Dust Read online

  Grasshoppers slowly crawled across the road, trying to dry their wings. They looked smaller than last year, as though the rain had shrunk them.

  The distant buzz of a motor made Robert turn. A vehicle was coming down the road, with not even the slightest trace of dust behind it. The sunlight glinted off its windshield. He thought briefly about stepping into the ditch, but instead he moved to the side and kept walking. He stared ahead as the sound of the motor grew closer. The car stopped right beside him and he saw the Royal Canadian Mounted Police crest on the passenger door.

  Sergeant Ramsden got out and strode over to Robert. Over the winter a gray patch had appeared in his short hair. "You need a ride?" he asked.

  Robert wondered what the right answer was. Did he? Or was it better to walk?

  The sergeant smiled. "Cat got your tongue?"

  "Sure. Sure I need a ride," Robert said.

  The sergeant opened the passenger door and Robert climbed in. The interior smelled of oil and smoke, as though a gun had gone off. Sergeant Ramsden slammed the door, but it refused to stay closed, so he pushed it into place until the bolt clicked. Then got in on his side and started down the road.

  "You out walking for any special reason?" he asked.

  "Just wanted to."

  "Do your parents know you're here?"

  Robert briefly considered telling a lie. All he had to do was say, Yes, they do. But today he was looking for the truth.

  "No," he said. "I wanted to be alone."

  Ramsden was silent for a few seconds. "Do they ever talk about your brother?"

  "No." Again the truth. "They ... they've forgotten him, I think."

  Ramsden let out his breath. "There's something awfully weird about this town. No one can recall much of anything. Do you remember your classmates who disappeared?"

  "Yes." Robert paused. "Mike Tuppence and Susan Vaganski," he said. It had been very hard to find those names in his head.

  "No one else does. Even their parents pretend they were never here. Some other kids are gone, too. One in Montana. Another in Alberta. Makes me wonder what this world is coming to." He shook his head. "And the land around here is all weird. Go six miles east or west and the grass stops growing and the fields are all sand, but here it's spring. Like it was when I was a kid. It's not natural." The sergeant's big hands were tight on the wheel. "That Abram guy ever come back to your school?"

  "No."

  "Your parents friends with him?"

  "Dad worked on the rainmill."

  Ramsden nodded. "Most everyone has." He didn't say anything for a time, driving down the road, scanning the green fields. Horshoe's elevators loomed in the sky. "Where do you want to go?" he asked.

  "The store."

  He turned down Main Street and stopped the car in front of the grocer's. Robert shouldered the door. It squeaked as it opened. Once out, he looked up at the sergeant.

  "You stay away from that Abram, you hear?" Ramsden warned. "He's ... he's not who he says he is. He told me he's from the States, but he's not. I found that out."

  "I will."

  Robert pushed the door closed. Sergeant Ramsden set the car in motion and continued down the street.

  Once the police car was gone, Horshoe remained silent. No one else was on the sidewalk, though a car and a truck were parked in front of the hotel. Not a soul could be heard or seen anywhere.

  Robert walked past the laundry. The door was closed, no sign of the Chinese. He peered through the window of Lee Yuen's restaurant, where he and Matthew had often sipped vanilla milkwhips. I'd love a milkwhip now, Robert thought. With chocolate shavings floating in the creamy foam. He licked his lips.

  No one was at the tables or behind the counter. He kept walking, furtively glancing at the Royal Theatre. The stone lion glowered at him. The eerie sound of a piano slipped out from under the door. Robert quickened his pace. He didn't want to know what talkie was playing—Abram had set it up whatever it was. It would be a trick. He'd open the door and be gone forever.

  He ambled up to the school, then over to the church. It had been months since he'd been inside God's house; it already looked unkempt. A new reverend had never arrived and no one seemed to have noticed.

  Robert continued walking, veering away from the tiny brick powerhouse, afraid of the electricity that gathered there and sparked out across the town on spiderweb lines, lighting Main Street and all the houses.

  On his second time through downtown he passed by the hotel. Someone was sleeping on one of the benches, clothes dirty and ragged. Robert circled away, figuring it was old man Spooky, who tended to babble in his drunken stupor and was likely to reach out and grab you, calling his dead wife's name.

  Spooky had grown up here, Robert remembered, had made money on the stock market, built the theatre, lost everything in the crash. Then his wife had died, and now his only friend was the bottle. It was very sad. But it was also a good story. Like out of a book.

  "Robert," Spooky whispered.

  Robert started. The old man lifted his arm, raised his head. Robert stopped, swallowed.

  It was Uncle Alden.

  He looked feverish, his face marked by stubble, his eyes unfocused. His boots were caked with dried mud.

  "Is that you, Robert?" he asked again, voice cracking.

  "Yes." He walked over to the bench as his uncle slowly sat up. He ran a hand through his hair, and pieces of dirt fell out of it. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist. "I've been rained on," he said. "Man, I've been rained on hard." He gestured for Robert to sit.

  Robert did so, first knocking some of the mud off the bench. "Are you sick? Do you want me to get the doctor?"

  Uncle Alden grinned crazily. Even his teeth were dirty. The smile frightened Robert; it was as though his uncle had been trying to eat dirt. Even kids know not to do that, he thought.

  "Sick?" His uncle echoed. "Yeah, in my head. Been walking into town every day for the last week. Coming to sign the volunteer sheet. It's worn me out."

  "Did you sign?" Robert asked quietly.

  Uncle Alden rubbed his nose. "Every morning I'd have this dream with butterflies, very odd and beautiful. Then I'd start tramping to town, not even stopping to eat, thinking I really should sign up. I'd get to the bank, see the list on the wall, grab the pen, and set it to the paper. Then one thought would pop into my head: What in Sam Hades am I doing here? I'd drop the pen and walk all the way back to the farm. Do the same thing the next day. And the next. I was going to sign today. I felt it in my heart. I just couldn't fight anymore. But when I got to the bank, I caught my reflection in the window." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "But it wasn't me. It was Edmund looking back through the window. He shook his head at me like he was ashamed. It was a dream. An apparition."

  "It was real," Robert said. "You know it was."

  Uncle Alden stared at Robert. "MaybeÉ Maybe."

  "Why didn't you go home?"

  "I was exhausted. I lay down here like a dog and slept, just for a few hours." He squinted around. "Or was that yesterday? What day is it?"

  "It's Matthew's birthday," Robert said.

  His uncle nodded. "It felt like one of those kind of days. No one's playing pool, you know. I went into the hall. Parson was asleep at the till. All the players were snoring on the floor." He rubbed his eyes again. Robert wanted to tell him to wash his hands before doing that. "I wish I could be a kid again, Robert. Everything was so much easier then. And better. As you get older, things get harder."

  Harder? But things seemed hard now, Robert thought.

  The mournful whistle of a train echoed through the town. It spoke of other lands, where lotus flowers unfurled the scent of sleep. Where the sun was warm and gentle and time moved slow as sap.

  His uncle's eyelids had drooped. "So tired. I'll give you a ride home." He paused, wiped spittle from his lips. "Oh, right, I don't have my truck. Don't have any gas. I walked. Just gonna close my eyes. Don't go away, Robert. You have to tell me about 20,000 Lea
gues Under ..." Then he was asleep.

  The train whistled again, the dreamy bass undertone rippling through the air. Robert forced his eyes to stay open. From the bench he had a clear view of the train station.

  The engine was a dusky monster coming in from the east, the cowcatcher a metal smile. The train slowed to a stop, hissing steam, wheels sliding against the steel tracks. There were only three cars. No engineer. No one waited for the train's arrival.

  Steam rolled out in vast clouds; the hissing grew quiet. Then there was a new hum that grew louder. Abram's truck rattled down the approach to the railway station and backed onto the loading platform.

  Robert nudged his uncle and was rewarded with a soft snore. He elbowed him again, and his head slipped heavily to the side. His Uncle had stood for what was right. It had taken all his energy, but he hadn't signed his name.

  Abram strode up to the engine, and three swarthy men lumbered out. They slid aside a door on the middle car and began loading Abram's truck. Robert couldn't see exactly what they were moving; it looked like metal wheels or gears. They seemed to be incredibly heavy.

  If Abram was here, no one would be at the rainmill. Maybe, Robert thought, I should sneak away. It's only a mile. I could look around. Just peek, really. And leave before Abram gets home again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Robert ran to the edge of town, hopped across the tracks, and kept running as fast as he could. After what seemed like hours, he glanced over his shoulder. Abram's truck was tiny now, and three toy-sized men continued to load it. Robert dashed over the grid road and into the fields, pushing through brambles, his feet slipping on the grass.

  He felt older with each step. Ancient. He thought of the Greek messengers who used to run barefoot, bringing news of victory or defeat. One messenger had raced so hard and long his heart had burst. It had to do with a battle for Marathon against the Persian army.

  He climbed a drainage ditch thick with weeds and flowers, grabbed onto the slick, leafy plants, and pulled himself over the edge. An image of his Uncle Edmund flashed through his mind. Going over the trenches.

  And getting a bullet in his heart.

  Robert shuddered. Edmund had been at Horshoe today, in a reflection. Was maybe somehow watching right now. Edmund wouldn't have hesitated when he went over the trench, knowing there was something bad on the other side.

  Robert knew he had to do something, finally. By summer it would be too late. The rain would have washed everything from his mind. He would have crossed the cusp. He ran harder, his boots sinking deep into the soil and growing heavy with mud.

  Finally, he caught sight of the rainmill: large and majestic, the vanes poised on the edge of motion, the bricks glistening. Beyond it the land was flat, the sky a blue dome. Robert didn't want to stare too long; he might lose his resolve.

  Several yards later he stopped and scanned the farm. No sign or sound of Abram's truck. Robert padded up to the house and peeked in the front window. Gray shadows fell across the table; the room was empty. He crept around the corner. There, parked next to a fallen pig barn, was the RCMP car.

  He couldn't see anyone inside it, but he ran over and opened the door anyway, hoping to find Sergeant Ramsden. The front seat was bare. Not even his Stetson was inside. Robert backed away, glanced around. The farmyard was still. He couldn't think where to look. Was the sergeant even here? He might have ridden into town with Abram, just talking away about adult things. Fooled by Abram's fancy words.

  Robert gulped some air. He'd have to go inside the house where Abram kept all his secrets. Maybe he'd find a clue that would lead to Matthew.

  Robert climbed the steps to the front door, found the courage to turn the knob, and pushed. The hinges creaked, but the door swung easily. A rotten-meat smell escaped, the stench ugly in his nostrils. He breathed through his mouth and sneaked into the front room.

  The kitchen was clean, the table bare. One of the cupboard doors sat open. No plates. No bowls. It was as though Abram didn't eat at all.

  The table reminded Robert that his mother would wonder why he hadn't come home for lunch. Maybe his parents were searching the fields for him right now and would get here in time to help find Matthew. Or were they sitting at their table, talking about the rain, the crops, and the rainmill, both of their sons forgotten?

  He inched down the hall and pushed on a door. Inside was a flat bed of wooden slabs; no mattress, no blankets, not even a pillow. The sight of it disturbed him. Didn't Abram eat or sleep?

  Robert knew exactly where to look next: the butterfly room. He was sure which room it was—the one facing east. It seemed like only yesterday that he'd stood outside it and stared in.

  He slid the bolt to one side and gently opened the door a crack. A moist, rotten-crabapple stink drifted out. He peered in. The thick vines had climbed up to the ceiling, delved into every corner of the rafters with their feelers, and now hung down, brown and dripping with slime. Nothing was flying around inside.

  He opened the door and slipped in. All the vines were dead. This room, once green and burgeoning, was a wasteland. The butterflies were gone. Not a sign of a lost wing or anything to indicate that they'd ever been there.

  Robert's feet stuck to the sludge, and he stepped through it carefully. He stood below the oval window; the sun's light was dimmed by a brownish ooze that coated the pane. He gingerly parted some of the sticky vines, looking for the butterflies. There was nothing but a wall underneath, its paint peeling, the wood rotting.

  Then a rustle—a whispering of wings and a lilting song, so light and familiar.

  He turned slowly, as though he were caught in amber. He knew, as sure as anything, who he would see, even before his eyes fell on her glowing blue shape.

  Kachina.

  She floated between him and the door. Alive. Beautiful. Graceful wings stroking the air. Her song was in his head, his bones. A melody that called him away from the world, urged him to follow her to a mystical place where he would sleep in peace.

  She was so perfect. Her singing so gentle.

  His eyelids grew heavy, slid closed. Peace. That was what he wanted. And sleep. No more fear.

  Time passed slowly. He breathed deeply, the air scented with flowers. A breeze caressed his cheeks. He opened his eyes and she fluttered closer. Her black, all-knowing orbs reflected star-like lights. There was a universe of harmony and warmth inside her.

  He let his eyelids slide closed. No sadness. No pain. No worry.

  Worry. The word stuck in his mind. Responsibility. Another word that grew heavier. I have a responsibility, he thought, a duty.

  He opened his eyes. Kachina was only a few inches away, her singing insistent, higher in pitch. Her eyes were so close now that he could see he'd been mistaken about them: they were black insect eyes, barely able to reflect the light. They held nothing. No compassion. No wisdom.

  She was Abram's tool. She had led the children away. There was nothing beautiful about that.

  "I have a duty," he said plainly, reaching out. She flapped her wings as he tried to grasp her body. But he found nothing of substance. Instead the touch of his hand made her singing grow sharper and she began to fall apart. She shed her color, the bright, hypnotic blue breaking off and twirling down, disappearing before it hit the ground. Tattered shreds of yellow and green burst out of her like tiny fireworks, until only a black husk remained, floating before him. Then, with a tiny, shrill noise, she flashed bright as the sun, folded in on herself, and was gone.

  Robert blinked and lowered his hands. His fingers tingled. His eyes felt as though they'd been burned by a flashbulb. He stumbled out of the room, rubbing his eyelids. With a shaking hand he closed the door, Kachina's final moments still blazing in his mind's eye.

  He stood unsteadily in the hallway. He wasn't even sure exactly what had happened. His hands were numb and coated with a bluish, oily dust which he wiped on his pants.

  It seemed as though hours had passed, but light still brightened the kitchen win
dow. No sound of Abram's truck. It was so loud he was sure he would hear it from miles away. He was running out of time, though, and there was still one more room to explore.

  He went to the end of the hall and pushed open the door. He felt a chill, as though he were at the entrance to a mausoleum full of cold cemetery air. There was no window and his eyes didn't appear to be adjusting to the near darkness. A band of light revealed a table in the center of the room dominated by a glowing glass globe—a crystal ball. The rest of the room was dark. He gathered his courage and went inside, feeling colder with each step.

  Jars were stacked on the floor. They looked like the broken one he'd found the day they discovered Matthew's hat. Robert touched the edge of one. It was smooth and cold. Pink dust stained his fingers.

  The scent of roses wafted up and an image entered his head. He saw a girl running through a pasture, laughing, her pigtails flopping against her back. She had blond hair. You can't catch me, na na na, she sang. It was spring.

  The vision disappeared. It wasn't a memory; he'd never seen the girl before. But the picture was so vivid.

  He examined the dust on his hands. It was like the dust on the wings of butterflies. Was this what Abram collected? Robert pawed inside the jar, but there wasn't any more. Nor did he find any in the other jars.

  On the table he discovered two old books, their black covers in tatters. An unlit candle in a brass holder sat next to a neatly laid out collection of tiny doctor's instruments: scalpels, razor-sharp scrapers, and pokers with thin handles.

  Robert lifted a scalpel. It was as light as air. He brushed the side of the blade and the image of a boy playing in a bed of flowers appeared in his head, then vanished. He looked at his finger. Dust.

  He dropped the scalpel. Abram had said that there was a way to gather the dust—the stuff that surrounded people. He thought of Matthew and the other missing kids. All of them gathered and ... and harvested.