Dust Read online

  Dust

  By

  Arthur Slade

  Copyright © 2001, 2003 by Arthur Slade

  ISBN: 978-0-9868555-1-1

  www.arthurslade.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Arthur Slade.

  Cover art by Christopher Steininger

  http://www.partzero.com/

  Other Novels By Arthur Slade

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  Dedication

  For W. O. Mitchell, Wallace Stegner, and Ray Bradbury

  CHAPTER ONE

  Matthew Steelgate had five cents in his pocket and a yearning for chewing gum and licorice. He wasn't sure which he wanted most, but knew he could buy both and have at least a penny left over. He walked along the edge of the grid road, three miles from his family's farm and about two miles from Horshoe. The sky was cloudless.

  The sun had shifted nearer to the earth in the last half hour, so near that the air crackled with heat. Matthew, following his mother's bidding, had worn a straw hat. Like his father, his neck was tanned brown, along with his face, hands, and forearms to the line where he rolled up his sleeves. The prairie had marked Matthew as one of its own. He understood the connection between himself and the land, understood that he belonged there; when the wind blew, when the rain dotted his face, when the snow fell, he belonged. When the sun darkened his skin, he knew the invisible rays were also working on the field of wheat beside him.

  He patted his shirt pocket and was rewarded with a muffled clinking. He had spent three weeks saving this cache of coins, payment for helping his older brother Robert with chores. Three weeks dreaming about town. About candy.

  A daddy longlegs darted out of a crack in the road and Matthew squashed it underfoot, then examined the flattened body. It looked like a gray flower pressed and dried between pages in a book. Its insides were outside now. A friend had said that killing a spider meant seven days of rain, so Matthew squished any he could. Next, he crushed a few grasshoppers inching across the road, but he quickly grew bored.

  Even though he was tired, he quickened his pace. He had a good head start on his parents, but if he dawdled he'd soon hear the clop clop of the horses and the rattling of chains on the wagon, followed by his father's voice, saying, "Hello there, partner. Going our way?"

  He hoped to reach town before his parents. That would be an accomplishment. He would stand proudly on the corner of the street, waving as they arrived to pick up nails and tractor parts. He'd shout out, "See, Mom, I made it. My legs aren't too short." That'd show her. She had told him to ride in the wagon, but he'd convinced her that he could travel on his own, by running three times around the table as fast as he could. He'd only knocked over one chair. His father had laughed. His mother had relented.

  A low, distant rumble made him think of thunder. But thunder needed clouds, didn't it? And the sky was clear as glass.

  The sound came from behind him. He turned and saw a truck on the horizon, a black, sun-streaked square that wavered in the heat. It vanished into a gully, then appeared again seconds later. He walked into the shallow ditch, wading through the belly-high yellow grass, and watched the truck approach.

  A grasshopper, holding tight to a strand of swaying grass, banged its head against Matthew's back, making a small tobacco spit stain. When the truck neared, the grasshopper leapt into the air, wings clicking.

  Matthew didn't recognize the truck. Very few people around Horshoe drove their vehicles; most saved the gas for tractors. The truck looked old, an ancient vehicle from a far-off time, its big knobby tires spinning. The sun flashed across the windshield, making him squint.

  He stared at the curved fenders, watched as the steel-spoked wheels turned more and more slowly. The truck stopped, rocked back and forth; the grumbling noise died, and the prairie was silent. No crickets singing. No grasshopper wings whirring. All was still. Matthew breathed in, waiting for a sound. For motion.

  Then the door on the other side opened, hinges screeching. In the ditch, Matthew was low enough to see under the truck. A dark boot hit the ground, then another.

  A man walked around the front of the vehicle and stopped near the edge of the road. He gazed across the prairie, like he was just catching a breath of fresh air. He was tall and lean, wearing a long, beige trench coat. His shoulders were a wide crescent. His face, even under the shade of his circular brimmed hat, was pale.

  He must be hot, Matthew figured.

  The man looked toward the ditch, almost as though his name had been whispered. His eyes were hidden behind round, dark-lensed glasses.

  "Hello," the stranger said. His voice reminded Matthew of dry leaves rustling across autumn earth. "How are you today, young man?"

  "Good," Matthew answered.

  The man smiled. "What's your name?"

  "Matthew." Matthew shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He clutched a handful of grass.

  "Well, Matt, where are you traveling to?"

  "Town."

  "Why you going there?"

  "To buy gum ... and ... and licorice."

  The tall man nodded. "Now, that's a very noble pursuit." He ran a finger below his eye as if wiping away a tear. He was wearing black leather gloves. Matthew wondered if his hands were soft. He didn't know anyone who wore gloves during summer. The man smiled again. "Tell me, Matt, have you ever ridden in a truck?"

  "Sure, lots of times," he said, nodding.

  "Would you like to ride in my truck?"

  Matthew let go of the grass. He looked to the east, down a long, straight road. "Mom and Dad are coming along soon," he explained.

  The man was silent, as if what Matthew had said required deep thought. "Wouldn't you like to beat them to town? Wouldn't that be nice?"

  Matthew narrowed his eyes.

  "It would, wouldn't it?" The man's soft voice carried easily across the space between them; it seemed to Matthew that the stranger was whispering right into his ear. "I can see that gum too, Matt. It's on the second shelf in the pool hall candy counter. Red Hand Chewing Gum. It's pink, it's wrapped in waxed paper, and it's in the shape of a cigar. It's waiting for you. Would you like to see it?"

  Matthew's tongue explored his moist cheeks. He shifted his weight from side to side.

  The man opened the passenger door and gestured. "Your place is here." He paused. "The gum is waiting for you."

  Matthew breathed in and walked slowly up the ditch. He stopped on the road, looked in the door.

  "Go ahead."

  Matthew peered at the dusty seat. He pictured the gum sitting on the shelf, saw himself pointing, saw Mr. Parsons reaching for it. He would get to town so much faster with a ride. He stepped onto the mud rail, then pulled himself into the truck.

  The door closed softly.

  The stranger was seated on the driver's side. How had he gotten there so quickly? The man sat still momentarily, humming softly and rubbing his chin as though pondering deeply. Then he slid the gearshift down. They rolled smoothly ahead. Matthew couldn't remember him starting the motor.

  The man's skin, which showed between the glove and the sleeve of his coat, was the color of the moon. Muscles writhed beneath that ivory layer as the stranger turned the wooden steering wheel and they headed to the middle of the road. The truck accelerated gracefully; weeds became a yellow blur. The engine was a distant hum.

  Matthew heard a muffled
rattle. He peeked through the oval-shaped back window. A stack of red clay jars, about the same size as his mom's honey pots, were all tied together. They glowed. Or was it the way the sun caught their sides? A pink hair ribbon was trapped under one, flapping. Beside them were several bundles wrapped in burlap. Strips of shiny metal, about six inches wide and six feet long, sat piled on the far side.

  "Do you like being young?" the man asked.

  Matthew didn't understand the question. He examined the stranger's smiling face. After a moment's thought he answered, "Yes."

  "I was never young," the man said. He tipped his hat back, showing glistening white hair. "Do you believe me? I was never young."

  Everyone was young at one time—Matthew knew that. His father had once been a little boy and his mother a little girl, and even his grandma had been a kid long before her skin wrinkled and sagged and her teeth fell out. But he also knew that adults understood more about the world than he did, and he trusted in the wisdom of the giants who hovered above him.

  "I think I believe you."

  The pale man nodded. The windows were rolled up; the cab grew hot and the air smelled stale. Sweat lined Matthew's forehead.

  They drove on, and over time he grew more comfortable with the stranger. They passed an abandoned farm, the house gray and paintless, windows black like empty eye sockets. The wind had ripped the shingles from the roof. The barn leaned to one side, threatening to collapse. Matthew knew the drought had killed this place. It was a monster made of dust—it had dried up the crops so the cows couldn't eat and driven away the folks who had once lived there. His mom worked hard to keep that same dust out of their house, stuffing rags in the bottom of the door and along the windowsills. Despite her efforts, the grit always found its way into the cupboards, the beds and their food.

  The truck's motor lulled him and time shifted to a slower speed. He watched roads go by, more ghost farms, as though they were traveling in a loop. He pictured the gum again, tried to keep the image in his head.

  Then towering grain elevators appeared on the horizon. The rail yard and a collection of houses became visible as the truck cleared an incline.

  "What is this town called?" the man asked. Time snapped back to normal speed.

  "Horshoe," Matthew answered, scratching at his arm. The man nodded.

  They drove past the access road and the stranger studied the town as they went by. Matthew stared too, his heart speeding up. He peeked through the back window as the elevators were eclipsed by a hill.

  "Why don't we stop?" Matthew asked.

  The man smiled. "Because you're a child. And you know what it's like to be young." He paused. "I was never young. I was never, ever young."

  CHAPTER TWO

  He was supposed to read the Bible. The Good Book. The only one allowed in their household, except for a hymnal from the Anglican Church and his father's copy of The Farmer's Almanac. The Bible was what his mom said he should read.

  Instead, Robert was away on Barsoom—not here, in the brown dust of Saskatchewan, but there, in the red dust of the fourth planet from the sun, battling green, man-like, four-armed Tharks. Leading armies into vast citadels with walls of thick purple stone. Fighting with valor, ferocity, and prowess.

  I am John Carter, Robert thought. I am the warlord.

  The book was The Warlord of Mars. He liked it more than Tarzan of the Apes or Treasure Island. His Uncle Alden had slipped it to him on the sly on the last day of school, and Robert had read it several times since then. His uncle had hundred of books, each one with a magical world inside it.

  "Your brother's going to walk to town," his mom yelled up the stairwell.

  He snapped the book closed and jammed it beneath the pillow, then he opened the Bible and listened for creaking on the steps. "Did you hear me? Your brother's walking to town. By himself."

  Robert thought for a second. She wanted him to go with Matthew, but she wasn't insisting. It wasn't a job, like separating the cream. He had a choice.

  He always had to spend time with Matthew. They shared a room, the same toys, even some of the same clothes.

  I'm not moving, Robert decided, I want to be alone. He had come up to this hot, stuffy room to get away from them all. To travel to another world. He wished he could be John Carter, who had, with his feet on an Arizona mountainside, fixed the planet Mars in his gaze, closed his eyes, reached out his hand, and was there. Just like that.

  "Well?" His mother sounded impatient. Soon she would tell him to go. But Matthew was seven. When I was seven, Robert thought, I walked to town on my own.

  "I'm gonna stay here," he announced.

  There was a loud, dramatic sigh. Exasperated, that was the word he would use to describe that sound. Exasperated. He enjoyed all five syllables. Mom was exasperated.

  He heard her walk back to the kitchen. Her footsteps didn't clump the way they did when she was mad. At those times her weight seemed to double. Or did her feet turn into big stones?

  He read the opening page of the Holy Bible: ". . . Translated out of the original tongues: and with the former translations diligently compared and revised, by his majesty's special command."

  He liked the sound of that. It meant the king of Great Britain had ordered his smartest scholars to diligently translate this Bible. He had issued a special command. Had maybe even touched this very book with a royal scepter.

  It was too soon after hearing his mother's voice to return to The Warlord of Mars, so he flipped ahead in the Old Testament. It listed tribes of the desert with long, strange names. They were always adding and subtracting in the Bible: measuring to build the ark, tallying the names of the wicked people. It was like the math he studied in school. God must enjoy counting, he decided.

  The numbers reminded Robert of his brother. He was seven, wasn't he? Seven was old enough to do things on your own. Being eleven, Robert had more responsibilities: more chores, more weeding, more pails of water to be lugged to the barn. And when he was seven, he had walked to town alone.

  Or had he been eight?

  It didn't matter. He needed to read. He retrieved the book from under his pillow. It was a good story, so full of action. It was Barsoom-hot in his room, and he felt the way the warlord in the Martian desert must have, hot with battle lust, sword burning for blood. He read for a long while, on this other world, this place called Barsoom, far, far away in space and time.

  After a while, Robert heard a low drone out on the road. He briefly considered checking which neighbor was going to Horshoe, but he decided to keep reading. Nevertheless, part of his mind was drawn by the sound. He pictured a truck; he didn't know why. The noise faded. He read until his mother's voice ascended the stairwell.

  "Your father and I are going to town now," she said. He stuffed the book under his pillow. "Don't forget to feed the chickens."

  "I won't," he answered. His words sounded hollow, echoing in his room. The house already seemed empty. He strained to catch the opening and closing squeak of the front door. Nothing.

  Curious, he got off the bed and looked out the window into the front yard. The wagon was at the end of the entranceway, led by Smokie and Apache, their horses. His parents sat like statues, his dad holding the reins. The wagon disappeared down the road, a small cloud of dust behind it. But Robert couldn't hear them; it was like watching a silent movie. He was alone.

  He had waited for this all afternoon. So why did he feel so ... so ill at ease? So anxious? Apprehensive. He looked at the distant, rolling lines of the Cypress Hills. He wished he could see toward Horshoe.

  Maybe he'd feel better if he went outside. Sometimes being in the open helped shift his mind into that special dreaming place. He would imagine the people who had walked this land many years ago, the Indians and the explorers and the North West Mounted Police in their crimson uniforms, gun barrels glinting, all in a line on their steeds, hooves leaving deep impressions as they galloped across the hills.

  He stashed The Warlord of Mars under his bed and
set the Bible on the desk. Then he crept down the stairs, holding the banister. Each step creaked and cracked.

  Everyone was gone, but Robert sensed a presence. At the landing he peered around the corner, saw nothing but the kitchen table, the tall, red vase by the window, and a cloth flour bag on the counter. The De Laval cream separator, with all its bowls and pipes, loomed on the cupboard like a Martian instrument of torture.

  He walked toward the front door. Why did he still feel apprehensive? This was his free time. No parents. No Matthew. Just worlds magically unfolding out of his imagination.

  He stopped to look at the oval, framed photograph on the mantle of his Uncle Edmund in uniform. Uncle Edmund looked like Robert's mother, his face thin, eyes sunken. Robert had never met him, but he knew his uncle had been very brave. In 1914 a duke had been killed and the British had declared war on the Germans. And England was like Canada's big brother, so Edmund and thousands of Canadian soldiers signed up to fight the Great War in Europe, a war so big it had ended them all. Robert could picture them lining up across the whole country, getting on trains, climbing into ships and landing in France. Edmund had been shot during a charge over the trenches in the battle for Vimy Ridge. The bullet struck him right in the heart. He had given his life for a cause, died a hero. Robert often concocted stories about his uncle taking out machine gun nests, or going over the trench to rescue a wounded comrade. Robert had even dreamed about him several times.

  Long ago, in one of his games, Robert had decided that it was good luck to touch the photograph. Rarely did he pass it without pressing his fingers to the glass. I'll feel better if I touch it, he told himself. He reached out his hand, fingers spread, and tapped his uncle's shoulder.

  Uncle Edmund blinked.

  Robert jerked his hand away, eyes wide with shock. His uncle stared back, then, with calm, unblinking eyes. Robert was seeing things. That was it. It was the same old picture.