The Great Plains (24 page)

‘Tess?' Abelena frowned. She'd planned on a dinner of warm tomatoes on slices of fresh bread. This was not the time for hide-go-seek.

‘There is a reason you are always tied to my belt, Tess.' Her annoyance grew as she walked around the side of the house past the well, hand-pump and the chopping block. Abelena scanned the space between the Blums' house, the barn and chicken pen. Two hundred feet of dirt lay between these buildings, while further off was the corn shed and the pigsty. The dust blew up so quickly Abelena clutched at the side of the barn for support. She squinted at the gathering clouds. The land was darkening and, as far as she knew, none of the children were safely inside the house. She checked the pigsty and chicken pen, her voice lost in the billowing dust. Dipping her head against the wind and grit Abelena began walking home, all the while calling out Tess's name. It was less than a mile to their house but already the structure was being obliterated by dust. When she could no longer see through the swirling dirt she dropped to the ground and began to crawl, but the wind was too strong, the waves of dirt like a battering ram. Abelena tucked the sack of food between her legs and buried her face in the folds of her skirt. The world went black.

April, 1935 – The Panhandle, Oklahoma

Jerome crawled on his hands and knees as the dust raged around him. He'd run on through the swirling dirt until he could no longer see and then walked what he guessed was another couple of miles before dropping to the ground. The dust was so thick he could barely breathe. It filled his ears, gathered on his neck and back, and his eyes, although tightly shut, watered continually. He concentrated on placing one hand after another, on focusing on the direction he was travelling in, towards the barn. All the time he kept thinking of Abelena, Tess and the twins. By now they would be in the house, the worst of the ill-fitting timber plugged with wet scraps of material. Jerome hoped Abelena had dampened the sheets they owned and thrown them over the heads of the children. They'd never experienced a storm as bad as this one and it would be the best way to keep the dust out.

What seemed like hours later, Jerome's head hit something. He felt railings against his palms and with a sigh of relief he tumbled into the hog pen and searched around until he came to the covered part of the sty. He pushed at the dirt that had accumulated in the entrance and then crawled inside and turned his back against the gale. The wind moaned and hissed as the dirt rained down. It was as if buckets of dust were being thrown at the sty. Jerome huddled against the far corner of the structure as the dirt piled up against his back and finally fell asleep, exhausted.

With the storm's gradual easing, a new world was revealed. Visibility had improved to about five feet. Jerome could see the outline of two of the smaller pigs beneath mounded dirt, a third was clearly having problems breathing. He left the sty quickly, heading in the direction of the barn. The wind had died down, yet the air was still heavy with powdery dirt. He trailed the wall of the barn, stumbling against the fresh mounds of earth piled against the building's walls until his hand struck the latch on the door. He tugged it open and stepped inside.

‘Uncle George!' he yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. Jerome walked the length of the building as a weak light filtered through the walls of the barn, changing the dark interior to brown. ‘Uncle George!' he called again. A wracking cough rose up from his chest and he spat up a stream of dirt. His chest felt tight and he rubbed at it, loosening more of the filth he'd swallowed. He didn't know how much time had passed since the storm had hit. It could be late afternoon or morning. He walked forward, a terrible thirst burning his throat. At the far end of the barn he knelt and crawled. His uncle was lying on his side, a blanket over his head, dirt spilled in through the loosened board partially covering the old man. Expecting the worst, Jerome gingerly lifted the blanket, careful not to dislodge too much of the settled dust.

‘I still live?' George's voice was hoarse.

‘Yes, old man. Come sit up.' Helping his great-uncle to a sitting position, he searched for the water bottle. It was wrapped securely in a blanket. ‘Here.' Both men drank.

‘The storm came and I heard Abelena calling, but she couldn't hear me,' Uncle George told him.

Jerome coughed up another wad of black muck and spat it out.

In the half-light Uncle George appeared to have aged ten years. ‘Who would have thought such blackness could come of the white man's doings?'

Jerome moved to sit beside his uncle, resting his back against the wall. ‘I can barely see outside. I hope the others are all right.'

‘Then you must wait, Jerome,' the older man advised. ‘Abelena is strong. She will have protected the others.'

Exhausted, Jerome closed his eyes. In the darkness he listened to their laboured breathing as the spray of grit sounded against the barn's walls.

Abelena crawled in the direction of the house, dragging the sack of stolen goods. She didn't know how far she'd managed to get before the storm hit in earnest, half a mile perhaps. She felt sick and couldn't stop coughing and more than once she rushed to pull the face scarf clear of her nose and mouth to vomit up a mix of blood and dirt. As she moved, the storm lessened and eventually she rose to her feet and stumbled on. When the hazy outline of a building grew in shape, she began to sob. All through the blizzard, as she lay curled on the ground, Abelena had worried for Tess. If anything happened to the little girl she would never forgive herself. Her only hope was that one of the other children or perhaps Jerome had found her.

Finally their house came into view. The front door was wide open. With shaking legs, Abelena stepped over the hill of dirt in the doorway, her hand grasping the frame for support. She tried to call out but her voice caught in her throat. The room was layered with dirt and a brown haze hung in the air. She couldn't understand where everyone was. They should have been safely inside.

In the adjoining room mattresses were propped against the wall, a sheet draped over them like a tent. Sighing gratefully, she lifted a corner of the sheet. The red-headed twins were lying inside and they sat up with a yelp of surprise.

‘Are you all right? Where are the others?' she asked hoarsely.

Mathew rubbed at his eyes, his face plastered with grime. ‘Dunno.' He had a quart jar filled with water. Unscrewing the lid he gulped at it and then gave some to his brother. ‘Nobody came back,' he said angrily.

‘What about Tess?' Abelena asked. She took the water from his hands and drank thirstily, before wiping a hand across her mouth, savouring the liquid as it washed some of the grit from her throat. Dampening the hem of her skirt Abelena rubbed at the dust crusting her weeping eyes.

Mark turned his dropped eye on Abelena. ‘She's dead,' he said simply.

‘What do you mean “she's dead”? Where is she?' Abelena wanted to cry but the tears wouldn't come.

Mathew pointed to the far corner of the room.

At first Abelena couldn't see anything, then gradually she made out a shape slumped on the ground and rushed to where little Tess lay. A brown stream of gluey liquid stained the girl's mouth, chin and shirt. She knelt and placed a tentative hand on Tess's cheek.

Mathew came and stood beside her. ‘Mark went out and got her when we heard her crying but she wouldn't get in the tent with us. Later, when the door blew open we told her to get under the sheet with us but she wouldn't, she just sat there coughing and crying. She coughed and coughed until she stopped.'

Abelena sat heavily on the floor, placed the lifeless Tess on her lap and bashed her hard on the back several times. The child gulped and spewed up dirt and began to cry. ‘Water.'

Mark handed her the screw top jar and Tess began to drink.

April, 1935 – The Panhandle, Oklahoma

When Jerome finally appeared Abelena was beyond speaking. He took one look at Tess whimpering on the dirt floor and felt his heart shrink as he carried the little girl into the kitchen and laid her on the table. ‘Come wash Tess, Abelena.'

There was nothing to do but shovel the dirt from the house, while the twins gave a running commentary as to the fierceness of the storm and Tess's refusal to seek cover. While they talked Abelena stripped Tess, dipped a rag in water and, squeezing it out, carefully cleaned the little girl. When the haze finally began to lift some hours later, Jerome sent Mathew and Mark to fetch their uncle.

Although the worst of the storm had long passed, the air remained gritty and the dust settled on Tess as Abelena dressed her.

Uncle George sat on a kerosene tin cradling a mug of water. ‘You were lucky she didn't die. If it happens, bury her straight away, you know how it must be for us, Jerome, otherwise it is bad medicine.'

‘She is not full-blood Apache,' Abelena replied crossly, sitting Tess on a kerosene tin, ‘and no-one is dying. Even if they did,' she snapped, ‘no-one will ever be buried the Apache way, dropped in a hole in the night with no words said over the body because you are too scared to be with the dead.'

Uncle George walked out of the kitchen, muttering.

‘Abelena,' Jerome berated, ‘he has his ways. We must respect them.'

Abelena touched Tess's forehead and kissed her cheek. ‘They are not our ways. Why do you persist in humouring him, Jerome? If I could wipe clean the Apache that clouds our blood I would, yet you cling to the part of us that has caused us nothing but misery. I've only ever had one dream and that is to be white, accepted as white, but all you want to do is pull us back into the past.' Her tears left white streaks against her dirty face.

‘I'm sorry, Abelena.'

‘So am I.' Abelena wiped her nose on the sleeve of her shirt. ‘I have food,' she told him. ‘Don't ask how I got it, my brother, just let me prepare it so the children can eat.'

Jerome wanted to question her, instead he kept an eye on Tess, giving her sips of water as Abelena mixed flour, water and a pinch of salt and spooned dollops of the mixture into the skillet. There would be no cow to eat today. Maybe tomorrow they would walk the animals in, depending on the weather. Until then they would have to make do with what Abelena provided. By the time she'd boiled water for coffee there was a stack of thin pancakes on the table and the tomatoes were warming in the skillet. Everybody ate hungrily. No-one asked where the food came from. Jerome guessed and the knowledge shamed him.

‘You have done well, Abelena,' Uncle George told her.

‘I did it because my family were hungry and the others have so much.' Abelena sipped at the strong coffee, savouring the flavour.

The old man nodded. ‘Your mother would be proud.'

‘No, she would be sad to see that we have grown so desperate that we must steal like Indians.'

The twins licked their plates. Tess copied them.

‘Either way,' Jerome commented, swirling the grains of coffee in the bottom of his mug, ‘we needed to eat today.'

Jerome left the others to rest and went to investigate the storm's damage. Once again the landscape had changed, moulded by the dirt carried across the plains. There was no movement at the pigsty and the animals were stiff with death. He found three carcasses and carried them out onto the flat to lay them side by side, knowing Mr Blum would want to see his losses. One wall of the corn shed had collapsed from the weight of dirt flung against it, and there were ears scattered on the ground and protruding up through the dirt. Jerome considered restacking the ears of corn that were salvageable, yet once again hesitated. The corn shed was Mrs Blum's domain. Instead he walked toward the Blums' house, noticing the dirt piled at the front of the building which would have to be shovelled away before the house could be entered. The cover had blown from their well. He guessed the water would be undrinkable for a number of days, if at all in the future, depending on how much dirt was piled inside.

His last stop was the chicken coop. Half of the hens had survived, although most walked around the yard as if in a daze. The rooster watched him as he stacked the dead chickens outside the pen.

‘Bit of a mess, eh?' Jerome said. The rooster cocked its head sideways as one hen grew unsteady on its feet. Grabbing the weak bird he strode around to the Blums' chopping block at the side of their house. A small axe was wedged in the wood and he pulled the blade free before wiping the surface clear of dirt. The hen barely squawked as he lay it down. Swiftly chopping the head off, he let the bird go. The bird flapped weakly and took half a dozen steps, blood spurting from its neck before falling to the ground.

‘What do you think you're doing?'

Jerome turned to see Mrs Blum, her son Michael by her side.

‘Well?' Mrs Blum held a sack of groceries. Her broad forehead slipped away to a narrow receding chin, a characteristic shared by her seventeen-year-old son. Over her shoulder Jerome saw a car do a U-turn and head out of the farm. It was a good five hundred feet away and, with the mounds of dirt piled up between the outbuildings, was obviously worried about getting bogged.

Jerome gave a crooked smile. ‘It was about to die so I thought –'

‘So you thought you'd steal it?' Michael replied, folding his arms across a broad chest.

Jerome shook his head. ‘No, I –'

‘Damn Injun.' Michael snatched the bloodied hen from Jerome. ‘We leave you alone for one darn minute and you're stealing.' He turned to his mother. ‘I told Pa not to let them stay.'

Mrs Blum nodded in solidarity, her eyes were ringed with dark circles and there was a nasty scratch along one side of her face. ‘This place is ruined,' she pointed a finger at Jerome, ‘we've had our own catastrophe and you people can't even look after the animals.'

‘But the storm came so fast and it was so bad.'

Michael shook the blood from the chicken. ‘You ain't telling us anything new. We were on the road when it hit and this idiot driver ran straight into us. Pa's with the doctor. He's got a busted arm and nose, can barely breathe what with the dust and all, and then we come back to this.'

‘You're meant to do something for your board and keep,' Mrs Blum told him. ‘Look after the place at least.'

‘Damn Injuns.' Michael gritted the words through his teeth.

‘You've been starving us out,' Jerome said bitterly. ‘Rationing our corn when I've seen you carting it into the house to burn in your fancy oven. You've cut back on everything and here I am stacking up your dead animals and trying to help and you come back and –'

‘Get out!' Mrs Blum yelled. ‘Get off our land, we don't need no Injuns and half-breeds here no more. Why, you should be grateful that decent folk were prepared to give you somewhere to live.'

Michael spat on the ground. ‘Yeah, get out.'

Jerome walked past them and then swung on his heel to face the boy. ‘Don't be telling me what to do.' For the first time in his life Jerome felt the urge to punch someone. He took a breath, his fists curling.

‘Don't do something you'll regret, Injun,' Michael antagonised.

Jerome took a breath to steady his anger, instead hate welled. He shoved Michael in the chest, sending the boy reeling backwards. When he lifted his fist and knuckle hit flesh, he let out a savage yell. Michael Blum fell back against the wooden chopping block, his neck striking the edge of the hard timber.

‘What have you done?' Mrs Blum screamed, rushing to her son's side as he toppled into the dirt.

Jerome dropped his fist. ‘I didn't mean to, it wasn't my fault.'

The boy's mother knelt on the ground. ‘Michael, can you hear me? Michael?'

‘Is he all right? I'll fetch the doctor.'

‘Look at my boy, look at him! If you've harmed him …' Her eyes were cold.

Michael's arms twitched. The boy gave a shudder and stilled. Mrs Blum gave a heart-breaking sob.

Jerome backed away from the lifeless boy, slowly at first and then, realising the enormity of his crime, he began to run.