Dust (12 page)

Robert swallowed a chewed-up piece of chicken. His dad had already spoken about this once before. "Ants carry
ten
times their weight," Robert pointed out.

"Oh, sorry, son. It feels like
ten
times our weight."

"When will they try the rainmill out?" his mom asked. She was at the counter whipping cream. It seemed she never sat through a whole meal; she went from task to task, hovering briefly over her food to peck at it, like a bird.

"Maybe Sunday. Abram says he wants to do a test run, before it gets cold."

Robert was hypnotized by the circular motion of his mother's arm. Round and round the bowl, waiting for the cream to thicken, stopping only to add more sugar. The last rays of the setting sun shone through the window, painting the counter red.

"Two kids disappeared today," Robert said, quietly.

His mom kept whipping. His father chewed thoughtfully.

Robert felt his lips. They were numb. Had his parents not heard? He sliced into the soft white flesh of a dumpling with his fork, like cutting into a cloud. He placed it in his mouth and chewed. It was perfectly salted. He added more salt to see if he could make it taste bad. He tried it—as good as the bite before. He moved the dumplings to the side of his plate.

"Two kids vanished today." He raised his voice this time. "A boy and a girl from school."

"What?" Robert's dad blinked, and he looked surprised, as though Robert had just now suddenly appeared in his seat. "What did you say?"

"Sergeant Ramsden came to school. He told us Mike Tuppence and Susan Vaganski are missing."

"They're probably out wandering around somewhere," Robert's mom said. "Mr. Tuppence doesn't keep a good eye on his boy, and the Vaganskis have six kids. But don't worry. Little boys and girls wander all the time. No harm ever happens. They go away, then come back. They always come back."

His mom went back to whipping the cream. His father cut up his last piece of chicken.

Robert thought for a moment. "Maybe they're gone forever. Like Matthew."

"Matthew's not gone," she said, casually tasting the whipped cream, "he's ... out for awhile. He'll be back."

"Your mother's right." Robert's dad spoke slowly, as though he were talking to a three-year-old. "Your brother is visiting someone. Your grandma in Moose Jaw. That's who he's staying with. She'll bring him back in the spring."

Robert blinked back tears. "He's dead, like a baby sparrow fallen out of the nest."

"He's not dead," his mom whispered. She brought him a plate of chocolate cake and whipped cream. A thin smile curled across her lips. "Don't mention it again, dear. Just eat up and don't mention it again."

Robert stood at the edge of Abram Harsich's farmyard, and the sun behind him in the west stretched his shadow to twelve times his height. He moved his shadow hand and grabbed his dad's elbow fifty feet away, then squeezed Mrs. Samuelson's meaty leg. He tapped Mr. Ruggles on the shoulder. Hello, shopkeeper, how're the vegetables today?

A crowd had been invited by Abram to celebrate the first test of the rainmill. It was Sunday, and most everyone from town and the surrounding farms was there, dressed in their finest clothes, bearing baskets full of bread, vegetables, jams, meats, cheese, and pies. Robert had eaten so much his stomach bulged out. He wondered if it wouldn't explode, his intestines unraveling like ropes.

The rainmill loomed above them like a watchtower. He guessed that it was at least sixty feet high. The first thirty feet or so was a cylinder of red clay bricks. Then twenty feet of metal girding sat on top of that, framing a series of pulleys and gears. Four gunmetal-gray vanes creaked in the breeze, waiting to be released. At the highest point were several lightning rods, twisted like snakes.

Mr. Samuelson, clad in his tuxedo, stood on a platform decorated by red banners. He leaned on the podium. A cigar was lodged between his fingers and he waved it as he barked loudly about interest rates on loans and investments in a series of rainmills. Boring, dull, loud words. Robert yawned and stretched his shadow hand out, trying to flick the cigar from Samuelson's grasp.

Some of the women clutched umbrellas, as though expecting to beat a thief away. Robert had seen umbrellas only twice: in the Eaton's catalogue, and when it had rained on a Sunday three years ago and several ladies had brought them to church. His mother wanted one, but there had never been enough rain to justify the purchase.

He could yank the umbrellas out of their arms with his shadow hands. Or pinch the rears of the old widows. He reached up, pinched Mrs. Torence's wide buttocks, and chuckled. Take that! He pinched again, felt guilty for a moment, then gave Mrs. Juskin's buttocks a twisting squeeze. Ha! Fat bums, pinching their fat bums! He guffawed. Mrs. Juskin glanced back, and Robert quickly dropped his arms and examined an imaginary bird in the sky.

People wandered around. Samuelson had finished his speech, but nothing followed. Robert wondered if there was something wrong with the rainmill. Several of the men were tightening bolts and testing pulleys. All the other boys and girls stood next to their parents.

Robert gallivanted away, his shadow dancing behind him. In the cool shade cast by the Harsich house, he found himself drawn to the windows. He knew it was wrong to peek inside, but he couldn't help it. Maybe Kachina would be there, circling around the house like a pet bird. He pressed his nose against the glass. Light flooded in from the opposite window revealing a small square table and three heavy wooden chairs. No pictures or calendars hung on the wall. The only objects he saw were a washbasin, a gray mug, and a vase on the counter.

Robert glanced back at the crowd. His mom and dad were talking to Mrs. Samuelson. He sneaked along the side to a small, round window that reminded him of a ship's porthole. He stood on his tippy-toes, stretching his frame as far as he could, digging his fingers into the sill. Up, up, peeking in.

A flash of pink. Of yellow. And green.

Butterflies! Several of them glided around the room. Vines wove up and down the wall, flowers in full bloom across every inch. Droplets of moisture dotted the window. The sight made his eyes shoot back and forth trying to take it all in. His spine ached as he stretched higher and higher. The butterflies should have gone south, yet here they were.

Fecund.
It meant green and growing; his uncle had used the word once. It was a word adults and teachers might know, but he had kept it in his head. How had Abram gotten the green of Eden inside this room?

Then, like a descending blue angel, Kachina appeared, her majestic wings moving slowly as she floated down to the windowsill, just inches away. Her eyes were ebony ovals, and one of her six legs was held up, like a salute. The very picture of her would be tattooed forever on the inside of his eyelids.

"She really is a beautiful creature," a familiar voice said.

Robert shuddered and let go of the sill. Turning, he lost his balance and leaned against the house.

"I'm sorry, I ... I ..."

"It's all right." Abram was smiling. In the shade he looked twice as pale. "Even an old lepidopterist like me still watches Kachina with wonder. She's worth standing on your tiptoes for." He put a gloved hand to his chin, as though he was thinking hard. "You intrigue me, Robert."

Robert looked up at Abram's thin features: the nose straight as a metal rod; the eyes that glowed slightly red. They were focused on Robert now, a penetrating gaze. "You love the butterfly queen, don't you?" Robert nodded. "Have you ever dreamed about her?"

He wanted to lie, but instead whispered, "Yes." It felt good to tell the truth, to share this secret. Yes, he had dreamed about her. Yes, he loved Kachina! He thought about her every day.

"You are on the cusp," Abram explained, "between boy and man, the dreaming and the reality. You must have had a million great dreams in your lifetime. Of armies and swords, candies and milkwhips, wizards and unicorns. The cusp." His lips curled into a soft, sad, smile. "I have never had a dream. Not once." He leaned against the wall. "Do you know what dust is, boy?"

"Dry dirt," Robert said.

Abram laughed softly. "Yes, that's true. It's soil without enough moisture to bind it together." He scooped a handful of dirt from a bank that had formed beside his house. Abram let it fall between his gloved finger's. "'I'll give you as many years of your life as there are grains of sand in my hand.' A Greek god once said that in a myth. I heard the myth when it was first spoken around a fire near Athens. But I have had many more years than a fistful of sand. Many more. All because of dust."

Robert was nervous. He sensed that he was about to be pinned against the wall, an eleven-year-old human trophy to be displayed along with Abram's butterflies. Abram leaned toward him, and Robert cowered.

"Have you ever caught a moth and gently rubbed its wings? You get dust on your hands. The dust is the magic that gives it flight." Abram began peeling his right glove off. Robert was hypnotized, watching to see what lay underneath. "Not all dust is inanimate, you know. Some say there is a special living dust around us in the shape of wings. Our souls, perhaps. In every color imaginable. Children have vast quantities of this dust, but gathering it is a very tricky process."

The glove was off, revealing mottled skin. Abram reached toward Robert with his naked hand. His fingers were mummified, slender as twigs. Robert couldn't budge; his boots were glued to the ground. He desperately wanted to shout or crouch down, but he'd become a statue. He focused on Abram's ancient, rotted fingers, the nails cracked.

"This dust, this commodity, is valuable," Abram whispered as he touched Robert's forehead with cold, rough fingertips. Robert's skull grew numb. "It's worth more than rubies and emeralds. If you harvest and refine it, you can make yourself immortal. Or use it to mesmerize minds. Get men and women to forget their cares." Robert felt as if the fingers were going deeper into his head, grasping an essential part of him, tugging at it. No, he thought. You can't have me.

Abram yanked away his hand as though it had been burned. His smile didn't falter. Robert blinked, pulled back.

"You
are
wily," Abram said. "No matter. Others weren't. They have become ... merchandise. And to find the right, how shall I put it—traders?—for such goods you have to search far, send messages out to the stars." He pointed skyward with his bone-like fingers. "These traders, they—well even your mind couldn't imagine them. They exist in another place—a place that's cold and empty. It's right next to us. Around us." His eyes flashed red. "Simple to find it, really, if you've trained for centuries." He traced a S shape in the air, then cupped his hands together and blew softly between his thumbs. "See? Look on my works, ye Mighty." He chuckled as he uncupped his hands. He was holding an insect. "With the flick of a wrist I have brought you a locust." Robert stared. The creature was large, nearly the length of Abram's finger, its round eyes dark as pools of cave water. Its antennae whipped back and forth as though searching for food, its mandibles opening and closing. "If I released him there would suddenly be a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand locusts devouring the crops. Just a twitch of my fingers and your parents would starve; this land would die forever. " The locust tested its wings:
chir-chir-chir .
"This creature is from that other place and it has an endless hunger." He caressed the locust and it lifted its back legs, scratching itself against his finger. Without a pause, Abram closed his fist and squished it. A yellowish-white substance leaked between his fingers and dripped to the ground. Then he slowly slipped on his glove. "I'm just a locust to these traders. They have the real power. But they will come bearing gifts of splendor. Maybe even rain. They want the living dust in its purest form and they will trade anything for it—even a soul of your own, cut to perfect size. Can you imagine that, Robert? I've done everything a man could wish to do, but I've never closed my eyes and dreamed. Or felt love. You need a soul for that." He paused, whetted his lips with his ivory tongue. "Your brother understood."

Robert narrowed his eyes. "So
you
took Matthew! Where is he? Did you hurt him? Did ... did you take his dust?"

This time Abram's smile showed white, perfect teeth. "I've never hurt anyone. And Matthew is still here." He gestured around him. "We're all still here today."

Robert tightened his fists. He wanted to point at Abram. To shout. But his lips wouldn't move. All he could do was shake with anger.

"I've spoken too much," Abram said. "Upset you. I am an old, old man. You'll forget in a few months that we've exchanged pleasantries. Hair will sprout on your body. Muscles will grow stronger. Your thoughts will become ... more adult. But it's been good, for now, to talk to someone who believes me." He dismissed Robert with a wave of his hand. "Run along and join your parents. The show is about to begin."

Robert didn't run. He walked, slowly, toward the podium. He was dying to glance at Abram; he could feel him staring at the back of his skull, laughing. He willed himself to look straight ahead, but after a few more yards he turned. Abram was gone.

Robert gawked at the stage just as Abram strode to the podium, sleeves rolled to his elbows as though he were about to pitch hay. How had he gotten there so quickly? He waited for the crowd to settle down.

"It's here," he said, and his words were perfectly clear to Robert. "We have built it." Abram pointed at the rainmill. "It's not perfect, yet. There are special gears and locumocuters and other technical items I've ordered from Europe that may not arrive for months. But it will work well enough for now."

He raised one hand, palm up. "I was going to give a long, boring speech today, but actions speak louder than words."

He nodded to Samuelson, who motioned to someone else standing inside the rainmill. A sound like timber snapping in two was followed by the humming of a hundred thousand bumble-bees. Light flashed inside the mill. Two glass batteries, which sat in a cubbyhole halfway up the tower, crackled with electricity. The giant vanes on the windmill turned, and the crowd gasped.