Dust Girl: The American Fairy Trilogy Book 1 (10 page)

“You got your story. You tell it to me, and I can write it up and sell it to the magazines.” The way Jack said it, I was sure that was what he had been thinking of all along.

“Who’d believe any of this?”

“Not like news, dopey. I’d do it up like a story. You ever read
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
?”

As if there was a girl alive in Kansas who hadn’t read that book.

“Oz made L. Frank Baum rich.” Jack’s face lit up like it had when he talked about getting a newspaper job in Los Angeles. “You can make a fortune with just one book, especially if Hollywood decides they want to make a movie out of it. What do you say?”

I hated the idea. But what could I say? Without Jack Holland I’d have been a Hopper supper already. “Okay, but you gotta get me to California first.”

“Deal!” He stuck out his hand, and there in the middle of the biggest nowhere ever created, we shook on it. “This is gonna work out swell. I can just see it: my journey with a fairy girl to the Golden State …”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, just to shut him up. I wasn’t a fairy, but there was no way I was going to get him to believe that. I’d have to prove it somehow, but how do you prove a thing’s not so? “What do we do now?”

Jack shoved his hands into his breeches pockets and looked me over. “You sing.”

“What?”

“We have to find out what you can do. From what you said, it all started when you played your father’s piano.…”

“Played, not sang,” I pointed out.

He shrugged. “So we have to find out if you need an instrument, or if you can make magic with any music.”

I gawked at him. If there had been any flies around, I would have caught them. How could he be so calm?

“It’s not safe,” I reminded him. “Last time my mama vanished and the Hoppers found me.” I was starting to like Jack less and less, but I didn’t want him vanishing, and I sure as sure didn’t want any more Hoppers, not when I didn’t even have so much as a frying pan.

“Just try,” Jack said. “You brought Hoppers last time; maybe this time you can … I don’t know, bring us breakfast.”

You know how in a cartoon when somebody’s got to make a choice, they’ll get a little angel on one shoulder and a little devil on the other? That was how I felt right then. Half of me was saying:
Don’t do it, don’t do it, something bad will happen
. The other half was saying:
Do it, do it, you gotta find out what will happen
.

But the word
breakfast
had its own magic, and the little devil won. “What do I sing?”

Jack made a face like he knew I was stalling. “How about ‘I Been Workin’ on the Railroad’?” he said. “Everybody knows that one. Come on.” He started clapping to set the time and sang. “
I been workin’ on the railroad …
”

“All the live-long day …”
It was a kids’ song. I didn’t like it, but he was right, I did know it. Its tune flowed into my brain and I started clapping along. Jack and I set up a strong, steady rhythm, like a chorus of hammers, like men keeping time as they swung those hammers down on the iron spikes, pinning the great black rails to the wooden ties, binding the country together and opening it wide up at the same time.

“Can’t you hear the whistle blowin’? Rise up so early in the morn …”

I forgot about being thirsty, about being lost, and about everything else except this stupid little kids’ song with its driving rhythm and its memories of work gangs so long gone nobody knew what it was about anymore.

“Can’t you hear the captain shouting, ‘Dinah, blow your horn …’ ”

I felt it happen. Everything shifted, though my eyes
couldn’t see what or how. The whole world just twisted as if we were inside a lock while somebody was turning the key. The feeling lasted less than a second, but when it finished, the air all around us had changed, as if a fresh breeze was blowing in.

“Dinah, won’t you blow?”
we sang.
“Dinah …”

“Drill, ye tarriers, drill!”

A new voice cut across mine. Jack’s hands froze between one clap and the next, and his mouth gaped.

“Drill, ye tarriers, drill!”

It wasn’t just one voice; it was a full-throated chorus of men. Their rough and ragged singing soared in from the ruined prairie, where a minute ago there had been nothing at all.

“For it’s WORK all DAY for the SUGAR in your TAY, DOWN on the OLD rail-WAY!”

Jack scrambled to his feet and ran for the window hole. I followed, slow and afraid.

“And drill, ye tarriers, drill! And BLAST! And FIRE!”

Sun-bleached grass rippled beneath a pure blue sky. It smelled sweet, sweeter than my bread pudding. Bees buzzed among the cornflowers and Queen Anne’s lace. A hawk wheeled overhead, and sparrows clung nervously to the nodding grass stems. All at once I remembered being a little girl and running through grass like this, up to the hogback ridge to watch rain clouds pile up on the horizon.

A great gash had been cut in the grass for the iron rails.
Shirtless men stood carefully spaced on either side of those black lines. Each man held a long-handled hammer. The hammers swung up and the hammers swung down, in time with their song.

“Look.” Jack tugged at my sleeve. I turned, and he pointed to the shanty’s back window. Through that other window, there was still the silent, empty desert.

Out front, the men laying the rails across the lush green grassland kept right on singing. It was like something out of a pulp magazine,
Astounding Stories
or
Weird Tales
. Jack had punched open the glass window, but somehow I’d punched open a … a
time
window.

Or maybe it wasn’t a window at all. Maybe it was a gate.

Whatever it was, it was wrong. I felt that down to the soles of my feet. It was completely wrong and I was responsible. Again.

“We gotta get out of here.” I started for the desert window.

“Wait! They got a cook wagon.” Jack leaned out the broken window across the living prairie. I couldn’t help but look. A little, old-timey steam engine with a big red cowcatcher jutting out front waited on the track that had
already been laid. That engine was hooked up to a full-fledged railcar with a trickle of smoke coming out of its chimney. The breeze blew through the window again. This time, it carried the smell of cooking bacon. My stomach growled and cramped up. Another breath and I could smell baking bread as well. My stomach didn’t so much growl as roar.

“We can go bum a meal!” Jack had his foot up on the sill, but I hauled him back.

“No! We can’t go out there!”

“Why?”

“Because what if we can’t get back?”

That stopped him. He saw it now. If it was a gate, and if somehow I’d opened it, somebody else could shut it. Or I might accidentally shut it, because sure as sure, I didn’t know what I was doing or how I was doing it.

If my gate shut while we were in that other time, we might never be able to get back.

Jack looked toward the cook car and the smoke coming out its tin chimney. “We have to try.”

“We can’t!”

The face he turned toward me was nothing I’d seen on him yet. Anger and desperation were knotted up together with his hunger. “You stay here if you want,” he said soft and slow, so each word dropped separately between us. “I’m going after something to eat.”

He was out the window and running through the grass while I was still opening my mouth to yell “No!” I grabbed
the windowsill and leaned out as far as I could. I felt the strange, shifting parts of the invisible lock all around me. I felt them wobble, and I felt the key begin to turn. I tried to grab it, but it slipped free.

“Jack!” I screamed. “Jack! It’s closing!”

He stopped and turned. “You’re just saying that!”

“No! I’m not! I swear!” It was turning, turning. The barrel and the tumbler were shifting. The hinges were straining, and I was in the middle. I felt the pressure inside my brain and inside my heart. “Hurry!”

Jack looked at the cook car and the singing men, and at me. He cussed loud and angry and came pelting back. I shook. I didn’t know where these feelings were coming from, and I didn’t know how to stop that twisting I could only think of as the key.

Jack slapped both hands on the windowsill and vaulted through. I shuddered and screamed.
SNAP!
The sound rocked the shack, and even Jack reeled.

Hot, dusty wind blew across the windowsill into our faces as we stood there, panting and shaking and staring out at the unbroken Kansas desert.

Jack wiped his dusty sleeve across his mouth. “You swear to me you didn’t do that on purpose?”

I shook my head. “It started to close on its own. I couldn’t hold it. I tried, I promise I did.”

He took off his hat and rubbed his head. “What do we do, then?”

“Start walking, I guess.”

So we climbed out into our own time to trudge hungry and thirsty over the blowing dunes. We kept our eyes straight ahead so we both had something like privacy while we cried for the smell of growing grass and baking bread.

It took me and Jack three days to get to the town of Constantinople. And I’ll tell you this—Jack was lucky to be alive by that time. Not because the walking was so hard, which it was, but because I was ready to kill him stone dead.

The whole three days we walked, Jack Holland would
not
shut up. He kept after me and after me to sing something so he could see what would happen. It was like he’d forgotten all about the Hoppers and how he’d almost gotten stuck in that railroad work camp out of the olden days. He kept trying to tell me all these stupid, baby fairy stories he’d heard from some crazy Irish guy, or some crazy Negro, and even this extra-special crazy Eye-talian. Kept trying to tell me I must be all fairy magic and everything. He thought
it was so exciting. He didn’t get it. It was bad enough when I had to hide being half black. Now I might not even be human at all. How was I supposed to hide
that
?

Pretty soon I found out the only way to shut him up at all was to ask what happened to his little sister, Hannah. But then we’d go maybe another mile, and he’d start right in again. And every night, before it got too dark to see, he’d pull out this little notebook and stubby pencil he carried and write stuff down. Stuff about me, I just knew it.

I lay awake nights, listening to the wind until my head hurt. But there were no more voices. That didn’t make me feel any better. That could just mean whatever was out there was keeping quiet, and waiting.

Jack woke up sweating and staring every night, calling out for Hannah to stop whatever it was she was doing.

Even with my special dust eyes to see the way, it was hard to keep to the road buried under drifts of blow dirt and tumbleweeds. We passed people working their way out from under the storm. We saw a farmer hauling his wife and kids out of the second-story window to stand on the roof. The dust had buried the rest of the house. We saw another man sitting on the hood of his tractor, his head in his hands. We stopped and helped a woman and her three little kids pull their cow out of a drift. She shared their supper of fatback meat and beans, and let us sleep on their roof with them that night. We stopped again and helped a man and a pregnant woman dig out their Model T. They gave us some water from their canteens and let us
ride with them toward Constantinople, until we got stopped by more drifts over the road. They said they’d wait for the plow trucks. We wished them luck and started walking again.

The third night we stayed in a cellar hole. We lit a fire from the timber pile that used to be the house overhead and took turns sleeping, in case a duster came up.

By the time we stumbled to the edge of Constantinople, I was ready to drink the Mississippi dry and then fall down and sleep for a year.

I’d been to Constantinople before, but not for a long time. It was bigger than Slow Run. They had a clothing store as well as a general store, along with five saloons, but only four churches. As if to make up for this, the churches were all built of brick, with steeples sticking high and proud into the dusty sky. There was even a real movie theater—the Bijoux—with a big, flashy marquee out front announcing they were showing
The Man Who Knew Too Much
starring Peter Lorre, along with a
SECOND BRAND-NEW FEATURE
.

Constantinople had people too. They came and went from those stores and churches, or stood on the board walkways talking with each other. They glanced at me and Jack as we stumbled up the street, but just as quickly looked back to their own troubles. A group of men clustered around the curving bumpers of a Packard car all leaned in so close to the radio that their hat brims touched.

“Colorado’s governor has authorized the mobilization of National Guard troops to help Denver in the aftermath
of what may have been the biggest dust storm ever to hit …”

The problem was, there we were, walking into town all filthy and hungry, our feet burning from the hot dust, and we had nothing but the crumbs of a dead leaf in our pockets. I turned to Jack. “Now what?”

But Jack didn’t answer right away. He just kind of faded into the shadow beside Morrison’s Hardware Store. As he surveyed the main street with its battered cars, rickety wagons, and starving mules, Jack’s face changed. He tightened up. The “gosh wow” dreamer with his big grin who could believe in magic and fairies without blinking was gone. This was the hobo kid who could hot-wire a car and drive it like a bootlegger.

“Won’t be no trains yet today,” he said. I knew that much. On the way in, we’d skirted the rail yard and saw the men fighting the wind to get the tracks cleared. “So we’re gonna need to find food, and maybe a place to bed down.” His narrow gaze flickered this way and that, taking the measure of the whole town. “Callie, you just go stand in front of the window of that lunch counter and look hungry.”