Dust (11 page)

"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.

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."

"Good. Good. Maybe we can check it out."

"It's near our farm. A fort made of branches and broken boards. It's easy to see 'cause there's a flag. Well, red underpants." She giggled.

"Anything else?" Sergeant Ramsden asked.

Robert wanted to mention the butterflies, but there was a will—a force—holding him back. He fought against it and said, "Maybe they followed the butterfly's singing."

"What do you mean?"

"I dreamed about a butterfly," he explained. He struggled to find words that would make the sergeant understand that this wasn't just
any
butterfly. "Sh-she wanted me to fly with her."

"I did too," Margaret said, then clamped her mouth shut.

"And me," a third boy admitted. "The queen of butterflies."

Ramsden crossed his arms. "Butterflies? I don't understand."

Mrs. Juskin, who was leaning against her desk, said, "Abram Harsich showed butterflies to the students yesterday as part of our science class. They were amazingly beautiful. Obviously the children were affected by it."

"I see." Ramsden nodded. His brow was still furrowed. He cleared his throat. "Well, if anyone hears or sees anything of these two kids, you tell me, okay?"

He thanked Mrs. Juskin and left, his heavy boots clunking on the hardwood. The students watched him go. Mrs. Juskin plopped herself into her seat and sighed sadly. She hid her face in her hands, seemed to be weeping.

"Just open your readers to any page and start reading." Her voice cracked. "We'll begin your lessons later. Right now I need a little break."

Robert pushed a dumpling through the gravy on his plate, pretending the white lump was a Dreadnought cutting through the ocean.

"Don't play with your food," his mother said.

He lowered his fork to the plate, dropped his hands to his sides.

The front door swung open and his father strode in, arms reddened with clay, plaid shirt partly unbuttoned and stained with sweat.

"You're dirty as sin," his mom said, getting up to peck his cheek. Robert cringed. They never used to kiss so much in front of him.

"I'll wash up," his dad chirped. "Cleanliness is next to godliness." He winked at Robert, went to the back room, and within a few minutes was seated at the head of the table. Clean and godly.

"Chicken!" he said. "I told the boys we'd be having chicken."

Robert's mother took her seat and his dad quickly said grace. The words made Robert drool in anticipation. He cut into his chicken, finding the meat moist. He stabbed a piece, brought it to his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. This was expensive chicken from the butcher's. His mom had bought it a few days before. The price didn't seem to bother his parents. They were so sure they'd be making lots of money by next fall.

Chickens. Ham. Money. Rain. It all sounded so beautiful to Robert. Like ... like Eden. He had heard at school that a family from Maple Creek was so poor they had to eat their pet pony. And here he was chomping on chicken. Nearly every night.

His mom had given him two spoonfuls of peas, so he speared a few. They were green and perfectly round. Tiny planets exploding with taste. He tried a steamed carrot. It dripped with butter. Nothing was burnt or bad tasting. He could paint a picture of this meal and it would hang in a gallery forever: the best dinner ever made.

"Abram's pleased with everything!" Robert's dad blurted, and two peas shot out of his mouth, tumbled across the table. He looked sheepishly at his wife, who grinned. They both giggled. "Sorry about that cannon shot. Just having too much fun." He wiped his lips. "Did I tell you, son, how hard we work there? It's like we're a bunch of ants carrying three times our weight."