Dust (16 page)

He counted thirty steps, then opened his eyes again. He was under the shadow of the tower now and able to run. He dashed the last few feet then stopped at the door on the far side and pulled. It was stuck. He looked behind him toward the barn and yanked again. The door flew open and he threw himself into the room at the heart of the rainmill, pulled the door shut and banged the latch down.

He couldn't let Matthew go to that cold place hinted of in the crystal ball, to be enslaved by the owners of those terrible voices.

The rainmill's interior buzzed and hummed with the warmth of a beehive. Gears spun above him; pulleys moved up and down; electrodes ran here and there. At the center was the Mirror of All Things, laid flat. A pyramid of jars had been piled below it. A glowing light appeared along its surface.

Above it were the butterflies—eleven lights, each half the size of Kachina, gliding, ascending higher and higher. Blue. Violet. Red. Orange. Robert was drawn to them, his fear momentarily forgotten.

They were beautiful, their bodies glowing and transparent. Not real butterflies, he realized, but layers of sparkling dust that formed the same shape. They were trapped in a translucent bubble of energy.

He heard a sudden bang on the side of the rainmill. And another. He guessed Abram was taking a replacement battery up the ladder. The
ting ting
of a small metal hammer rang out. Thunder growled and roared through the sky as Abram worked. Maybe lightning will hit him, Robert thought. Judging by the sound, Abram had to be at least three-quarters of the way up the tower. A big bolt of lightning would knock him right off.

There were several flashes, but no death cry or sound of a thudding body. Instead, the humming inside the windmill doubled. Robert peeked out the tiny window in the door. The sun had vanished. Clouds surrounded the rainmill. Abram now stood in the open, hands on his hips, looking straight into the storm.

A section of the cloud unfolded and twirled down to the ground. Abram didn't budge as it drew near to him. Shapes shifted inside the whirling fog, grew larger and more solid. Long, gaunt faces appeared and disappeared, glaring out with strange, golden eyes and protruding, butterfly-like faces. The hairs on the back of Robert's neck rose. The traders were here.

A glowing butterfly appeared in the air. It zigged and zagged but was drawn towards the traders as though they were reeling in a kite. The butterfly fought to escape but was soon scooped up by an ebony hand, to disappear forever, into the cloud. Robert's heart thudded. A soul had been harvested before his very eyes. The dealing had begun.

He looked back at the mirror. Now there were ten glowing lights hovering there. One shot up a glass tube that ran into the heights of the rainmill. Robert dashed over. If he could just get the butterflies out of the energy bubble.

The jars! That's what powered the mirror, just as they had the night at the theatre. He grabbed at the top jar, then yanked his hand away. His skin was burnt, and a blister was already forming.

Only nine butterflies left.

A high-pitched metallic scream filled the room. The butterflies twirled faster. They darted back and forth as though panicking.

Robert found a loose brick, grabbed it tightly, and smashed a jar. Crimson light flashed, and the contents, a red glimmering dust, scattered across the floor.

He smashed a second jar and was rewarded with another flash, this time blue. Then he hit a third and a fourth, swinging crazily. He would never see his brother again. Tears ran down his face. He thought he heard Mike Tuppence's sad voice, screaming
Robert ... Robert ... Robert.
Then there were only eight lights. He was too slow!

He struck again and again, swinging with all his might, sweat on his brow. The room filled with the voices of children. Words flooded through his head.
Splendor. Glory. Strike now. Strike hard. Onward. Thermopylae. Vimy.
The dust spilled out of the jars; the glowing in the mirror grew dim. All the jars were broken.

And still the butterflies were trapped inside the energy bubble. An emerald butterfly flew to the edge. Quite suddenly Robert felt a presence. A familiar, solemn presence.

"Matthew." he said, breathless. "Matthew, come home." He struck the Mirror of All Things—sparks flew from the glass. It was like hitting solid ice. He swung a second time. A crack formed, and blue light poured out. Robert swung again, and the mirror shattered into a thousand reflecting shards that sliced the air. A scream pierced the room, as if the mirror had been a living thing. The butterflies scattered.

"Get out of here," he yelled. "Fly away."

They fluttered against the walls, searching desperately for escape. Then one found a small window and slipped out. The rest followed.

Robert dropped the brick, his hands burning. With the butterflies gone, the mill had grown dark. Only the occasional explosion of sparking electricity in the walls above him lit his way. He stumbled toward the door.

It swung open. Abram stood there, the clouds swirling behind him. His hair was plastered against his forehead, he'd lost his dark glasses, and his red, red eyes glowed with anger.

"No!" he yelled, hoarsely. "You little fool."

Robert backed up to the pile of broken jars. Gears began to grind, as if the oil had dried up; the pulleys shrieked like banshees.

"You've destroyed years of work!"

Abram crossed the floor in a heartbeat, his right arm out, his hand jabbing into Robert's throat, squeezing like a claw. Robert tried to squirm free, but Abram's fingers dug deep into his windpipe, choking him.

He was going to die. He had rescued his brother, and no one would know about it. He would be nothing but a dead boy, buried in the sandhills.

Abram's face was a skull, hard and unforgiving. This was a man, Robert knew, who had led legions of Roman soldiers into Gaul. Had stood on the walls of Troy and taunted the Greeks. A general. A king. A hundred men had died at his hand. A thousand, maybe more. He had outlived them all.

And Robert, tiny Robert, had dared to stand up to him. Foolhardy, Robert thought, impertinent fool. There was no air left in his lungs. He saw nothing but gray.

Then the sooty clouds, which were drifting nearer, stole into the rainmill. A sulfuric, rancid stench followed. A black, impossibly long arm reached out of the clouds and grasped Abram's shoulder, making it disappear, as if erased.

You called us. You must pay us.

Abram turned his head, went rigid. "No," he spat. Another shadow hand grabbed him.

A price. A price.

You must meet the price.

Abram screamed and was yanked backwards, letting Robert slip from his clutches.

Robert fell to the floor, scraping his cheek so hard that blood trickled down his face. He tried sucking in air but failed. His windpipe felt crushed. His vision swam with images. He managed to gulp a breath, then another, until his lungs were full. He squinted.

Abram was a few feet away, twisting around as though he were wrapped in a black shroud. He let out a gurgling, muffled yell and charged straight at Robert, every ounce of his will focused on escape. He nearly broke free, but willowy appendages, seemingly made of nothing more than smoke, clutched him tight and pulled him back.

The sulfur was so strong now that Robert's eyes burned. But he couldn't look away. Parts of Abram were disappearing into the murk. A leg. An ear. A hand. His gurgling was cut off as his torso vanished. His eyes still blazed red, his brow furrowed, fighting to the last, glaring at Robert.

Robert didn't budge. He narrowed his eyes, finding the strength to glare back. A moment passed. Abram blinked, looked confused; then, with a soft wispy rustle, the clouds enveloped him.

Robert pushed himself to his feet. Where Abram had stood there were only tendrils of thick fog. The shapes retracted into the leech-colored clouds and retreated out the door.

Robert stood, but his legs were so weak he was barely able to keep his feet. Abram was gone. Defeated. Taken to some other place, or destroyed. The traders had extracted their price.

Victory! Now he knew what soldiers felt at the end of a battle. The thought that he had won was beyond all imagining. It gave him strength. So there! he wanted to yell. Take that!

The rainmill's vanes ground to a halt. A moment of silence followed and Robert listened, his heart beating hard in his chest, his blood in his ears. He'd stopped the mill! He'd done it.

A deep grumble sounded from the top of the mill. Robert squinted up into the darkness. Sparks of light were shooting out of the heights, arcing down towards him like falling stars, burning out before they hit the ground. He could make a wish on each one. A thousand wishes. Another barrage of sparks cascaded down. It looked beautiful. Like fireworks. His pupils dilated when a bright hissing flash lit the whole inside of the mill from top to bottom. He'd caused this. Made it happen.

The rumbling returned. Then the bricks rattled and the ground began to shake. Metal bars groaned, and a brick
thunked
down next to him, making him jump.

He ran for the door, thinking how stupid he'd been to have stood there staring into space, gloating. It seemed so far away and everything was shaking now. A thin bar struck his shoulder hard, and he staggered, nearly falling. A beam crashed across his path. He leapt over it but caught his foot and fell, scraping his hand. He scrambled upwards, half crawling, half running out the door, not stopping until he was a hundred yards away.

He turned to see the mill shudder, as if it were trying to take a step. It wobbled back and forth, the top leaning to one side. A glass battery exploded with a popping sound. Then the tower imploded, bricks bursting apart as they hit the ground. Within seconds, the mill was a heap of broken bits and protruding steel joists. Only the occasional spark appeared.

The clouds were distant now, withdrawing into a hole in the sky. The traders were leaving, back to whatever realm they had come from.

Seven glowing butterflies winged through the air, circling Robert.

He was dazzled.

They alighted in Robert's hair, landed on his shoulders, drawn to him as though he were a magnet. Tinkling voices echoed, so softly he couldn't make out the words. He could only sense feelings of warmth. Relief. Thankfulness.

"You're safe," he said, not sure if he believed it himself. "You're safe."

He held out his hand and the emerald creature perched in his palm, wings folding and unfolding.

Thank you, Robert,
he heard Matthew say,
for helping us.

Robert's lip trembled, his eyes watered, but now was not the time for tears. The butterflies were so fragile, that a strong gust of wind might tear them apart. He had to get them all away from here so nothing bad could ever happen to them again.

"Follow me," he said, lowering his hand and allowing Matthew to take to the air.

Robert jogged back to Abram's house, the butterflies trailing behind him like ribbons on a kite. The dark clouds were gone, and the sun was shining brightly again. It felt as if a whole week had passed in the last few hours. He opened the door and scrunched up his nose. The smell of rot was worse than before. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he made his way cautiously to the back room.

The butterflies grew agitated. They flew to the far corner and swooped down at the floor and into the air, moving like a tiny Ferris wheel.

"What's wrong?" he asked. It was too dark for him to see the other side of the room. The only light, coming from the slight glow of the butterflies, revealed a hint of floorboards. And something else—a glinting handle.

He grabbed the candle from the table but couldn't find matches. He squinted around the room.

Sergeant Ramsden was still lying in the same position. Robert knelt beside him. The Mountie's chest rose and fell, his face was slack with sleep. Robert squeezed his arm, lifted an eyelid, but got no response. He wondered what would happen if none of the adults woke up. The thought chilled him.

A Mountie would have matches: they were prepared for every emergency. He patted Ramsden's front pockets. Empty. He briefly touched the holster, the grip of the .455. Beside it was a small leather pouch. Robert flipped it open, dug inside, and pulled out a pair of tweezers, a small jackknife, and, at the bottom, a metal tube. He opened it and discovered three wooden matches.

He quickly struck one against the rough side of the tube. A flame sparked to life. He lit the candle and strode to the far side of the room.

There, outlined in the floor, was a trapdoor.

Robert set the candle down. The glowing butterflies were zooming so fast that they had become nothing more than colored streaks. He grabbed the metal ring and heaved. It was like hefting a stone from an Egyptian tomb. He strained every muscle, relying on his legs to lift the weight.

The door rose an inch. Two inches. The flickering light revealed that the door had been cut from a slab of stone, with wooden floorboards fastened to the top.

Robert was afraid that he'd never have enough strength. But if he let go now, he wouldn't be able to lift it again. He pulled harder, thinking of all the work he'd done that summer and how it must have made him stronger. A grating sound echoed in the room. He'd managed to open it another few inches.

Not enough. Then, with a flash of emerald and crimson light, the butterflies surrounded him, filling him with a sense of his own power. For a moment he felt he could do anything. With a final effort he yanked away, grunting aloud. The door swung over and slammed into the floor.

The butterflies dove into the black hole, winging down into darkness. A chill escaped the room below. Abram had carved this cave under the prairie—just standing on the edge of it made Robert nervous. Maybe it was Abram's final trap.

Robert picked up the candle and carefully descended a set of stone steps. His flesh shook; his teeth chattered. The coldest winds of winter lived here.