A Town Called Dust: The Territory 1 (5 page)

The journey into Dust took just over two hours, but that was with Uncle pushing the horses harder than Squid thought was necessary. Uncle always pushed the horses too hard. It had taken Squid an hour to raise the courage to say something.

“Maybe we should give the horses a rest.”

“No,” Uncle snapped back, “or by the time we get there the best spots’ll be gone.”

Squid and his uncle went to market once a month and never before had the location of their cart ever made any difference to their sales.

Uncle continued, “If you had sorted the fields out proper this season we would’ve left last night.”

Normally Squid wouldn’t have said any more but his unusual treatment that morning had given him the confidence to speak his mind. “We should’ve plowed paddocks two and three earlier and double-treated what we got from one, but you told me to leave it and fix the chair in the kitchen, and cut the firewood, and mend the fence, and—”

A stinging backhand caught Squid across the face.

“Shut your mouth. Your aunt was the one what thought we should baby you for your birthday. Sixteen is the coming of age, she said, we better be extra nice to him. Well, she ain’t here now!”

Squid sat the rest of the journey in silence, bumping along on the wooden seat with every divot and hole in the cracked red road. The side of his face stung and his eyes had grown hot, but he wouldn’t rub his face and he wouldn’t cry. He set his mind to counting the low green shrubs along the side of the road to distract himself.

The buildings of Dust eventually appeared, coming into view in order of importance. The water tower was first, of course, standing high in the center of town like a beacon. Its large corrugated tank supported on metallic stilt legs. The flag of the Central Territory, a yellow image of the Rock on a red background, flapped gently above the tower in the breeze. The flag was old, its once lustrous red long faded to a salmon pink, and the end fluttered in tatters. It was a faint reminder of the Territory this town supposedly belonged to. Dust was among the towns furthest from Alice, and apart from ragged flags and the occasional Digger patrol they had little contact with the rest of the Territory.

Soon Squid could make out the Church of Glorious God the Redeemer. Aside from the farm and the marketplace, that was the only other place he visited. Even though he wasn’t allowed to go to school anymore, he still traveled to town with Aunt and Uncle to attend church every two weeks, probably the bare minimum they could get away with without the Sisters asking questions about their faith.

The main street of Dust became a hive of activity on market day—at least, it was the busiest place Squid ever got to see, which was to say that people started getting in the way of the tumbleweed. A number of small shops lined the street, wooden buildings that were packed so closely together they seemed to bulge at the top as though someone had been certain they could fit just one more in if they pushed hard enough. It seemed odd that the few buildings of Dust were built so close together when there was such a vast expanse of open landscape around them, but Squid understood the point. The town huddled together for protection; it was a place alone and afraid at the far reaches of civilization. The sounds of animals and people rolled down the street. Occasionally someone ran across the road in front of the wagon, only to be met by a spray of vulgarity from Uncle. As their wagon bounced further down the rutted road they passed the wooden schoolhouse. Squid tried hard not to look at it; he knew it would only upset him.

Around the market square was a snaking semicircle of traders. Some were selling goods straight off their wagons while others had erected small stalls. The smells of earthy vegetables and sizzling meat filled Squid’s nose. As with every trip to Dust, Squid realized he didn’t mind the peace and quiet of the farm after all. All these busy people talking and yelling; Squid couldn’t understand any of it. He didn’t understand people.

“Roo meat here! Get your barbequed roo meat! Gas fired!”

“Fully organic potatoes grown with dirt completely fertilizer free!”

“Fruit, all kinds of fruit, shipped all the way from the Northern Ranges by the fastest dirigible!”

Squid didn’t know much about the world—who would really want to?—but he knew the Northern Ranges were a long way away and it showed. He could smell the pungent aroma of overripe fruit as Uncle pulled the wagon to a stop. He looked at Squid. “Go get the horses stabled.”

Bluey watched Squid absently as he was unhitched from the wagon. Dealing with The Horse wasn’t nearly as traumatic as Squid was expecting. Perhaps he was so exhausted from the trip that he didn’t have the energy to be a torment, but whatever the reason, Squid wasn’t going to complain. He led the two horses behind the other stalls and down the little laneway that led to the temporary market stables. Stableboys were tending horses, leading them in and out, washing them down, wiping them, saddling them and unsaddling them. As Squid brought Bluey and The Horse into the stables he stepped in a giant pile of fresh wet horse manure.

Looking down, Squid sighed when he saw that his entire foot was lost in the deep brown pile. There was a long sucking sound as he tried to extract it. While he stood on one leg considering his current predicament, Squid was only vaguely aware of the commotion up ahead, or rather the sudden lack of commotion. After deciding it was best to just wipe his foot on the back of his other leg, Squid finally looked up. In front of him, mounted on warhorses that made The Horse look like a stuffed pony, were three men in green uniforms dirty with dust, each with a golden rising sun emblazoned across the front. Diggers. One of the men rode slightly in front of the others.

“Move aside,” called one of the men.

“Relax, Sergeant,” said the lead Digger. Turning his attention to Squid he said, “That’s some nasty stuff to step in.”

Squid looked up at the Digger before him. His face was dirty, the lines around his mouth dark with dust, and he had a ring of bruised-plum purple around one eye. His blond hair was greasy and matted as if it hadn’t been washed in some time. Squid nodded as he reached instinctively for his key. His heart stopped. His breath felt stuck in his body. The key was gone. His frenzied hands moved around his neck, hunting for the scratchy string that should have been hanging there.

“Is everything all right?” asked the Digger.

Squid’s eyes quickly scanned the ground. He felt in the bottom of his shirt. He spun around and looked behind him.

“What’s wrong?”

“I lost …” Squid turned and ran back the way he had come, his eyes searching the ground.

“Bah!” Uncle was shouting out to a farmer standing at another dirt stall. “Double-treatin’ is overrated. Our single-treated is much better than Jon Pickles’s double-treated garbage! Come over here and I’ll sell you twice as much for half the price!”

The farmer did not come over.  

Squid jumped up onto the wagon, searching around the wooden seat.

“What in blazes are you doin’, boy?” Uncle said. “Stop jumpin’ around or I’ll break your legs. Where’s the ticket for the horses?”

Squid stopped.
Oh no. The horses.

He was about to turn and run back when the three Diggers entered the square. The one who rode in front looked around until his eyes caught Squid standing atop the wagon. He nudged his horse and moved toward them. Squid watched Uncle’s eyes grow progressively larger as the approached. The lead Digger swung down off his horse and walked toward Uncle.

“If this is about that library book,” Uncle said, “I can explain. I left it sittin’ above the fire and …”

“We are not here to trouble you, sir,” the Digger said. “I wish to speak to the boy.”

Squid did not move.

“Here,” the Digger said, turning to face Squid, “I believe this is yours.”

The Digger held out Squid’s key, letting it dangle from its frayed string. Squid climbed down and walked on shaking legs over to the Digger. He couldn’t read the man’s expression as he passed him the key.

“It was on the ground where you were standing, but you were so panicked you couldn’t see it.”

Squid held the key tightly.
Good
, he thought, squeezing it in his palm,
good good good
. He couldn’t lose that key. He just couldn’t.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Also,” the Digger leaned in close enough to speak into Squid’s ear without Uncle overhearing, “I had your horses stabled.”

He slipped the numbered stable ticket into Squid’s other hand. Uncle walked forward, pushing Squid roughly aside.

“Now, don’t you worry about the boy,” Uncle said. “Whatever trouble he caused you I’ll give him a right floggin’. Sorry if he’s been a nuisance.”

“Not at all,” the Digger replied.

“Perhaps I can interest you gentlemen in some of Dust’s finest dirt?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t have a use for it.”

“No, of course, of course,” said Uncle. He glanced around at the gathered crowd. Squid knew what he was thinking; there was a lot of attention on their wagon of dirt. “Well, what brings you to our fine little town, um, Captain …?”

“Fine town,” one of the other Diggers snickered. “They haven’t even got gas.”

“It’s Lieutenant, actually,” the lead Digger said, “Lieutenant Argus Walter.” He gestured behind him, “Sergeant Bentley and Corporal Bosco.”

Both Sergeant Bentley and Corporal Bosco looked older than Lieutenant Walter. The sergeant was a large gruff man with skin as white as the clouds and hair as red as the world around them. Corporal Bosco was smaller, a dark-skinned man with close-cropped black hair and a flat nose. He had white lines tattooed on his face. He was one of the Nomads.

“We’re passing through on recruitment detail,” Walter said. “The ranks of the Diggers are low and they need bolstering. We are looking for talented young men to take the role of Apprentices, and maybe even become First Apprentices or Diggers themselves one day.”

“Well,” Uncle said, glancing at Squid, “I don’t think you’ll find too much stock to call on round here.”

“We are looking for boys of sixteen,” Walter said, looking at Squid.

There was a short pause in which no one spoke.

“What’s your name?” Walter asked Squid.

“Squid.” His voice threatened to give way. He didn’t like speaking with people at the best of times, and this was a Digger. He’d never been this close to a Digger before. “Squid Blanchflower.”

“And your age?”

“Well now,” Uncle interrupted with a forced laugh, “I’m afraid Squid here is only fifteen, not yet come of age.”

“But it’s my birthday today, Uncle,” Squid said. “Remember?”

Uncle smiled at Squid. He put his arm around Squid’s shoulders, squeezing him tighter than was comfortable. “Yes,” he said, “fifteen years old today.” Uncle moved in closer to Walter and Squid overheard him whisper, “He’s a little bit slow.”

“Indeed,” Walter said coolly.

“Even if he were of age,” Uncle said, “which he isn’t, he’s all the help my wife and I have on the farm. It would be too much of a burden on us poor old farmers if you took our boy away. Dirt farmin’ is the most important job in the Territory, you know?”

Sergeant Bentley leaned forward on his horse, looking at Uncle. “What about halting the swarms of ghouls that come from beyond the fence to devastate our lands with the curse of the Ancestors?”

Uncle swallowed. “Well naturally,” he said, smiling again though less convincingly, “I meant the most important of the, um, the common jobs.”

Lieutenant Walter looked at Uncle and then down at Squid. “If you were, hypothetically speaking,” he said, “older than fifteen, would you not wish to come and train at the Academy? You could be made Apprentice to a Digger who has sworn an oath to protect the Central Territory and all those who dwell within her. You would leave behind a hard life on the land and see the Territory. One day you may even become a fully fledged Digger yourself.”

“Is that like a school?” Squid said.

“Well yes,” Lieutenant Walter said, “it’s a school for Diggers. Does that interest you, Squid?”

Squid felt Uncle’s fingernails digging into the flesh at the top of his arm.

“No,” Squid said, “I need to stay on the farm and help my uncle and aunt.”

Walter looked at him for a moment, his flat and expressionless face giving nothing away. “Very well,” he said, and he turned toward Jon Pickles’s stall. “Are these your sons?” he asked Mr Pickles.

Uncle looked down at Squid. His small round eyes became two black slits in his face.

“You ain’t going nowhere,” Uncle said.

Lieutenant Argus Walter, out of the corner of his eye, saw Uncle raise the back of his hand threateningly to Squid.

They had sold most of their barrels by the afternoon, but that was only because Uncle had begun drastically reducing the price to avoid carting it all back to the farm. This had put him in an altogether worse mood than usual.

“Ancestors’ sin in a tin,” he said as the sun sank lower and the shadows stretched long. “Let’s pack up. We’ll get some rooms at the pub.”

“It’s still light,” Squid said. “We could make it back to the farm before dark.”

“Your aunt ain’t expecting us ’til tomorrow. Might as well take advantage of not having to listen to her naggin’ for a night.”

Squid unfolded a large sheet and tossed it over the back of the wagon, covering the remaining barrels. They could leave the wagon here; no one would be stealing anything with Diggers in town. They walked across the square toward the pub. A sign hung above the door, creaking gently on its rusting hinges: “The Dust Bowl.”

Squid followed Uncle into the common room and was crushed by an avalanche of heat and sound. The room was filled with roaring laughter and yelling. Everyone was trying to be heard over everyone else and the result was a constant escalation in noise that all but drowned out the musicians in the corner. Smoke hung low and thick in the air. The crowd was mostly men drinking large pints of beer, singing, laughing, arguing, or all of the above. It was loud, disorderly and full of people, everything Squid didn’t like. His heart quickened in his chest and he desperately tried to slow his breathing. He wanted to go outside. He gripped his key through his shirt as he followed Uncle to the end of a long wooden table.

A young blonde woman with a bosom that was trying to burst out of her tight white blouse made her way through the crowd toward them.

“What’ll it be?” she asked, looking at them expectantly.

“Beer,” Uncle said. “What have you got?”

“The Cat’s Whiskers, brewed here in town.”

“It doesn’t actually—” started Uncle.

“I don’t think so,” answered the waitress quickly. “And something for the boy?”

“Maybe some milk,” Squid said, looking down at the table.

“It’s beer or water here, I’m afraid. Don’t get awful much call for milk.”

“Water is fine, thank you,” Squid replied.

“Grub?” the girl asked.

“Honeyed ham, some bread and butter and …” Uncle looked into the purse that held their takings for the day. “That’ll do.”

The girl twisted her blonde hair around her index finger.

“A Cat’s Whiskers, water, bread, butter and honeyed ham,” she said.

“Yes,” snapped Uncle.

The girl gave him a poorly concealed dirty look before walking away.

Uncle glanced at Squid. “I don’t want to talk to you, or anyone else,” he said, “so just sit there with your mouth shut and don’t go bringin’ any attention our way.”

Who knew what would have happened if Uncle hadn’t said he wanted to be left alone, Squid thought afterward, but he did say it, and he’d given the universe an idea. At that moment the three Diggers walked through the door. Lieutenant Walter scanned the room, then came and sat next to Uncle.

“Good afternoon, sir, and young Squid.”

“Are you here to try to convince me to let Squid join the Diggers?” asked Uncle. Squid knew this tone of voice; it was the one Uncle used when he’d had enough of dealing with people for one day.

“No, no,” said Walter, “not at all.”

“Good,” said Uncle, “because you ain’t gettin’ him. He’s got too much work to do on the farm.”

The bargirl returned, dropping a pint of Cat’s Whiskers in front of Uncle with a deliberate thud. She placed a smaller mug of water in front of Squid. When the bargirl saw the three Diggers she smiled.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “Can I get you something?”

Sergeant Bentley looked her up and down. “You certainly can, little lady,” he said. The bargirl’s cheeks flushed pink and she looked at the floor, biting her lower lip.

“What would you like?” she managed as she swayed from side to side.

“Come and I’ll show you.” Sergeant Bentley pulled the girl onto his lap with enough force that the top button of her straining shirt popped open.

“Oh,” she said, giggling.

“Oi!”

The shout came from another table. A man had stood and was walking over, a large man with tree-trunk arms, a smoke-stained beard and whiskey on his breath. He swayed disjointedly as he walked, propping himself upright on a chair and then catching himself on a table. He glared with glazed eyes at Sergeant Bentley.

“That’s my—hic—my daughter what you be fondlin’,” the man said. “Dee, get off and get home!”

“I’m workin’, Daddy!” the girl yelled in the man’s direction.

Sergeant Bentley didn’t move. He made a deliberate effort to hold the girl on his lap. “And who are you?” he said.

“Henry Zaster, metalworker here in Dust.” The man paused to burp. “And you ain’t got no right touchin’ my girl.”

Corporal Bosco laughed. “Henry Zaster,” he said. “That must make you Dee Zaster?”

“Yeah,” said Dee, “what of it?”

“We don’t need none of your kind round ’ere makin’ ruckuseses,” Henry Zaster said, pointing unfocusedly in the sergeant’s direction, as if he could see two of him and wasn’t sure which one to aim at.

“You do realize, sir,” Sergeant Bentley said, his jovial nature disappearing, “that you are addressing a Digger.”

“We don’t want none of yous round ’ere,” Henry Zaster said.

“Yes,” replied the sergeant, “I think you’ve mentioned that already.”

“Well, why don’t you leave?”

By this stage the noise in the pub had dropped to a dull roar as people turned to watch the unfolding entertainment. A Digger was here, in their pub, and Henry was drunk. Squid could almost taste their anticipation.

Giving Dee a small nudge to get up, Sergeant Bentley stood. Henry Zaster looked at the Digger in front of him.

“You should just leave,” Henry said. “Digger or not, people got a habit of disappearin’ round ’ere.”

“Sergeant,” Lieutenant Walter said in a low stern voice, “you shall desist.”

The room had fallen completely still now. The musicians attempted to begin to play, but someone told them to be quiet. Squid was measuring the distance to each exit by counting the number of floorboards: twenty to the front door, thirty-two to the side door. He considered the table layout too, trying to decide which route would make for the quickest escape. His palms were sweaty and he was held on his stool by just a sliver of his thigh.

“Yes, sir,” Bentley said as he moved toward Henry. “One moment, please, Lieutenant.”

They were both big men, but where Henry looked large and unwieldy, Sergeant Bentley moved with a graceful ease.

“I think it is you who should be leaving, friend,” Bentley said.

“Nobody tells me to get out of me own drinkin’ hole!”

It was over in an instant. Squid imagined that anyone who happened to be walking past The Dust Bowl at precisely that moment would have witnessed a most unbelievable sight: Henry Zaster, one of the biggest, meanest, drunkest men this side of Alice, literally flew out the front window and into the street in a shower of wood and glass.

Inside, Sergeant Bentley was dusting his hands; the crowd stared at him wide eyed.

“Well?” he said casually.

On cue the musicians fired back to life, the conversation picked up and before long the crowd had all but forgotten the flying metalworker incident—at least, they made it seem that way.

Lieutenant Walter turned to Sergeant Bentley. “You will retire for the day,” he said. The sergeant looked at him for a moment but did not reply. He breathed deeply through his nose, nodded with a barely perceptible movement of his head, and walked out the door. Walter sat back down beside Uncle. Squid was still staring at the hole in the front window.

“I apologize for that,” Walter said to Uncle. “A long journey can get on the nerves of even the most gallant soldier. Where were we? Ah yes, I did not come here to convince you to allow us to recruit your nephew.” Walter turned his attention to Squid. “Where are your parents, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Squid was too scared to speak.

“Murderers and thieves,” Uncle said. “I’d prefer if you don’t bring it up again.”

Squid fingered the key that hung around his neck. Uncle had always told him his parents were criminals, but he didn’t really believe it.

“The Sisters would tell us that the sins of the father are the sins of the son,” Lieutenant Walter said. “I don’t really believe this. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Squid.”

“A Digger who don’t listen to the Church, well I ain’t never seen that,” Uncle said.

“I imagine there are a good many things you have never seen, sir,” Walter said. “Personally, I do not believe one should be judged for something over which one had no control.”

The pair stopped speaking as the buxom Dee brought out a plate of bread, butter and ham and placed it in front of Uncle. She had replaced her shirt with one decidedly larger.

“And what are you eating, Squid?” Walter asked.

“He’ll be sharing this,” said Uncle. He proceeded to tear off a small piece of bread, topped it with the thinnest spread of butter, added an even smaller piece of ham and dropped it onto the wooden table in front of Squid.

“Please,” Walter said, “allow me. Barkeeper!” His voice boomed above the sound in the room. The fellow behind the bar, a short man with a handlebar moustache and a dirty brown apron which may once have been white, looked over, a little shocked to have been summoned from so far away. “Your finest food for this boy!”

Uncle stared at him, his face turning so red that it was almost blue. Squid knew what this would mean for later but those thoughts faded when, after a few minutes, a plate of cut fruit was delivered to him. Sweet smells he’d never before experienced floated up his nostrils. There were long yellow fruits and soft round fruits, orange fruits and green fruits.

“Sir,” the barkeeper said, “the freshest we got from market, exotic fruits from as far north as the Territory goes. Flown into Alice by dirigible and brought here on the express.”

Squid was staring at the plate in front of him.

“Thank you,” Lieutenant Walter said, flicking the man a coin.

Uncle reached across to take a piece of fruit but Walter grabbed his arm, stopping it above the plate. “This,” he said, “is reward for Squid’s hard work, a birthday present. He deserves it, don’t you think?”

Uncle cleared his throat, pulling his arm back and biting into his stale bread and old ham. “Of course.”

“A man must always feed those who serve him first,” Walter said. “He shall decide if you may have some. Squid?”

Squid was eating one of the long yellow fruits. It was delicious, once you bit through the sour skin. He looked at Uncle. He had never seen him look this way before, desperation in his eyes. Squid realized this was the first time he’d ever had something Uncle wanted. At first he was going to say no. He knew it would be entirely fair if he ate them all himself. But he also knew how it felt to go without. “He can have some,” Squid said.

Uncle spat the bread and honeyed ham from his mouth and dove into the plate of fruit. He ravaged it, his face just above the chipped china plate. Its decorative blue flowers became clearer by the second. Lieutenant Walter smiled at Squid.

“Quite generous,” he said. “Don’t you think, sir?”

“Mmm,” Uncle said, his cheeks bulging.

Lieutenant Walter stood. “I’m afraid I had best check on the whereabouts of Sergeant Bentley.” He nodded his head. “If you’ll excuse me.”

As Walter walked away he turned back to Uncle. The fruit was almost gone. He put his hand on Uncle’s shoulder.

“I didn’t come here to try to convince you to let your nephew join the Diggers,” he said, tossing an envelope on top of the remaining fruit. “I came here to
tell
you he was. We leave at first light.”

Lieutenant Walter walked away. Uncle opened the letter and let out a cry of disgust, fragments of fruit flying from his mouth. “What!?”

He threw the letter on the table. It landed in front of Squid, who picked it up. He had always found words difficult, mainly writing them, but he could read reasonably well. The letter was handwritten and bore the official rising sun seal of the Army of the Central Territory. Squid read the letter:

Squid Blanchflower of Dust,

You are hereby notified that by the power vested in me by the Administrator of the Central Territory you are conscripted to the service of the Army in this hour of the Territory’s need.

In this matter my words are those of the Administrator.

Yours expectantly,

Lieutenant Argus Walter

Squid looked up from the letter just in time to see Uncle toss the plate of fruit across the room. It was about to smash dramatically against the door when instead the door opened. The plate careened straight into the face of Henry Zaster who, having more or less recovered from his flight, was walking back in. The metalworker bellowed in pain, wiped fruit from his face and looked around the room for the culprit. His eyes landed on Uncle just as he was rushing out the side door.