Page 241 of Rage

They stopped their sacking long enough to notice the full wagon, the frightened children, and the lack of men.

He was between the men and the wagon in no time at all, the Remington mounted proper and one finger on the trigger. Your pa taught him how to shoot, you knew he wouldn’t miss. But you didn’t want it to come to bloodshed, you needed him here in the back with you, tucked into the safe nook of his lap, getting out of dodge like you always planned.

A wail tore through the air, one of despair and fear. The quake that it seemed to trigger came from all directions, above and below, left and right. It had no origin, like the stories, yet it was everywhere. A wall of churning, angry belligerent dust began to form, seeking to become a circle. It rose, aiming to block out the sun, and over the roar of dirt and fury you heard your pa begging Old Rosie to fly. Your siblings were beside themselves and your ma pressed and needled your pa to do something more.

Crack went a hard slap made by the heel of the gun, as he beat Old Rosie’s right flank. The poor horse, not accustomed to such chaos and abuse, reared once, uttered a neigh and flew, leaving him behind.

The wall was closing in on itself faster than Rosie’s gallop. She overtook those on foot, their haste and headstart all for naught. You climbed over your brothers and sisters, and used a sack of flour for leverage. Your hair came free when the wind stole the handkerchief that kept the wild spray of dark curls moderately tamed.

Dark curls he loved so much. They held their softness in these tough times, just as you had. He couldn’t hear your screams over the thunder of dust, but he saw your lips moving and your arm extended beyond the wagon, pleading to take his. He ran with all his might, caked in the dirt the old rusted wheels of the wagon kicked in their wake.

Your eyes met for one glorious second when your outstretched fingertips almost met his and you had the nerve to feel hope that they may have found purchase. But Rosie chose that moment to find the courage to dive into that ever-closing gap between dust and damnation.

The wagon gave a great creak of grinding, rusty spokes, and rough hands pulled you back into a huddle of arms and shivers and chattering teeth. They held you down amidst your cries and your ma, somehow finding gentleness in the eye of chaos, smoothed your hair and said a prayer for the boy you never thought you would see again.

Before you succumbed to the pull of sleep brought on by a broken heart, you dared a glance behind, but there was nothing there but the vast Plains of grief. In front lay salvation granted by too big a sacrifice and in your palm which had almost held his you clutched a handful of that damned dust instead.

And off you rode to the West.

He didn’t know what to call the force that pulled him back from you, but he knew he’d managed a smile as it knocked him off his feet. He landed hard, scraping his elbows into the earth dried of any give.

He never took his eyes off you or the wagon disappearing beyond the waves that became his prison and that’s why he smiled.

He was not alone. There were others, non-believers who regretted their choices, and those who had had none, who had remained stuck because of unfortunate circumstance. They trudged together to form a circle within the one that confinedthem, and only then did he notice that he still held the Remington in his hand.

The wind picked up, dirt and dust heaved and bellowed, forcing eyes to close and ears to be covered. There was no sun, it was like a twilight made of smoke and fog had descended upon the land, and then.

It stopped.

The dust…fell.

Not like gentle fluttering of snow or the light patter of rain. No. It just…dropped, dense like lead or the heavy pull of a weighted curtain.

And beyond the curtain of settled dust lay the impossible.

The circus had come to town.

Either here because desperation and sadness had willed it to come. Or the storm had picked its destination blindly, the stories didn’t say, but yet here it was. As large and imposing as the dust bowl it had traveled in on.

No one moved.

The sky gleamed clear like the first dawn after cleansing rains, and sunshine made the white of the spired tents too bright for tired eyes.

The faint lull of the mandolin–or was it the banjo?–drifted through stands flowing with more food than could be right. Chocolate sweeties, drumsticks with drippings oozing down their sides, trays piled with fruit, some too exotic for the simple folk bearing these sights. A child’s laugh came from somewhere and between the red and white, bobbing along were mountains of balloons, spun cotton sugar, and lollipops, palm-sized in colors which put a rainbow to shame. Stages, though silent, held the promise of music and entertainment.

Yet there wasn’t a soul in sight, as if all of this appeared only to taunt and disappear upon the first sign of movement.

The people were spent and wretched and scared. They didn’t want to trick their hearts and minds and stomachs into believing what simply could not be true. A mirage in these times would be cruel, and folks didn’t have the constitution for such things anymore.

From within the huddle, someone took a step forward, unable to curb curiosity or temptation. While the rest held their collective breath, his stupidity–or bravery– seemed to break the spell.

Merry men on stilts appeared from behind the cover of the tents. The lull of music turned to orchestral tunes played by musicians on stages no longer empty of performers. Booths with happy attendants and their beguiling smiles waved at the children, entreating them to come play their games. Prizes hung proudly in the back. Bears and lions for the boys and sweet, pink dollies for the little girls. The first smile in years broke upon a child’s face and parents, saddled with worry for bringing babies into these trying times, didn’t allow much begging before they followed their ecstatic sons and daughters into the jubilee.

All the while, he stood there in awe. His heart remained heavy with guilt and concern. He had sent you away. He thought he was so wise, making sure of your escape. He had been so certain it was the right thing to do, to see to it that you weren’t part of the stories that were told.

He stared at the abundance that surrounded him and almost cried, in anger, in sadness, that he should be the one standing here while he had driven you from it.

The stories had lied. How could he live with himself, sending you out into the unknown when paradise was in front of him? Upon the liveliness that had sprung up, the grouping had broken, and dragging his feet, he decided to explore.

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