Dust (6 page)

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 townspeople 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.

Abram rose to the height of Robert's parents. "I hope you'll come to the show this afternoon."

"Show?" Robert's dad asked.

"Oh, sorry," Abram said, "I assumed everyone knew. Word spreads so quickly in these small towns. I'm putting on a show in the Royal Theatre."

"A talkie?" Robert's mom asked. Robert heard the mistrust in her voice.

"No, Mrs. Steelgate. Not a talkie. A show of wondrous proportions." His smile widened. "Even Reverend Gibbs agreed to partake, so I guarantee it's not sinful. Merely a simple revelation of life's beauties. Dare I say, it might even be educational."

She seemed to relax. Maybe they would go, Robert thought. Into the theatre, where the projector flashed pictures on the wall.

"What are you going to show us?" Robert's dad asked.

"A kaleidoscopic visual delight that I brought from the ancient tombs of Egypt." Abram bowed slightly. "Excuse me, I must prepare. It begins at two. There will be lemonade, tarts, and cookies for all. Mrs. Juskin and Mrs. Torence made the treats, kind hearts that they are."

He took a couple of steps and then turned back suddenly. His face was solemn. "I am sorry to hear about the disappearance of your son. I sincerely hope he is found soon. My prayers are with him. And with you."

Then he disappeared into the crowd.

The Royal Theatre was a majestic hall that had been built fifteen years before, but had aged by a century. Robert hadn't been inside since the doors had been hammered shut two years ago. He was surprised how fixed up the parlor was now. Abram had rehung the grand pine doors, swept off the steps, and re-attached the head on the stone lion out front. It had been decapitated ages ago by a drunk driver from Eastend who'd lost control of his Model T.

Robert's anticipation grew. Abram had said something about the tombs in Egypt. Would there be camels in the desert? Men with sabers flashing in the sun? Maybe there'd be mummies and pharaohs.

Robert and his parents joined the line of people shuffling toward the theatre. It was taking forever to get in. They were going to miss the beginning. Why was everyone walking so slowly?

Once inside, he was relieved to see that the show hadn't started yet. And it was as cool as a cave in the desert. He expected to hear water dripping from the walls and see stalactites and stalagmites jutting out like old, sharpened teeth. It was as though this were the first time in his life he'd ever been cool—a new, delicious sensation.

People filed between two Roman-style columns in the foyer, stopping to pick up treats from the war widows, who handed out their baking as though it were gold. He received a glass of lemonade, an oatmeal raisin cookie, and a pat on the head.

"It's nice of Mr. Harsich to do this," Robert's mom said. "And it's all free."

He was surprised at his mother's words. Not in a hundred million years had he expected her to set foot in the theatre, and yet here she stood, sipping lemonade. He decided it was best not to point that out to her, lest she change her mind.

"It's a good gesture." Robert's dad chomped down the last of his cookie and wiped the crumbs from his bottom lip. "People need a break, if only for an afternoon."

They followed the crowd into the theatre, passing two mummy tombs on the way. A skeleton hand reached out of one, frozen in mid-grab. He'd seen them before when he'd sneaked into the Royal Theatre with his Uncle Alden. They weren't real, but he longed to peek inside. Paintings of pharaohs with scarab amulets decorated the walls. "Old Man Spooky"—his real last name was Spokes—had built this place, then lost it to the bank after something called "the big stock market crash." He'd also lost his wife to consumption. Now all Spooky did was drink, and sleep on the bench outside the hotel.

Standing in the aisle, Robert couldn't see past his dad. He had a great view of people's backs, arms, and legs. He worried that he might be missing some action on the screen. The room was packed. Kids laughed and ate as many cookies as they could get their hands on. Most everyone was in their church clothes, lending an air of a special outing. This was wonderful fun, a party. They were make believing that the sun wasn't outside, that a drought wasn't waiting for them. This was a new world, a safe place.

Robert's father cut a path to three velvet parlor seats. Robert took the one closest to the wall and thought: Sit down everyone. You're all blocking my view! He wished he had a voice as loud as a trumpet and the gumption to use it.

They all continued chatting and laughing. A chandelier dangled high above, like an electrified web, pale lights flickering in the cool air. Robert glimpsed a flash of silver and gold at the front. He squirmed in his seat, trying different angles, but couldn't see anything else.

He sat back, shivering, partly from the excitement. He cocked his head, and this time he saw the projection screen. His eyes widened. It looked like a giant mirror. The townspeople's reflections were long or fat, like in a carnival fun house. Snakes in gold twisted and writhed along its edges. And dead center, at the top, was a large gold scarab, its eyes two emeralds. Robert had read that pharaohs wore such amulets as a symbol of immortality. So this mirror had to be from Egypt.

Colors shimmered in the mirror like rippling water. It's amazing! he thought, absolutely amazing! It looked as though he could walk right through the mirror into a rainbow world. When he gazed directly at the surface it appeared close enough to touch, but when he looked to the side, the mirror was where it was supposed to be—half a room away.

Several red clay jars were stacked below it. They seemed to have writing on their sides. They reminded him of the broken jar he'd touched in the sandhills. He squinted at them, then a flash drew his attention. Two glass batteries, half the size of apple boxes, were wired to the mirror. Tiny bolts of captured lightning sparked inside. There was just too much to look at.

The lights dimmed, then brightened. Abram appeared at the center of the stage, seemingly out of nowhere. A young woman shrieked, then covered her mouth and giggled. "Oh, sorry, I'm so sorry," she said. Men around her laughed, and Abram grinned. He waited until everyone took their seats, rubbing his gloved hands together. Soon there was only the squeaking of springs and scraping of feet.

Abram gestured dramatically toward the large mirror. "The Mirror of All Things. This bit of metal and glass is as ancient as our civilization, as old as the Ark of the Covenant. Maybe older. It will show you whatever you want to see."

"What's this about?" Robert asked. "I thought it was going to be an Egyptian show." Neither of his parents took their eyes off the mirror to answer.

Abram pointed, and the emeralds on the golden scarab glowed brightly. "Oh, Mirror of All Things, show us what we dream."