Dust (17 page)

He held the light above his head. The room was circular and crammed with statues of children, an arctic mist curling at their feet. The butterflies darted from statue to statue, avoiding long, thin icicles that hung from the roof. There were at least twenty figures, all facing north, mouths open as though they were singing an anthem.

He examined one. It was too perfect to be a statue; too real. An unfamiliar boy, maybe six years old, was wrapped in a frosty sheet that blurred his features. His eyes were wide open, as though he'd just seen a remarkable sight. He was wearing loose, silky clothes from another country. He looked Arabian.

Beside him was a girl with pigtails, who could have been frozen on her way to a picnic. An icy film clung to her summer dress. Her eyes, too, were filled with wonder.

Robert crossed his arms, trying to keep warm. He gritted his teeth. These were kids. Just kids. They were supposed to be out playing, eating cookies, or going to school. Not frozen here.

Then there was a
crack!
One of the butterflies had flown directly into the forehead of a statue. The ice around it shattered and the figure wobbled for a moment, then collapsed.

Robert couldn't believe his eyes. He stood there agog, not sure what to do.

Then, as another butterfly landed on a girl's head, a second
crack!

Crack! Crack! Crack!
Robert sucked in a breath. Three more children, free of their icy encasements, fell over. One of these could be Matthew, he thought.

He rushed to a fallen form. It was a young girl. The ice was gone, and steam rose from her body. She lay curled up like a baby. Her eyes were closed tight. Robert touched her. "Wake up, it's time to go home," he whispered. The girl's skin was ice cold. He held the candle closer. It was Susan Vaganski, wearing the same clothes she'd had on when Robert had last seen her, on the way home from school.

She was breathing. Alive!

A flicker of green caught his attention. An emerald butterfly was resting on top of a small boy, sinking into the ice that coated him.

Crack.
The ice splintered around him, tinkling as it fell. It was Matthew! He stood still for a moment, gasped as though he'd been under water, then his knees gave out and he fell. Robert tried to catch him but was too late. He turned his brother over and pulled him onto his lap. Matthew's eyes were shut tight, but he was breathing, his face still sheathed in ice.

"Matthew, wake up, we can go home now." Robert touched his brother's cheek. "I didn't forget you. I never will. I mean it."

He lifted Matthew, finding him light as straw, carried him up the stairs, and gently laid him on the floor near Sergeant Ramsden. He paused to gently smooth his brother's hair, then returned to the cave.

Six more sleeping children were ready to come home. One by one, Robert took them in his arms and brought them upstairs, placing them next to his brother.

Robert caught his breath, then made a final trip down. The rest of the children were still statues. He walked from frozen boy to frozen girl, resisting the impulse to count. He didn't want to know the number lost.

He found Mike Tuppence rigid with frost. He was wearing his suspenders, ragged pants, and an old shirt, and he had no shoes on his feet. His eyes were two marbles. Robert touched his classmate's lifeless face. Mike had been a friend of Matthew's. Now he was dead. Robert backed away.

When he was sure no one else could be saved, Robert wearily climbed back up the steps. The children were still lying where he'd left them. He glanced at the table. The crystal ball was dim; with only the light from the hall to give it its glow, it reflected Robert back to himself. He wondered if he should break it. Or would that unleash something ugly? What if it called the traders back?

But he couldn't leave it. Maybe someone like Abram would discover it. Or worse, maybe Abram would find his way back through it. The thought made Robert shudder.

He lifted one of the larger metal pokers from the table. He had to strike before he lost his nerve. The ball might explode and kill him, but it had to be destroyed. He squeezed his eyes shut and swung.
Thud.
He'd missed. He squeezed again, swung.
Thud.
But he was sure he'd had it lined up—it was as though it had moved.

He swung a third time, eyes open.
Smash.
The ball broke, and shards of glass flew across the tabletop. There was no explosion, no sudden vacuum of blackness sucking him in. In fact, it sounded like little more than a bowl breaking.

"Whazzat?" the sergeant murmured, rolling onto his side and blinking. He looked up at Robert. "What was that?"

"I just broke something," Robert said. "That's all."

The sergeant got to his knees and gawked at the seven children. "Who are these kids?"

"The ones Abram stole. I found them in the cellar. " Robert pointed. "There's Matthew and Susan Vaganski. I don't know who the others are." He was surprised that he had to explain this to Ramsden. The sergeant should have known who these kids were and where they'd come from. It was his job. "There were more. But they're ... gone."

Ramsden stood, dazed. Then he shook his head and grimaced. Robert knew he was summoning up his will, becoming a man of action. It was part of his training. Ramsden walked over to one of the children. The girl lifted a hand toward him and he took it in his huge paws. "They're freezing."

"They were encased in ice."

The sergeant looked up, narrowed his eyes. "Where's Abram?"

"Gone. Dead, I think." He swallowed, wondered how he would ever explain the traders and butterfly-shaped souls. Ramsden was past the cusp. It would be better to make something up for now. "The tower fell down. Abram was inside it."

"I have to see that for myself, once these kids have been looked after," Ramsden said, lifting the girl into his arms. "They're so cold. I don't know how they can still be alive. We should—"

"Move them into the sun," Robert finished. He was already leaning over and picking up Matthew. "That's what they need."

He carried Matthew out into the open. He was still cold, but the hot sun would soon warm him to the bone.

He opened the passenger door of the RCMP car and laid his brother gently on the seat. Matthew twitched; his eyes opened. He stared up at Robert with frightened, unblinking eyes.

"I went walking," Matthew said, slowly. "I went walking and this man picked me up. We drove right by Horshoe."

"Don't worry," Robert whispered, "everything's all right now. Don't think about it any more." He squeezed his brother's hand. "Soon you'll be home, all tucked in your bed. Mom'll heat the water bottle up for you, take the chill off."

Ramsden joined them, cradling a red-haired girl who looked like a doll in his arms.

"They're in shock," Ramsden said, opening the back door.

"They've been asleep for a long time," Robert explained.

He and the sergeant carried all seven children out of the house. It was good to see them safe in the car, huddled tightly together. Ramsden stared at the wreckage of the rainmill, shaking his head as though he were trying to rid himself of a bad dream. He opened his mouth, then shut it.

"I've got to see what's in that cellar," he said, and he marched back into Abram's house.

Robert got into the front seat and pulled Matthew onto his lap. His brother was warming up. Robert used his shirtsleeve to dry droplets of water from Matthew's cheek. It was wonderful to see his face. He tried to memorize it, so he'd never forget again.

When Sergeant Ramsden returned he was pale. Getting in behind the wheel, he said, "It's terrible. It's the worst thing I've ever seen."

Robert nodded, knowing it was even worse than Ramsden realized—for those kids, their souls were gone, snuffed out like candles.

"We'd better get them all home," Ramsden said. "Then I have phone calls to make. Work to do."

Soon the road blurred by as the car bumped along. Robert held Matthew tight. Susan Vaganski sat beside him, her head on his shoulder. There was another girl next to her. The other four were in the back, scrunched together. Some slept. Others hid their eyes from the light. One boy was crying, murmuring in another language.

The sun had declared war on the green fields. Robert felt its angry heat through the windshield, bringing out the sweat, ridding him of the chill from the cellar. He put his hand up to the window to block the light, then lowered it. Better to let it shine.

They turned toward Horshoe, rolling down the access road, passing under the shadow of the grain elevators. The streets were empty. A breeze scattered several papers across the road. The town looked deserted to Robert, as though everyone was playing hide and seek and he was the seeker.

Ramsden turned the corner onto Main Street and Robert was surprised to see a crowd had gathered, maybe twenty people. Mr. Ruggles was in the middle of the street staring left and right. Ramsden steered around him and Ruggles gawked into the car. He looked confused. Other townspeople were gaping up at the sky, rubbing their heads. Mrs. Juskin was there, clutching her pointer as though she were about to teach a lesson. They passed the laundry, the Chinese were looking directly at Robert, no emotion on their faces. Then one nodded.

Ramsden pulled the car up in front of the hotel. He and Robert got out. People stepped back a bit from them. Some stared directly at Robert, others looked at the ground, sneaking sheepish glances up at him. They know, Robert thought. They're waking up from their dreams and they know that everything has changed.

He turned back to help Susan Vaganski. She stood, wobbly, then stumbled ahead. Her father caught her in a bear hug, her plump mother embraced them both. Mr. Vaganski stroked Susan's hair and whispered, "Thanks" in Robert's direction

Then a man moaned sadly beside them and fell to his knees. It was Mr. Tuppence, Mike's father. Mrs. Juskin comforted him, saying, "There, there." Robert swallowed. If only there had been a way to bring Michael Tuppence back.

Uncle Alden pushed through the crowd. He'd splashed water on his face, he looked wide eyed. He glanced in the car and when he saw Matthew, he leaned in and touched his cheek. Shaking his head, Alden looked down at Robert, and said, "Somehow, you did it. Didn't you?"

Robert nodded, feeling the weight of his uncle's hand on his shoulder.

"I...I," Uncle Alden stumbled, his words slow. "I'm proud of you."

Robert gave him a hug, then got back into the car with Ramsden and the rest of the kids. Robert waved to his Uncle as they putted down the street. Once on the main road Ramsden sped up.

How many times have I been down this road, Robert wondered and then he realized he was sounding like an old person. He was young. He shouldn't be counting things like that yet.

Sergeant Ramsden pulled up to Robert's house as the sun was touching the horizon, turning the windows red and bright. "Tomorrow," he said, slowly, as though every word was an effort, "we'll have a long talk."

"We will," Robert agreed.

Ramsden got out and opened the passenger door. Robert scooped up Matthew and carried him toward the house. Hearing Ramsden's footsteps behind him, he turned and said, "Thanks Sergeant, I can handle it from here." He was surprised at how deep his voice was.

The sergeant smiled, saluted Robert, and got in the car. Robert watched as he drove away.

Still clutching Matthew, he opened the door to his home. The strong scent of beef and boiled cabbage flooded the house. Maybe they were going to have cabbage rolls, Robert thought. It was exactly what he needed. His stomach felt as empty as a galleon.

His mother stood at the stove; his father sat at the table. They looked up at him as he walked in with Matthew. Both froze, staring and silent as though they were looking at an apparition. His father swallowed, his Adam's apple moving slowly under his skin. "You brought him home," he whispered. "I'd given up hope."

"I remembered him," Robert said simply.

His mother took an uncertain step. Her lips were parted; she was trying to speak but couldn't as tears slid down her cheeks. "I didn't... I didn'tÉ dear God," she whispered finally.

Robert said nothing. There were no words to describe what he felt. He lowered Matthew to the floor and helped him stand.

Matthew smiled, lifted a small, sure hand. His parents rushed to him, his mother hugging and kissing him, sobbing all the while, his father wrapping his arms around the whole family, drawing them together. His parents began to weep, the way people did in the Bible, big tears rolling down their cheeks.

Robert felt like he was holding them all up. He stood there for a long time, and at one point he was sure he heard his mother whisper, "I love you. I will always love you." And later she said, directly into Robert's ear, "Thank you for finding him; for bringing him home."

The sun shone strong the next day, burning away the moisture, drying up the grass. The ground hardened. A hot, sucking wind swooshed out of the sky, followed by a storm of locusts.

In his room, Robert looked out the window. The tumbleweeds were tumbling. The world was as it should be.

Dishes clinked downstairs. Put them upside down, Mom, he thought. Soon she'd be complaining about the gritty taste of dust in her coffee. Or the gravy. It wouldn't be there forever; the drought would end someday, Robert was sure of that.

Matthew was curled up in his bed, sleeping soundly, the blankets sculpted around him. Robert's mom and dad had been up to the room three times already to see if he was awake. Each time they had crept back down, whispering, "Let him sleep."

Robert was full of joy. Matthew was back. And yet, it wasn't perfect. He couldn't help but think of all those empty beds in other houses. Homes with one less child. All gone because of Abram.

I did what I could, he thought. There was consolation in that.

Last night, Uncle Alden had come by to be with them. He had given Robert a long hug and handed him a thick book called
History of the World.
It was as though he were bestowing a prize. Robert's parents had thanked Uncle Alden; then they had talked about the price of wheat, of beef, about the government, and taxes. Before going to bed, his father had silently shaken his hand, his way of saying thanks. Robert might never be able to explain to them what had happened; he could barely explain it to himself.