Read Online Dust by Arthur G. Slade - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Arthur G. Slade
Tags: Fiction, General, People & Places, Horror, Paranormal, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, supernatural, Canada, Depressions, Missing Children, Depressions - 1929, Saskatchewan, Saskatchewan - History - 20th Century, Canada - History - 20th Century, Droughts, Dust Bowl Era; 1931-1939
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It would be bad if Abram knew what had appeared in the mirror. It would make him feel like a traitor somehow. I can't tell him, Robert thought. I can't. I can't.
He swallowed. "Rain," he answered, spitting out the word as though he were dislodging a stone from his throat. "I saw rain in my father's fields. Falling really soft."
Abram stared for an eternity. Robert met his eyes, trying to look as honest as possible. Finally Abram nodded. His gloved hand rested on Robert's shoulder with the weight of a crow.
"You're a very curious young man, aren't you? And I say man because you're not really a boy any more. You're getting too tall, growing too old."
Robert didn't think he was old or tall.
"I feel sorry for you. One morning you will get up and your dreams will stay in your pillow." His hand tightened. "What if I told you that some individuals are born without a soul and have to wander for thousands and thousands of years searching for a way to fill that void? They become pharaohs, forcing slaves to build pyramids, or rise from peasant to emperor and command vast conquering armies, or compel tribes in the jungle to worship them. And still they feel empty. What if I told you that? Would you believe me?"
Robert looked into Abram's pale face, his all-knowing eyes. It had to be true. Those eyes had seen battles and wars and stars dying in the heavens. Robert believed. He felt it in the center of his heart, but he sensed he should never admit it. Better to hide that knowledge, the same way he had hidden his John Carter books.
"No," Robert said, trying to sound confident. "What you're saying isn't true. People don't live that long."
Abram smiled and released his grip. "You're right," he said, "you're right."
The crowd came to life, moving and talking again. A farmer looked startled to see Abram standing right in front of him. Abram smiled, extended his arm, and shook hands, calling the man by name.
Robert watched Abram work his way through the people, shaking more hands, patting shoulders, jesting. He even kissed one lady's proffered fingers.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The sun had baked the wheat golden brown, turning the stalks hollow and hard. The heads swayed in the wind, moving in waves. Even though Robert lived thousands of miles from the nearest ocean, he was sure the field looked like one. The patches of brown dirt could be islands.
The harvest would be soon; his dad had told him as much. In fact, his father had been telling him a lot these days, talking nonstop as they worked on the tractor.
"So I dove into the swimming hole," he babbled, "dog-paddled around, and jumped out crawling with leeches—clinging to my underarms, my chest, even my privates. My mother grabbed the cigarette out of the hired man's mouth and burnt them little monsters off, one by one. Yee-ouch!"
Robert shivered. He'd once had a creek leech on his elbow and it had inspired a week of nightmares. "Did you have any blood left?"
"I was pale as milk. Speaking of blood, that reminds me ..." And he launched into another tale, about a hockey game where the puck had banked off the rink boards, hit a wooden post, and smacked into a politician's forehead. His father laughed his guts out about that one.
Still chuckling, he undid a cap on the engine, and peered in. "Oh, for crying out loud!" he exclaimed. "The tractor needs more oil. We're gonna have to head to town. I was planning on going later anyway, might as well go now. You want to come along?"
"Sure. I'll tell mom."
His dad waved away the suggestion. "Let's surprise her. Bring back a licorice stick. She loves those."
Within a few minutes they were in the Roadster. Robert watched out the window as the land rolled by. He'd worked really hard over the last week, fetching tools, helping with the chores, and mending fences. They'd spent hours repairing the grain wagon, tightening every screw and plugging every hole so the wheat wouldn't drain out.
His parents had been in an extraordinarily good mood the
He swallowed. "Rain," he answered, spitting out the word as though he were dislodging a stone from his throat. "I saw rain in my father's fields. Falling really soft."
Abram stared for an eternity. Robert met his eyes, trying to look as honest as possible. Finally Abram nodded. His gloved hand rested on Robert's shoulder with the weight of a crow.
"You're a very curious young man, aren't you? And I say man because you're not really a boy any more. You're getting too tall, growing too old."
Robert didn't think he was old or tall.
"I feel sorry for you. One morning you will get up and your dreams will stay in your pillow." His hand tightened. "What if I told you that some individuals are born without a soul and have to wander for thousands and thousands of years searching for a way to fill that void? They become pharaohs, forcing slaves to build pyramids, or rise from peasant to emperor and command vast conquering armies, or compel tribes in the jungle to worship them. And still they feel empty. What if I told you that? Would you believe me?"
Robert looked into Abram's pale face, his all-knowing eyes. It had to be true. Those eyes had seen battles and wars and stars dying in the heavens. Robert believed. He felt it in the center of his heart, but he sensed he should never admit it. Better to hide that knowledge, the same way he had hidden his John Carter books.
"No," Robert said, trying to sound confident. "What you're saying isn't true. People don't live that long."
Abram smiled and released his grip. "You're right," he said, "you're right."
The crowd came to life, moving and talking again. A farmer looked startled to see Abram standing right in front of him. Abram smiled, extended his arm, and shook hands, calling the man by name.
Robert watched Abram work his way through the people, shaking more hands, patting shoulders, jesting. He even kissed one lady's proffered fingers.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The sun had baked the wheat golden brown, turning the stalks hollow and hard. The heads swayed in the wind, moving in waves. Even though Robert lived thousands of miles from the nearest ocean, he was sure the field looked like one. The patches of brown dirt could be islands.
The harvest would be soon; his dad had told him as much. In fact, his father had been telling him a lot these days, talking nonstop as they worked on the tractor.
"So I dove into the swimming hole," he babbled, "dog-paddled around, and jumped out crawling with leeches—clinging to my underarms, my chest, even my privates. My mother grabbed the cigarette out of the hired man's mouth and burnt them little monsters off, one by one. Yee-ouch!"
Robert shivered. He'd once had a creek leech on his elbow and it had inspired a week of nightmares. "Did you have any blood left?"
"I was pale as milk. Speaking of blood, that reminds me ..." And he launched into another tale, about a hockey game where the puck had banked off the rink boards, hit a wooden post, and smacked into a politician's forehead. His father laughed his guts out about that one.
Still chuckling, he undid a cap on the engine, and peered in. "Oh, for crying out loud!" he exclaimed. "The tractor needs more oil. We're gonna have to head to town. I was planning on going later anyway, might as well go now. You want to come along?"
"Sure. I'll tell mom."
His dad waved away the suggestion. "Let's surprise her. Bring back a licorice stick. She loves those."
Within a few minutes they were in the Roadster. Robert watched out the window as the land rolled by. He'd worked really hard over the last week, fetching tools, helping with the chores, and mending fences. They'd spent hours repairing the grain wagon, tightening every screw and plugging every hole so the wheat wouldn't drain out.
His parents had been in an extraordinarily good mood the
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