Free Windblowne by Stephen Messer Page A

Gilbert, though you may refer to me simply as ‘Lord,’ if you wish. Although,” he said, tapping a finger against his chin, “perhaps you could call
me
‘Lord Great-uncle,’ as I shall be more family to you than
he
ever was. No, that sounds absurd. ‘Lord Gilbert’ will do.”
    “What?” said Oliver, trying to gather his wits. He realized that he was still blinking stupidly and tried to make himself stop.
    “For example, I intend to provide you with a new kiteto replace your old one,” Lord Gilbert continued, rubbing his hands together. “Two here has many kites. You can have your pick! Two won’t object, will you, Two?”
    “No, sir,” whispered Two. He stood with his head bowed, shivering, staring at the floor.
    “And though it is quite unexpected, I am simply delighted to have you here!” Lord Gilbert grinned in evident pleasure. “Two has been very useful to me—very useful!—and now your efforts will be doubled!”
    This snapped Oliver back to his senses. “My efforts? What’s going on? Where’s my great-uncle? What’s happened to his treehouse?” he demanded. He had intended that to sound tough and confident, but it emerged rather squeakily. Lord Gilbert’s beaming smile was making him nervous. Everything in this shining, polished kitchen had thrown him off balance.
    “Oliver One,” Lord Gilbert said conversationally, “it occurs to me that you have absolutely no understanding of your current situation.
He
never bothered to explain anything to you, did he?”
    Oliver simmered. He understood
he
to refer to Great-uncle Gilbert. He was humiliated to admit that his great-uncle had indeed never explained all of these twinsand metal treehouses, or anything else at all, for that matter.
    “Sit down,” instructed Lord Gilbert with a superior grin, “and
I’ll
explain everything.”
    Oliver sat reluctantly.
    Lord Gilbert sat down as well. He laced his fingers together and sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled. He fixed his eyes on Oliver. “I will attempt to explain this in terms that a primitive person from a backward world would understand—”
    “Primitive?” interrupted Oliver. “I—”
    “Silence!” commanded Lord Gilbert. “I am simply concerned about your mental well-being. Giving you the truth all at once could short-circuit your delicate mental—”
    “It will not short-circuit anything,” said Oliver. He did not know what
short-circuit
meant, and he wasn’t about to admit it.
    “Very well,” sighed Lord Gilbert. “You are lucky, boy. You have traveled from one Windblowne—an unsophisticated, backward place—to another Windblowne—an advanced, forward-thinking place. A different world entirely.”
    Oliver was surprised. Or rather, he expected to feel surprised. But he remembered Great-uncle Gilbert asking him if he were Oliver from
this
mountain, and he remembered his great-uncle’s scrawled poem:
whisper to me, of oaks which dwell across the worlds
. And he remembered landing here and how the colors and scents and especially the sound of the winds had not been quite right.
    Lord Gilbert got up and paced, lecturing. “Travel between these worlds is possible, of course—”
    “Another world,” whispered Oliver. “Great-uncle Gilbert discovered how to travel to another world!”
    A pained expression came over Lord Gilbert’s face. “Yes, months ago, with a sort of beginner’s luck,
he
accidentally stumbled upon the secret, though I’d seen hints of it years before that. Naturally, it is up to me to perfect the process, to mechanize and maximize it! I’ve nearly mastered it with my own machine—”
    “Nearly?” said Oliver.
    Lord Gilbert grimaced. “There are still certain—
imperfections
—in my machine. The process
damages
the subject in transit—”
    “Damages?”
    Lord Gilbert cleared his throat. “My experiments haverevealed that the traveler, shall we say, gradually sickens as a result of the transfers. The more trips, the more damage.