Dust Page 10

  In no time it was above them, larger now, blocking out the sun, and hovering and spinning so close it seemed he could jump up and touch it. It thundered once, shaking every bone in his body, then it attacked the rainmill with several bolts of lightning. And still the vanes spun.

  Finally, as a sign of surrender, the cloud gave up its rain. The drops fell gently from the sky, sunlight turning them into watery diamonds.

  At first everyone sighed and shouted in awe, then the rain sluiced down, and the umbrellas the women were holding popped open. The dust at their feet turned to mud. People laughed and gathered, three or four under each umbrella. Full-grown men opened their mouths to catch the rain. Robert's parents gazed at the heavens with smiles on their faces. Robert couldn't help but think about the hippopotamuses his father had always joked about—it was going to be wet enough that they could move here.

  He opened his mouth. The rain tasted of sugar. He caught more droplets on his tongue. So sweet. Not dirty like the rain he remembered. Uncle Alden had once told him that every drop of rain had a piece of dirt in it, but these drops didn't.

  He spit, barely missing Mrs. Juskin's leg. Rain shouldn't taste like sugar. He knew it was wrong. He spit again.

  The rainmill slowed, and the cloud dispersed into smaller pieces of black cotton until there was nothing left. The sun, now at the edge of the horizon, shot a blast of heat at the people of Horshoe, as though it had grown angry at this brief interruption in its reign. It dried the farmers' hair, warmed the ground until the puddles disappeared and all they were left with was mud stains on their clothes and boots. The vanes spun more and more slowly, and Abram looked down at them all, his bloodless lips curled into a crescent-shaped smile.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The months went by quickly. The earth grew hard and cold. Hoarfrost coated the fallow fields with glittering, icy diamonds, outlining spiderwebs between the strands of stubble. Winter brought several inches of snow, but a strong wind excavated the dust, painting the banks brown.

  Robert lowered a wax angel onto the windowsill and straightened the wick. He set another angel beside her. Half her head had been melted last year, scarring her face. He pried the wick from the wax, whispering, "This'll be your last Christmas. Burn brightly!"

  His mother was hanging the stockings over the fireplace, humming carols.

  It was dark and cold outside the window, and his fingers grew slightly numb with the chill. December was nearly over; Christmas would arrive tomorrow. He put the third angel in place, wishing he were more excited. Last year he'd been counting every minute. This year, the anticipation had already worn off. I'm getting older, he thought, fear tingling in his stomach. I don't want to get older if this is what happens.

  A week ago he'd gone with his father to find a pine in the Cypress Hills, brought back a dandy one, and helped to decorate it. His mom and dad had put four presents under the branches, and all four were for him, two more than last year. He had been thrilled. He'd lifted them, tried to peek through the corners of the wrapping, had shaken them, then stopped. There wasn't a present for Matthew.

  He hadn't touched the presents since.

  Robert turned to ask his mother what to do next, then froze. She had hung three red stockings above the fireplace and was about to put up the fourth. Was she remembering Matthew? Or were her memories still buried under promises of rain and good crops. Buried by false dreams.

  She looked over at the picture of Edmund, nodded toward it like they were having a conversation. Robert's heartbeat doubled. Had Edmund blinked at her? Waved? She turned away from the photograph and attempted to fasten the fourth and smallest stocking to a nail, but it slipped. She tried again, but the lace wouldn't hold. She frowned, shook her head slowly, then lowered the stocking into the wooden box where all the Christmas ornaments were kept.

  Robert sighed. He understood. He had his own struggle: days would pass without him thinking about his brother. There was a photograph on the mantle of the whole family in their good clothes, but even there Matthew seemed faded and unfamiliar, almost like a stranger—a little boy who'd stumbled into the wrong picture.

  "Will you light the candles, son?" his mother asked. She was carrying the box to the storage closet. "Uncle Alden will appreciate seeing a light in the window."

  Robert found the matchbox by the fireplace and went back to the angels. He opened the box, fumbled with a wooden match, and struck it against the side of the box. The match head burst into flame, and the sulfur stung his nose. He loved that scent. He lit each angel, then watched the match burn.

  Robert struggled to remember that he'd wanted to talk with Uncle Alden. To tell him about Matthew and Abram, and the dust. Uncle Alden was the only one who would understand. Robert had it figured out, at least partly. But it was getting harder to keep that knowledge in his head. He would remember only when he was reading his Jules Verne book.

  He waited until the match burned down to his fingers, then blew it out.

  Within an hour his dad came in from chores and his uncle arrived, clutching three shoddily wrapped presents. They had a turkey dinner, with potatoes, thick gravy, and peas. His parents chattered the whole time, and Uncle Alden smiled and nodded. He looked thinner, almost as if he were starting to disappear. He was the first to go back for seconds. When he went up for thirds, Robert's mom said, "that'll fatten you up for one of those widows." Uncle Alden turned to Robert and said, "I think your parents are getting simple in their old age." They laughed. Robert pretended to chuckle along.

  After an apple pie dessert, they retired to the living room. There the prattle continued until Robert's dad excused himself, saying, "I hear the outhouse calling me. It's gonna be a chilly visit." Robert's mom went into the kitchen to make another pot of coffee.

  Uncle Alden sat in a wicker rocking chair, smoking a pipe and rocking back and forth next to the fireplace. He blew a perfect smoke ring and winked at Robert. "If I could get paid for making those, I'd be a rich man. Truth be told, though, I'd be happy to be paid for anything, these days."

  Robert nodded. He knew he didn't have much time. "I think Abram Harsich took Matthew," he spluttered. "He hid him somewhere."

  His uncle stopped rocking. "Hold on." He pointed the pipe at Robert. "What in blue blazes are you talking about? Abram's a snake, but that's a serious allegation. What makes you say it?"

  "He ... he collects dust. From little boys and girls, and from the wings of butterflies, I think—it's like—it's their souls, and he uses it." The words were getting jumbled up in his head; when he'd rehearsed this speech he'd sounded as certain as a judge laying down a law. "That's how Abram made the mirror in the theatre work. And I think it's how the rainmill turns. And he's got this room with butterflies in it. It's all green and perfect. But it's wrong. Everything's wrong. You see, he doesn't have a soul."

  Uncle Alden narrowed his eyes, a serious look on his face. "You're pretty upset, aren't you?"

  "Yes," Robert answered.

  His uncle smiled, sucked in smoke, blew out a gray, wispy ring. "Well, don't go getting your long johns in a knot. Dust? Souls powering mirrors? How old are you now?"

  "Eleven. My birthday's in June."

  "Well, you know better than to go making things up. Where'd you get such ideas?"

  Robert was silent. The dishes had stopped clinking together in the kitchen. Was his mom listening?

  "Well?" his uncle asked.

  Robert's mother dropped a spoon or something on the floor.

  "Abram cornered me when they tested the mill. Told me about the dust. And said he took Matthew."

  "He said that?"

  Robert strained to remember the exact words. "No. Just that Matthew was still there."

  "At his farm?"

  "I don't know. I was ... frightened."

  Uncle Alden took another puff, thinking hard. Smoke leaked out of his nostrils and lips, like a coal fire was burning inside his head. "I can't see it."

  "It's true."

  "
He's wicked, but to steal a child he'd have to be crazy. Abram isn't crazy, he just has a crazy plan. He's a snake-oil salesman. That's all. I think he was playing games with you." Uncle Alden narrowed his eyes. "Do you know what mesmerize means?"

  Robert nodded. "To hypnotize."

  "A hundred years ago there was a man in Paris called Franz Anton Mesmer. He believed he had magnetic powers. He would mentally compel groups of people to dance, sleep, sing, or fall on the floor and convulse. He thought he was healing them. They had no control over their actions." Uncle Alden pointed his pipe again. "That's what Abram is. Probably one of the best mesmerists on the continent. He's used his powers of magnetism to get everyone to build this tower of Babel."

  Babel, Robert recognized that from the Bible. It had to do with why people spoke different languages; a big tower that had made God angry.

  Uncle Alden continued. "It's mass hypnotism. A combination of sounds and spinning lights. I think it first happened in the theatre. A trick on the brain. That's why everyone's forgetting things. He's planted hypnotic suggestions in people's heads. You say rainmill and they get all enthusiastic and run off at the mouth about how great it is. How great Abram is. How everything's coming up petunias. Day or night, there's always a talkie playing at the film theatre. He wants to keep everyone occupied. You hear the train lately?"

  "Train?" Robert asked. "What train?"

  "Came through town about noon the other day. Gave a big, long, mournful toot on its horn. I'm standing in Ruggles's store and damned if Ruggles doesn't set his head down on the counter and take a nap, right there. I got tired as the dickens, too. Go outside and no one's about. Just old man Spooky, drunk as a skunk, whimpering on a bench. Poor sot."

  "I don't understand," Robert said.

  "The train's horn is another hypnotic suggestion. Sends the people deeper into a trance. I'm waiting patiently, Robert, because come spring that rainmill won't be worth the brick it's piled on. It won't work. The spell will break and he'll be run out of town faster than you can say conniving conman. " He took another pull at his pipe, then immediately sucked in again. He examined the tobacco and discovered that it was out.

  "Do you still have dreams?" Robert asked.

  Uncle Alden emptied the tobacco into a clay bowl. "Of course. Everyone does. The mind moving its garbage around. Why?"

  "What did you see in the mirror?"

  "We talked about this. I've thought it over. I saw clouds. That's what Abram wanted me to see, Lord knows why. Your eyes can be fooled. Ever wonder why the moon is bigger some nights? It's a trick the light plays. That's all that happened in the theatre."

  Robert sat back. He understood now that he would find no ally in his uncle. Abram's words returned: You are on the cusp. Between the dreaming and the reality.

  Uncle Alden could write stories and read books, but he was past the cusp. Too old to believe in magic and soul dust. An adult.

  Robert hardly slept at all on Christmas Eve.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  On the first day Robert felt winter release its cold, cold claws from the land, it rained. He and his parents ran outside and stood in the downpour. They were laughing, but Robert caught a few drops on his tongue. They tasted sugary. It wasn't real rain, he was sure of it. He retreated to the doorway and watched his parents jumping in the gathering puddles, then he slipped inside the house went up to his room and read.

  The rain didn't stop for several days.

  The people of Horshoe came together on the sixth straight day of rain and had an impromptu dance at the town hall, musicians bringing their guitars and fiddles, stomping their boots to a steady beat. It wasn't raining anywhere else: Maple Creek hadn't had a drop, Swift Current was as dry as a buffalo bone. But in Horshoe it was a jungle. A rain forest, Robert thought. No, a rain prairie. Soon the countryside would be as thick with green vegetation as the strange room in Abram's house.

  Robert's parents took him to the dance and found a table near the front of the hall. His mother sat, looking stern, but her foot tapped to the music. She once playfully shook her finger at a drunken man who staggered over to their table. Robert's dad laughed.

  Some of the men, crazy with fever or joy, scrambled outside, dove into puddles, then returned looking like cavemen, hooting and dancing, stopping only to drink rye whiskey. Dermot McFaden, the butcher, had a half-grown pig squirming under his arm. He'd give it a drink from a bottle of hooch, then hand the bottle to the nearest man, who'd take a swig and squeal like a hog.

  Abram Harsich watched from a table on the stage, the banker beside him. At one point, when the music stopped, Abram raised a glass and toasted the wet sky. The town toasted him back. A few women paraded up and kissed his cheeks.

  Uncle Alden plodded up to their table and sat next to Robert's dad. His hair was slick against his forehead.

  "How much rain you get?" he asked.

  "About six inches," Robert's dad answered. He tapped his fingers on the table.

  "Not a drop has touched my land. The clouds roll on by."

  Robert's dad shrugged. "Mother Nature can be funny sometimes. Rewards those who work hard. Who believe. You still think it's a snake-oil trick?"

  "Doesn't seem to matter what I believe," he replied softly. "I'll be broke if I don't get a crop. Samuelson ain't exactly in the charity business."

  "Then maybe you should sign up for a work detail. Couldn't hurt your chances, could it?"

  No, Robert thought. Don't.

  "I might have to," Uncle Alden said, his voice bleak. He shuffled over to the bar and returned with a bottle of beer. It wasn't long before he was up to get another.

  The dance became more raucous, the music louder. Men and women twirled together wildly, sometimes hitting tables or walls. No one got hurt.

  Robert noticed a square-jawed man sitting near the wall, not smiling. He looked familiar. Then Robert recognized Sergeant Ramsden in civilian clothing.

  He's undercover, Robert thought. He kept waiting for the Mountie to get up, nab Abram, and drag him away, but the sergeant didn't move. Occasionally he'd talk to whomever was near him.

  Abram left before midnight, his truck rumbling like thunder. The dance ended shortly afterwards and everyone went home happy.

  The sun came out Sunday, then disappeared behind the clouds Monday. Sun. Rain. Sun. Rain. The grass grew green, even in the Steelgate farmyard where it hadn't been green in Robert's lifetime.

  A shipment of umbrellas arrived by train and sold out within an hour. A second shipment was ordered.

  Sun. Rain. Sun. Rain.

  That became the pattern of everyone's life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  On a Saturday in late May, Robert came down the stairs dressed in his work clothes. His mother was in the kitchen, the scent of baking bread loaves filled the house, made him salivate. It would be so good to sit at the table and cut a slice from that steaming, hot bread just out of the oven. He would spread butter and honey across it, then slowly chew on it savoring every taste. Maybe there were buns, too.

  He almost went into the kitchen, but stopped in the living room, gathering his will. He didn't need the bread. He'd had breakfast already. The bread was a distraction and he refused to be distracted today. He had a task.

  He stared at the picture of Uncle Edmund on the mantle, hoping that his uncle would wink or move or wave. I'm ready, Robert thought. Send me a signal. A sign.

  He waited. Nothing happened. It was only a photograph. Robert touched the frame, found it warm. That's odd, he thought, then he realized the sun had been shining through the piano window, heating the metal. He tapped the picture once for luck then wandered outside.

  It was sunny, so he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. His mother thought he was on his way to do chores, but he walked past the barn and along the fence line. The grass was green and slippery. The dull grumbling of a tractor reverberated through the air—somewhere over a low hill, his father was seeding.

  It was a special day. Robert had cir
cled it on the calendar in his room because he had promised himself he would go for a long walk on this date.

  Matthew's birthday.

  Neither parent had spoken of Matthew that morning. They hadn't mentioned him since autumn. It was as if Matthew existed only in Robert's head. He's real, Robert told himself. He used to walk here. Before the rain and the grass.

  Robert cut across a field planted with wheat. His father had used the tractor to drag the seeder through the soil. Last year he'd talked about going back to hiring Clydesdale horses for the work, but this year, with the loan payments deferred, he'd not once complained about the price of gas. A few green stalks had already popped through the soil. There were no weeds.

  He was far enough from the house that his mother wouldn't see him, so he turned toward the grid road and crawled over a barbed wire fence plugged with green Russian thistles. They had lost their hardness and wormed tentative roots into the ground.

  Tumbleweeds that didn't tumble. Robert thought about that. It was unnatural.

  He crossed a ditch choked with grass and headed onto the gravel road. The scent of wolf willow followed him; the shrub had sprung up along the fence line, its ghostly silver leaves glistening with dew, while bright yellow flowers caught the sun.

  His skin was soft. He didn't think he'd ever get used to that feeling. His skin had always itched or peeled in the hot sun; now it was soft and brand new. Everything felt brand new. All about him the world was green and colorful. Purple crocuses were clumped together in an unseeded corner of the field. Dandelions glowed yellow on the edge of the road. The Cypress Hills were emerald green in the distance, a haze of fog slipping around their haunches.

  He had decided to trace Matthew's last walk into town. Robert was forgetting bits and pieces of his brother. The more it rained, the more time passed, the older he got. Soon memories of Matthew would be gone, and there would be no marker to say he'd ever been there. Not even a gravestone.