Dust Page 4

"How is your dad?"

  "Angry." Robert didn't think he had to explain any further.

  "Everyone blames themselves. Wonders what they could have done to change things."

  Robert thought about the word blame. It was there in the house, on the walls, echoing in the hallways. Blame. Maybe even directed toward him. After all, he was the older brother, and he had chosen not to go with Matthew.

  "Everything will work out," his uncle promised.

  Robert looked up. Uncle Alden glanced away as though he didn't believe what he'd just said.

  The door to the grocer's opened and Robert's dad walked out, clutching a cloth sack and a box of nails. He saw his brother-in-law and frowned. "What are you up to, Alden?" he asked gruffly, dropping his purchases in the wagon.

  "Waiting for the hail," Uncle Alden answered, cheerfully. "It came this time last year."

  "Don't even joke about hail. That's the last thing we need."

  Uncle Alden shrugged. "Sorry, Garland. Joking is a bad habit I'm trying to break." He paused. "You hear about that guy in Regina?"

  "What guy?"

  "Went to get a tooth pulled out at the dentist, sat back, opened his mouth, and in jumped a grasshopper. Nearly choked to death. Darnedest thing was, when the grasshopper popped back out, it was holding the tooth!"

  Robert's dad shook his head. "You and your tall tales," he growled, but Robert could see that his father's thin lips had almost turned into a smile.

  "Your son believes me." Uncle Alden winked at Robert. "There's another guy up north who saddled a giant grasshopper, got on, and jumped right to the moon."

  Robert laughed. His dad shot him a mean look. "Don't you encourage your uncle." This time he was smiling crookedly, like only half his face knew how. "He's a bad influence."

  Uncle Alden grinned. "Need a hand with anything at home?"

  "We're fine, thanks. Nothing much to be done right now."

  "Call me if anything comes up, and say hi to my sister." Uncle Alden shook Robert's hand, and he awkwardly returned the gesture. "See ya, son." His uncle walked away.

  Robert's father gave a soft, commanding whistle and flicked the reins. Smokie and Apache snorted, clomping their hooves and backing the wagon onto the street.

  Robert watched Uncle Alden get into his truck. He picked something up from the seat and opened it. It looked like a magazine.

  Robert wanted to follow him back to his farm south of town. Every time Robert visited he marveled at the books that flowed out of the shelves, how they were piled on the floor and laid open on the kitchen table. More books than the school library. More words than he could read in a lifetime.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  That night Robert slept soundly for the first time since his brother's disappearance, not waking once. He dreamed of Matthew, a gentle dream in which his brother floated outside the second-floor window, shimmering.

  To see him there seemed as natural as breathing. He rapped at the window and Robert undid the latch so Matthew could drift into the room. His eyes were wide and full of joy. He didn't speak, but somehow Robert knew that his brother had been living with the coyotes and had gone through a den to another world and seen many wondrous things: talking herons, singing frogs, and a lynx who was king of all the animals. Robert stopped feeling sad. Matthew looked so happy. He hovered there, his lips moving as though he were babbling, which was perhaps the strangest part of the whole dream, since he had always been a quiet boy. He left before the first rays of dawn, making Robert promise not to be glum.

  Robert awakened happy and energetic. He slid out of bed and closed the window. Silver dust stained his hands. It sparkled and had an oily nature. He brought his fingers to his nose, sniffed in a scent of wolf willow. It was as though someone had crushed dried wolf willow leaves and strewn the powder across his window sill. Very odd. He wiped the dust on his pants and noticed that the covers on Matthew's bed were slightly rumpled, just the way they used to be every morning.

  It was going to be a grand day. Robert dressed, took the steps two at a time, and dashed outside. His dad was feeding the steers. Robert ran over and grabbed a pail.

  "Well, there's no getting out of it, son," Robert's dad said, cheerfully, "we're gonna have to go to church today."

  Robert carefully poured oats across the hay strewn in the feeding trough.

  "Not too much," his dad warned gently, smiling so his teeth showed, "that stuff's like gold."

  Robert tipped the pail up a little.

  "That's it. Good job."

  His father had not spoken so many words to him in ages. Robert felt uneasy hearing them; he wanted more but didn't trust them, because the words might disappear or become angry. He would have to be very careful, do everything exactly as he was told.

  When they were finished, his father patted his back, and Robert shuddered slightly. His dad used to pat him on the shoulder and talk about cows as heavy as hippos and wheat as tall as sunflowers. Robert suddenly saw that magical world, where everything was bigger. Dragonflies the size of airplanes. Gophers larger than hounds. Giant cow hippopotamuses lumbering around wet fields. No—hippopotami!

  "I dreamed a wonderful dream last night," his dad murmured, as though it were the biggest secret in the universe. "Everything was growing. I walked out in the wheat field holding your mom's hand and you and Matthew ..." He faltered for a moment. "We were all there. It was a good dream. A real dream."

  A real dream? Robert knew dreams weren't real, but he also knew that some could become real.

  His dad gave him another pat. They strolled back home.

  Inside, his mother greeted them with a grin. During breakfast, his dad touched his mom's hand. They intertwined fingers. Robert nearly dropped his spoon into his porridge.

  "It's such a good day," his mother said, "a really good day." She winked at him.

  Robert watched with wonder. The moment he was done eating, his mother said, "Why don't you get your fancy duds on, dear? I'll look after the dishes."

  Robert nodded, abandoned his bowl, and went upstairs. He put on his best clothes: a pair of black pants; a white button-up shirt that made his skin itch; a bow tie; and black suspenders. Smashing, he thought to himself, I look dapper and smashing. Maybe even gallant. He liked the suspenders the most. They were something grown-ups wore. He strode downstairs, chest puffed out.

  Then came a mechanical grunt and growl from outside, followed by a loud pop! He rushed out the door. His father was piloting the old Roadster up the driveway. It had been stored in the small shed for ages, the favorite bombing target of barn swallows and pigeons, but now it sparkled like new. His father opened the front door for his wife and lifted Robert into the rumble seat.

  The car vibrated with life, thrumming under his body. It had been a year since he'd last sat in the car, during a long, bumpy trip to Grandpa Steelgate's funeral in Moose Jaw.

  He remembered that day distinctly. He'd come down for breakfast and had told his mom that Grandpa Steelgate was dead. He'd known this because he'd had a dream in which Grandpa had danced through a ballroom with an invisible partner, stopped at a door, waved and winked at Robert, then pirouetted through. His mother had told Robert not to make up things like that. Then a few hours later Mr. Ruggles had brought a telegram announcing Grandpa Steelgate's death. What had followed was a silent, sad trip east.

  This trip was not sad, though. It was a new adventure. The air was already sweltering, but a few clouds had scudded out of nowhere, softening the bright sun. The car jerked ahead onto the road; Robert's father laughed and apologized.

  His parents seemed to talk excitedly during the trip into town, but out back in the open air, Robert couldn't hear a word. He daydreamed, the sun heating his skin, sweat trickling down the side of his face, cooled by the breeze. The Roadster! The name was magnificent. And here he was again in the rumble seat like a dignitary, a duke or a prime minister. Or a royal British prince. He imagined waving to the crowds that waited to get a glimpse of him.

 
Then they passed that place in the road where the grass was trampled down. He had once been sure something bad had happened there, but now he wasn't so certain. After all, Matthew had visited him last night and said everything was all right. It was important to believe him.

  As the Roadster chugged through town, a few people gawked at them. It wasn't that they hadn't seen a car before—many did drive to church—but it was rare to see the Steelgates' car. It made Robert feel special. I'm Prince Robert of Steelgatia, he thought. I'm next in line to the throne. He couldn't help waving. Some girls from school waved back.

  His dad parked the Roadster near the white picket fence. The church was old and small, perched on a hill with all of Horshoe laid out below it. He wondered if the reverend watched from his rectory to see who came to worship and who didn't. Maybe he even had a big book where he wrote down all the sinners' names. The bell rang, calling the flock. For Robert, the glorious ringing announced his family's arrival. Such an old sound.

  They got out of the Roadster and walked across the dry grass. The church's stained-glass windows were rounded like the portholes on a ship; a ship in the middle of the prairies, Robert thought. If everyone sang loud enough it might sail to Heaven.

  Inside, they were hit by thick, warm air. The church was packed, so Robert and his parents sat in a back pew. He preferred that, anyway. He didn't like it when he could feel someone breathe on his neck when they sang.

  The pews were worn smooth by bodies sliding down to kneel, getting up to sing. The thick wood had been polished recently, and the smell tingled Robert's nostril hairs. The small chalkboard at the front was emblazoned with three numbers: 40, 23, 136. Each would become a song.

  Robert settled himself. Women, and some men, whispered to each other as if to keep God, or the reverend, from hearing their unholy gossip. Everyone was dressed primly and properly; even the Polver family, whom Robert knew were poor as beggars, had come in their best patched clothing. Drops of sweat trailed down Mr. Polver's pockmarked face and stains had appeared under his arms. Girls at school said the Polvers ate pig mash with molasses for breakfast, lunch, and supper. Maybe that's why Mr. Polver's teeth were brown.

  The last few parishioners came in. Parishioner—another word Robert thought he should remember. Some day he would have a grand collection of exciting words.

  Reverend Gibbs entered clad in white robes, with the ends of his long purple sacramental stole flapping. He was heavyset, big in voice and body. People turned forward like rowers in some vast Roman galley, eyes following their drum master. Robert imagined himself heaving and ho-ing to the slow beat of the hymns, striving to reach distant shores.

  The reverend boomed words about God blessing the house, then the organ resounded with triumphant chords. The parishioners stood up, clutching their hymnals, and the choir warbled into song. Mrs. Juskin and Mrs. Torence, the two war widows, sat side by side in the choir, mouths wide open, voices blaring. The writing on the chalkboard was extremely neat, with all the proper curls; Mrs. Juskin had probably written down the hymns. She was the teacher in town.

  Robert's dad nudged him with the hymnal and Robert began to sing. His mom never had to look at the words; she knew them all perfectly.

  It was a beautiful hymn about God being a stronghold and a shield. The choir faltered slightly, their clear notes slipping into caterwauling. It made Robert's neck hair stand up. It's a cacophony, he thought.

  The church door swung open. A well-dressed, slim man sat in the same row as Robert and his parents. Robert watched him out of the corner of his eye. The man's face seemed to be chiseled from ivory, he held a hat in his hand, and his eyes appeared red. He sang without a book.

  Robert tried to get a good look at the stranger. There was no way his eyes could really be red. It had to be a reflection from the stained glass.

  His father nudged him again. The choir had found the right key, and the hymn reached its glorious finale. Reverend Gibbs asked everyone to sit down. Robert couldn't help glancing at the newcomer, who looked straight ahead, smiling contentedly.

  Mr. Ruggles, the storekeeper, clomped to the front and read from the Bible about drought, and Moses in Egypt, and toads and locusts, and a staff changing into a snake, and the pharaoh, who was a hardened man. It was an amazing story. Robert knew the rest, the way the water parted and Moses and the chosen Israelites walked through it, heading for the promised land. Then the waves crashed together on the Egyptians and their chariots.

  It couldn't happen here, Robert decided. There was no ocean, and if it rained frogs they'd get dried up. Desiccated. He hadn't seen one since he was seven or eight.

  The parishioners prayed and sang and prayed, and finally Reverend Gibbs delivered the sermon. Robert listened, spellbound. The words fit perfectly together. He loved the ring of them, one after the other, built like a temple, filled with understanding. He didn't always comprehend what the reverend spoke about, but he could feel it. There was meaning behind these words. And the spirit of God.

  The sermon was about animals: the lost sheep of the fold, and the little sparrow who falls out of its nest. God saw them all. Robert knew the reverend was talking about Matthew but not saying his name. He's implying, Robert thought, that's what he's doing. Robert guessed that the parishioners were thinking about Matthew and probably wanted to turn and see how this sermon was affecting his family. Robert stole a glance at his mother. Her eyes looked dreamy. His dad was digging dirt out of his thumbnail. It was as if they hadn't woken up yet today. Sleepwalking, that's what was happening.

  The church creaked and the weight of the hot air seemed to double. The reverend's words were soon lost on Robert, as if the heat had dried up the meaning, leaving only husks of sound. He mentioned the sparrow again, but Robert's brain couldn't take the sense of the lesson in.

  Reverend Gibbs paused to wipe his forehead. Robert wished the sermon were over, wished he were in the shade of a tree, away from the heat that choked the tiny church. "And let us pray especially for Matthew Steelgate's safe return." Everyone knelt and bowed their heads in prayer, knees knocking the prayer kneelers. "Dear God, please look out for Matthew—"

  "Screep!" A sharp squeal cut the air. Robert jerked his head up. Reverend Gibbs glared at the congregation, his right hand held out as if pulled by a string, his left fist tight against his chest. His mouth opened and closed as if he were a fish on dry land. He looked as though he had been stabbed in the back.

  "Cheep! Cheep!" he screamed. "Rowf! Rowf! Nayyyy!" His parish was agog in horror.

  "He must be having a fit!" Robert's dad whispered.

  Gibbs roared like a lion, pounded his right fist, then his left, against his chest. He gaped at the crowd, red-faced. A few children and even some adults couldn't stifle their nervous laughter. The reverend gasped twice, sucked in a hearty breath. His eyes focused and he wiped spittle from his lips, and breathed in again.

  "Lift up your hearts to the Lord," he said, sounding exhausted.

  "We lift up our hearts," voices answered automatically.

  Reverend Gibbs gestured. The choir sang the final hymn and followed him out of the church.

  "It was too hot," Robert's dad said. "Must have woken up his epilepsy again."

  Robert knew epilepsy was bad and the reverend had experienced other fits, but that had never before happened in church. The kids at school had joked that Robert would catch epilepsy from reading at recess. Epilepsy was a terrible affliction—a demon inside that made you shake and swear and sweat and gnash your teeth and froth at the lips like a dying calf. Doctors had to jam a piece of wood in your mouth to stop you from biting off your tongue.

  The crowd filed out solemnly.

  Reverend Gibbs waited at the door for his parishioners. He shook everyone's hand, even the children. Robert was surprised at how clammy and wrinkled that hand was—as old and gray as a mummy's. He imagined he was shaking God's hand, and it was cold.

  His family found shade under a nearly leafless birch tree, watching as the t
ownspeople gathered in the churchyard. No one left for home; it was as though they expected a picnic.

  The new man was the last to come out of the church. Gibbs winced when they shook. A blue, crackling bolt of energy shot from the stranger's hand. Robert blinked. Perhaps it was the sun's reflection off a cufflink. The man smiled, said a few words, then left. Gibbs stood with his hand still out, rubbing his fingers, his face pallid.

  The stranger mixed with the crowd, nodding in a friendly manner. People seemed to know him. Robert watched his smooth, perfect movements. This man was sure of his step.

  He spoke to Mr. Ruggles, who was standing with the war widows. The shopkeeper threw back his head and guffawed, the fat beneath his chin bouncing. The widows smiled eagerly, though with tight lips. Perhaps they didn't get the joke. The man tipped his hat, moved to another group.

  "Who is that gentleman?" Robert's mother asked. "He looks familiar."

  "He's new to town," his dad answered. "He lives on Skegi's old farm out north. Not sure what he'll do with that land, it's all sand and alkali sloughs. People have been talking about him. I'm not sure what his name is."

  Then the man looked directly at Robert. A smile came to his lips. He waved like an old friend.

  "I don't believe we've met," he said, as he approached Robert's dad. He held out his hand. "My name is Abram Harsich."

  They shook. He tipped his hat to Robert's mom and knelt to look Robert in the eye. "And who might you be?" he asked, his voice gravelly. The skin of his face was pale white. His dark-lensed glasses had slipped down his nose revealing red irises.

  Robert gawked. He'd read in one of Uncle Alden's adventure magazines about albinos with skin as white as elephant tusks and eyes red as a burning sun. Could this man be one?

  "Don't you have a name, son?" Abram asked. His eyelashes were a ghostly silver.

  "Uh ... I'm Robert."

  Abram's gaze penetrated like a searchlight into him. He seemed to be measuring Robert with his crimson eyes. "A good name," Abram announced, offering a gloved hand. Robert shook it. The man's fingers felt wiry and hard under the leather. Robert glanced at his hand, trying to figure out why Abram would wear gloves on such a hot day.