Dust Page 8

  "So who wasn't there?" The question was spoken softly, but Robert had the feeling it was really important to his mom.

  "Old Man Spooky, the Hereford Hill hermit, all of the Chinamen, but they're not Christians and ... your brother wasn't there, either."

  Robert looked at his mom and was surprised to see she was smiling. "I wish he'd grow up." She shook her head. "He was always juvenile. No wonder he's still a bachelor—he's got to just grow up and accept his responsibilities."

  They ate, and all the while Robert thought about his uncle. He seemed grown up enough. He shaved, swore, smoked a pipe. Even chewed tobacco. Just because he read a lot of books didn't mean he wasn't grown up, Robert decided.

  The next day, Robert was up with the sun and on the wagon, working hard. And so it went for the following two weeks, until all the wheat was in the bins or hauled to the elevators. Muscles had grown in his arms. He felt stronger and older, like a birthday had passed while he was helping.

  And he hadn't had one dream in all that time.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Robert cut through the old slough on the school grounds, walking over what was now caked and cracked earth. Several clumps of dried bulrushes pointed skyward, their sausage-shaped heads billowing with fluff. He searched for dinosaur tracks but found only rocks. He was in the wrong province, he told himself. Saskatchewan had nothing but rocks, Russian thistles, and sand. Uncle Alden had said there were loads of dinosaur bones in Alberta. He'd give anything to toss on a wide-brimmed hat, walk straight to Alberta, and dig. Maybe he'd find the jaw of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

  He aimed for the door of Horshoe's one-room school. Mrs. Juskin probably wouldn't ever talk about dinosaurs. She mostly taught numbers, reading, writing, and more numbers. The lessons in their readers never had anything to do with prehistoric times.

  He was late, so he carefully opened the door and peeped through the crack. Twenty-four boys and girls sat at their desks, facing the front. Mrs. Juskin was writing on the chalkboard. She didn't take disruption lightly. Robert liked that word—disruption—there was something unstable about it, as though it were about to explode. He sneaked to his seat, relieved that she hadn't noticed his tardiness.

  All the other seats were full, which surprised him. There wasn't a place left for Matthew. Perhaps they had moved his desk to the shed outside. Worse yet, Robert couldn't remember which row his brother had sat in.

  Someone had scribbled I will not pull ponytails a hundred times on the smaller chalkboard. Lines: it was a word that inspired fear in Robert's heart. Mrs. Juskin was a firm believer that writing the same sentence over and over again would correct a student's bad behavior. To him, it was a crazy waste of time to follow a sentence with the same sentence. That would never tell a story.

  The king of England glared down from a picture above the chalkboard, making sure the pupils paid attention to their lessons. Below him was Mrs. Juskin. She really could look like a spider waiting to strike. Her frozen, marble eyes scanned for infractions. If you were loud, or a smart aleck, she quickly snapped the yardstick across your head. Robert had been smacked once when he'd asked whether or not God ever slept. Since God had rested on the seventh day of creation, Robert reasoned that He would probably sleep. It had been a logical question; a good one, even. Instead, smack! on the back of his skull. "Impertinent child."

  The blow would have stung more if she hadn't said "impertinent." The word echoed inside his head. Now, whenever he heard it, he thought of the smacking ruler. He used to use the word whenever he thought Matthew was getting out of line.

  Matthew had never been smacked. He had always sat up straight. Mrs. Juskin had even entrusted him with telling her when her coffee was ready on the pot-bellied stove. Or when her bacon was done at lunch. He was a good pupil, and he'd made lots of friends, too. More than Robert ever had.

  He wondered if his dream about Matthew being raised by coyotes could work. It didn't seem that likely any more—why would a coyote raise a human kid? Matthew was probably dead, and would never come back. But they hadn't had a funeral; therefore, he might still be alive.

  Mrs. Juskin banged her pointer on the desk. Everyone looked up, expecting a reprimand. Instead, she seemed peaceful, as though her stomach were freshly filled with fat, juicy flies.

  "Today, we will study insects and their place in our world. To add insight to the lesson we have a special guest. He's right outside, ready to come in." She tiptoed to the door, opened it, and motioned, as though she were introducing a Hollywood star. Abram entered, smiling widely, two rectangular boxes in his hands.

  "It's Abram Harsich, everyone! He's an amateur entomologist, and he's taking time from building his wonderful rainmill to lecture us. We're marvelously lucky, so please welcome him graciously."

  She clapped lightly as Abram walked toward the front. His weight forced the hardwood floor to creak. Robert couldn't stop staring; the man attracted eyes like a magnet.

  Abram set the boxes down on the desk and said, "Good morning, children."

  No one answered. Robert set his teeth together, promising himself he wouldn't reply. The memory of his Uncle Edmund's warning drifted through his mind. Better to be silent, to watch Abram carefully.

  "Good morning," Abram repeated, his voice gentle. The words amplified inside Robert's head, became so loud he had an overpowering need to repeat them. Before he could help himself he'd answered, "Good morning, Mr. Harsich," along with his classmates.

  Abram grinned. "Mrs. Juskin has been kind enough to allow me to explain the order Lepidoptera."

  "We're gonna talk about leopards?" Mike Tuppence asked. Robert hadn't seen the younger boy since that day in the pool hall. He was still wearing the same oversized shirt and suspenders.

  "No, Lepidoptera is the name for a family of butterflies and moths. Just as dogs are called Canis familiaris."

  "Oh, okay," Mike said slowly. Robert could tell that he didn't really understand.

  "A lepidopterist catches, collects, and studies butterflies. They are the most remarkable of all Creation's creatures." He reached into one of the boxes, his back to the class. Robert moved from side to side but he couldn't see what Harsich was doing. The rest of the students craned their necks.

  Abram turned and held his right hand high. An orange Monarch butterfly sat on his gloved palm, fanning its wings. It was the largest Robert had ever seen, and its golden colors shimmered in the dullness of the room. Thirty in a jar would light the way through the gloomiest night. Robert remembered reading that it was called the Monarch because it was the king of butterflies.

  "A butterfly's color is in the scales of its wings." Abram's soothing voice drifted easily through the silent room. "In fact, the name Lepidoptera is from the Greek for 'scaly wings.'"

  Robert listened intently. Mrs. Juskin had once said that Greek, Viking, and Latin words were mixed together to make the English language.

  Abram brushed a finger across the tip of the Monarch's closed wings. Again, Robert wondered why he was wearing gloves. Perhaps he had soft hands that blistered easily.

  "If you rub off the scales, the wings become transparent as a fly's."

  Abram gently raised his hand, and the butterfly floated up and skimmed above the students' heads. He laughed, and Mrs. Juskin giggled sharply. It was obvious she wanted to impress Abram.

  "Butterflies live in every corner of the world," he went on to explain. Then he lifted the lid of the box again and two more butterflies joined their brother, one light green, the other red as fire. They fluttered in circles, playing near the ceiling. If they could laugh, Robert thought, they would be laughing now.

  "Colonial Americans were convinced the butterflies were beautiful witches who changed to this shape to steal butter. The Blackfoot believed that butterflies brought dreams to sleeping people. And the medieval Europeans thought they carried souls." Abram spread his fingers and the butterflies landed gently in his palms. He lowered them into the box.

  "An interesting trick, eh?" he
said. "Taught to me by a Goajiro of Columbia, a native shaman." He showed the class his empty hand. "I put nectar in the palm of my glove and they smelled it with their antennae."

  He removed the lid from the larger box now. A blue light glowed inside. He reached in, whispering and coaxing softly. Then he brought out a giant blue butterfly, holding it in both palms. Its wingspan was at least a foot. The wings opened and closed. Robert was sure he felt a slight breeze.

  "I have to be very careful with Queen Alexandra's Birdwing, that's Ornithoptera alexandrae if you're keeping track of proper names. This is Kachina. She is from a distant place, maybe even another world where she ruled over the butterfly kingdom for a thousand years. She once whispered her name to me in the deepest heart of a New Guinea rain forest. It will echo there forever."

  Kachina lifted her wings and slowly pushed herself into the air. The eyes of the students followed her smooth, graceful flight. Time seemed to slow down. She glided over the classroom, her wings wide, a trail of glittering blue dust drifting down from her onto all the children. She glowed so brightly that a picture of her burned in the back of Robert's mind. He thought he might never again see anything as beautiful. Tears welled in his eyes.

  Then Kachina, the queen, landed gently on Abram's palms and was lowered into her box. Each child sighed sadly.

  "Don't be too shy to ask me a question, any time. If you see me downtown, pull on my shirt and say, 'Hey, Mr. Harsich, why do butterflies have spots?' I'll answer, 'Because, they look like eyes and frighten birds.' Or maybe you'll ask why they don't make noise, and I'll say, 'Butterflies used to sing, but birds said it was unfair that they were beautiful and could sing, so the Creator silenced the butterflies.'"

  Abram grinned, looking from child to child. "That last one is a myth. A story. A legend told from man to child for generations. But there might be truth in it somewhere. Please, never hesitate to ask me anything."

  He packed up his boxes and strode toward the door. Mrs. Juskin jerked to life, clapping her hands. The students applauded. Robert joined in, unable to stop himself. Abram turned, bowed, and left.

  At recess, the pupils stood outside, staring north past the elevators, toward the rainmill, unmoving. The warm wind teased their hair. Robert joined them, breathing slowly. No one spoke about what they had seen, and he was glad. He just wanted to stand there, dreaming on his feet. When recess was over Mrs. Juskin marched them all back into the school and had them work on addition and subtraction.

  Later Robert rode home with the Vaganskis, their neighbors. The trip in the wagon was a blur, rocking him deeper into the trance. Susan Vaganski, who was three years younger, usually chattered all the way back—talking about her dogs, her kittens, or dresses in the Eaton's catalog—but today she remained silent, her eyes vacant. Once home, Robert mumbled "Thanks," to Mr. Vaganski and plodded into the house. He helped with the chores, then sat down at the table.

  "That mill ain't really big, yet," Robert's dad said. "But it's going to be quite a fancy tower. All sorts of gadgets going in there. That Harsich knows a thing or two and he'll get it done, that's for sure."

  "Is there enough food?" Robert's mother asked. The ladies in Horshoe took turns cooking for the men. "It's hard work, you need solid food."

  "The pies aren't as delicious as the ones you cook, dear," Robert's dad said, patting his wife's hand. "But the stuff they give us sticks to the ribs. And the lemonade is great." He sipped his coffee. "I tell you, those blood bricks are heavy. My back aches thinking about them."

  "I don't like the name," Robert's mom said.

  "The name fits. They're red as red can be and made of clay that Harsich found in the hills. He bakes them in a big old oven. They're solid as rock, fit tight together. We work like ants, carrying three times our weight."

  Robert had rarely heard his dad go on so long about one subject. He did want to argue with him, though: he was sure ants carried ten times their weight, but he felt too sluggish to open his mouth.

  "Apparently there are special gears being sent from eastern Europe," his dad continued. "That's what'll run the whole show. Though he might be able to do a test run without them."

  This all would have been very interesting to Robert, but a whirring, like the thrumming of distant machinery, drowned out his father's words. He reached for the salt, tipped it over. Robert looked up slowly, expecting a reprimand. His mother laughed, said something he didn't hear. He nodded, though, because it had seemed like a question. His parents continued talking to each other, their words now an indecipherable buzzing. Robert blinked several times, finding it hard to focus on the strips of bacon. It took ages to finish his meal.

  He went to bed shortly after supper. When he closed his eyes, Kachina, in all her bright blue glory, still hovered before him. She floated closer, as if he were a large flower she was about to perch upon, her wings wafting a comforting breeze across his cheeks. When he opened his eyes she vanished. He closed them and she returned. It was better to keep them closed, he decided finally.

  He drifted into sleep and she flitted through his dreams. She sang softly, wanting him to get up and walk outside. To follow her. There was a new world to show him. A place of beauty and warmth, where his every dream would come true. He stirred, nearly slid himself out of bed, knocking the book beneath his pillow onto the floor.

  He groggily opened his eyes. Kachina was gone. Too bad. She had seemed so real. He wrapped the blankets tight and slept. Kachina returned, continuing to call, but he was too tired to move. Her voice faded only when the morning light filtered through his window, burning his dreams away.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mrs. Juskin pulled on the string that dangled above the chalkboard, unrolling the world. Robert loved watching the map unfurl. It had been used in their schoolroom for years, but the colors of the different countries remained bright.

  Robert found the green of France, where his uncles Edmund and Alden had gone during the Great War and helped to capture Vimy Ridge. That was an important name. He could tell by the way people said it, seriously, with reverence. Italy was pink, where the Romans had marched their legions. Greece, light blue, where Thermopylae was located. If he could travel to these places by merely touching a spot on the map, it would be marvelous.

  Mrs. Juskin placed her pointer on the map and the class chanted, "England." Where the king comes from, Robert thought. "United States." Cowboys. "Germany." Where the Huns were. "Egypt." Land of the pyramids and sphinxes. "China." The country of emperors.

  There was a knock. Frustration wrinkling her brow, Mrs. Juskin stomped between the rows, brandishing her pointer as though she were about to fend off a dragon. The pupils watched as she opened the door.

  There, framed by the doorway, stood Sergeant Ramsden in his blue-gray uniform, hat in hand. Robert felt a sudden sense of relief: the sergeant was a hero, and he was here to help. Except his face looked tired and stony. Ramsden invited Mrs. Juskin to come into the cloakroom. He closed the door behind her.

  Total silence descended on the class. Two desks were empty today. It wasn't unusual for some of the older kids to stay home to help harvest, but these absentees were from the grades one and two row. Robert swallowed, tried hard to remember who had sat there, but failed.

  He pictured everyone's ears growing as large as a bat's, aimed at the door. The sergeant's voice was low and deep, followed by the sharp twang of Mrs. Juskin asking a question. Ramsden answered with one word and she moaned in response. Robert held his breath. There was a long, long silence. Then the sergeant gruffly commanded, loud enough for them to hear, "Pull yourself together, Mrs. Juskin. The kids need you to be strong."

  A decade passed. An eon. Finally the door creaked open and Sergeant Ramsden came in. Everyone faced the front, watching from the corners of their eyes. Mrs. Juskin trailed behind Ramsden like a leaf caught in an eddy of wind. Her face was red and puffy.

  They stopped at the front of the classroom. Sergeant Ramsden looked at Mrs. Juskin in expectation. She
slowly raised her head. "Class," she announced in a crackly voice, "this is—well, you all know Sergeant Ramsden. He has bad news and he wants your help. Please listen carefully."

  Sergeant Ramsden scanned the students' faces. His gaze rested momentarily on Robert. The sergeant's jaw muscles tightened.

  "I don't want to upset you," he began, "but two of your classmates have disappeared: Michael Tuppence and Susan Vaganski. They may just be skipping school, but we need to know for sure. They could be playing a trick, but this is a bad trick, because it gets the whole town upset. We're hoping one of you has seen them recently. If you know anything, please tell me now."

  This was greeted with silence. The sergeant cleared his throat.

  "When was the last time you saw Michael or Susan?"

  Rows of clay faces said nothing. Robert's eyes darted around. It was as if they'd been turned to stone by Medusa. He tried to speak himself, but his tongue wouldn't move. Finally he spat out, "I rode home with the Vaganskis yesterday. Susan was there."

  "That's right," the sergeant said. "She went home last night. Has anyone seen her since?"

  Margaret Haupt's hand shot up as though it had been yanked by a string. "I saw Mike catch a ride home with his dad after school yesterday. In their wagon."

  "Yes," Sergeant Ramsden said. "Good. We know he arrived home last night, too. His dad fed him supper and he went to bed early. Michael—Mike said he was very tired. Did he drop by anyone's house this morning? Was he out playing when you came to school this morning? Was Susan?"

  The students shook their heads, including Robert. He felt odd, as though a hand were squeezing his head from above and slowly turning it back and forth. His heart thumped hard inside his chest.

  The sergeant was silent. Brooding. "Do you know where these two liked to play? Did they have a favorite gully? A wood fort? Some old coyote den in the sandhills?"

  Again Margaret's hand shot up. "Mike had a fort in a gully. We all played 'Kill the Huns' there. I was a nurse. Bobby lost his leg—well, not really, but I bandaged him up."