strings in the trees.
A couple of dead leaves drifted by. Oliver snatched them from the air. He knew them immediately. One came from the sick oak next to Great-uncle Gilbert’s treehouse. The other, from the Volitant Dragon’s oak.
The leaves looked exactly as Oliver expected them to, besides being prematurely dead. The rest of the world, though, seemed subtly different. The grass was heavy and green, more so than usual. The blue sky was empty, not only of birds and kites, but there was also nosign of the cloud from which Oliver had flown. The world had changed in a hundred different ways—its scent, its light, and many other things Oliver could sense but not identify. Nothing looked, felt, or smelled quite as it should.
Especially the winds, with their shrill, keening, painful cry.
The quivering kite pressed itself ever more closely to Oliver.
“Where are we?” whispered Oliver.
In the sky, something moved.
On the other side of the crest, a distant kite had risen. With the peak between them, Oliver could not see who had launched it. But the graceful movements indicated an expert flier.
And then that kite, circling high and smoothly, flapped its wings.
Oliver blinked and peered harder. Flapping wings? It couldn’t be a kite. Now that it had flown closer, it looked more like a hawk, hunting its prey.
The crimson kite pulled violently, yanking Oliver aside.
“Ouch! What?” he said, struggling to hold his ground.
A second hawk had risen to join the first. While Oliver watched, a third rose from the oaks to join the others.
Suddenly the crimson kite stopped pulling and crept under Oliver’s arm. It huddled there, eerily still.
The hawks circled, circled, in the bright blue sky. The circles brought them closer to Oliver, until they were nearly over his head. He developed a distinctly hypnotized, mouselike feeling as he realized that he was utterly still too, just like the crimson kite.
And as they drew near, he realized they were not hawks.
They were kites after all, and he’d seen their dark shapes before. They were the fighting kites that had attacked Great-uncle Gilbert. Silhouetted against the sky, they looked exactly like hawks.
The fighters dove.
Oliver threw himself to the ground as the crimson kite shot away. The three fighters rocketed after it. In the morning sunlight, something within their sails flashed and gleamed in a very unkitelike way. The crimson kite streaked into the forest, the fighters close behind.
Oliver scrambled to his feet, blood pounding. He raced toward the peak for a better view, and heard voices.
He slid to a halt a few yards short of the peak. Voices rose from the other side, coming closer:
“It’s back! The hunters spotted it; they—”
A second voice interrupted. Oliver could not make out the words. The voice was crackled and muffled as though the owner’s head were wrapped in silk and he had a terrible cold.
The first voice spoke again, sounding out of breath. “Yes, sir, I’ll find it right away, I—”
Then the owner of the voice came rushing over the peak.
Oliver found himself face to face with a boy dressed in a familiar flying outfit, with fur-lined boots and leather gloves and a wool cap exactly like the ones Oliver was wearing.
“Who are you?” gasped Oliver.
Last night, looking into this boy’s face had been like looking into a mirror. But in the daylight, the face was not quite identical. The other boy looked somewhat gaunt, with sunken eyes and a pale complexion. His left hand was wrapped in a large bandage.
The sunken eyes widened with delight. “Hullo, Oliver!” the boy said with a smile and a cough.
7
“You kidnapped Great-uncle Gilbert,” said Oliver, stunned, advancing on the boy .
“Yes!” said the other boy,
Oliver stood thinking for several minutes. The kite huddled next to him, shaking all the while.
No fliers on the crest. No Festival preparations. No birds. The secret path revealed. The black strings in the trees.
A couple of dead leaves drifted by. Oliver snatched them from the air. He knew them immediately. One came from the sick oak next to Great-uncle Gilbert’s treehouse. The other, from the Volitant Dragon’s oak.
The leaves looked exactly as Oliver expected them to, besides being prematurely dead. The rest of the world, though, seemed subtly different. The grass was heavy and green, more so than usual. The blue sky was empty, not only of birds and kites, but there was also nosign of the cloud from which Oliver had flown. The world had changed in a hundred different ways—its scent, its light, and many other things Oliver could sense but not identify. Nothing looked, felt, or smelled quite as it should.
Especially the winds, with their shrill, keening, painful cry.
The quivering kite pressed itself ever more closely to Oliver.
“Where are we?” whispered Oliver.
In the sky, something moved.
On the other side of the crest, a distant kite had risen. With the peak between them, Oliver could not see who had launched it. But the graceful movements indicated an expert flier.
And then that kite, circling high and smoothly, flapped its wings.
Oliver blinked and peered harder. Flapping wings? It couldn’t be a kite. Now that it had flown closer, it looked more like a hawk, hunting its prey.
The crimson kite pulled violently, yanking Oliver aside.
“Ouch! What?” he said, struggling to hold his ground.
A second hawk had risen to join the first. While Oliver watched, a third rose from the oaks to join the others.
Suddenly the crimson kite stopped pulling and crept under Oliver’s arm. It huddled there, eerily still.
The hawks circled, circled, in the bright blue sky. The circles brought them closer to Oliver, until they were nearly over his head. He developed a distinctly hypnotized, mouselike feeling as he realized that he was utterly still too, just like the crimson kite.
And as they drew near, he realized they were not hawks.
They were kites after all, and he’d seen their dark shapes before. They were the fighting kites that had attacked Great-uncle Gilbert. Silhouetted against the sky, they looked exactly like hawks.
The fighters dove.
Oliver threw himself to the ground as the crimson kite shot away. The three fighters rocketed after it. In the morning sunlight, something within their sails flashed and gleamed in a very unkitelike way. The crimson kite streaked into the forest, the fighters close behind.
Oliver scrambled to his feet, blood pounding. He raced toward the peak for a better view, and heard voices.
He slid to a halt a few yards short of the peak. Voices rose from the other side, coming closer:
“It’s back! The hunters spotted it; they—”
A second voice interrupted. Oliver could not make out the words. The voice was crackled and muffled as though the owner’s head were wrapped in silk and he had a terrible cold.
The first voice spoke again, sounding out of breath. “Yes, sir, I’ll find it right away, I—”
Then the owner of the voice came rushing over the peak.
Oliver found himself face to face with a boy dressed in a familiar flying outfit, with fur-lined boots and leather gloves and a wool cap exactly like the ones Oliver was wearing.
“Who are you?” gasped Oliver.
Last night, looking into this boy’s face had been like looking into a mirror. But in the daylight, the face was not quite identical. The other boy looked somewhat gaunt, with sunken eyes and a pale complexion. His left hand was wrapped in a large bandage.
The sunken eyes widened with delight. “Hullo, Oliver!” the boy said with a smile and a cough.
7
“You kidnapped Great-uncle Gilbert,” said Oliver, stunned, advancing on the boy .
“Yes!” said the other boy,
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