The Dry

By Rebecca Nolen

It is 1895 West Virginia in the coal mine country and a young boy searches for his father and discovers him in a world deep underground overrun with giant insects.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SkipJack Publishing
• Release date: Oct 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781939889126

Book preview

Chapter one

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September 1895

T

here was a lot of dark in the house in

Jeffersonville, Virginia, several long halls, lots of doorways, and countless deep corners. Shadows lurked like monsters waiting to pounce until morning light vaporized them.

Elliot Sweeney spread his arms to embrace the sun streaming through his window. He picked up the photograph he had unearthed last night. It had been buried beneath rodent-soaked newsprint in an old cupboard crammed between other discards that shared the attic with him. He pushed the photo into a pocket. He folded his father's letter and put it in an inside pocket, next to his heart. He gathered string, his favorite marble, a compass, and an empty fountain pen, and stuck them in other pockets.

The skitter-scratch of tiny claws on wood made his skin creep. There were things that lived in the attic with him that he would rather not think about. Then, there were the other noises, the noises that kept him awake at night. His father told him creaks and groans were natural to an old house. But after his father left for the newspaper assignment several months ago, the creaks and groans grew to a clatter that couldn't be natural. Every day he made it his business to leave the house and stay away until dark.

He got out fast, but tip-toed down the stairs. He could hear the ‘clink’ ‘clink’ ‘clink’ of coins and the low mutterings of Uncle Nat counting his money. As he reached the landing, the study door opened. He faced his uncle.

The old man's fingers moved along the door as if he was still counting money. Why are you here?

My father hasn't returned.

Is that my fault?

No, sir, but –

Never mind! I'm busy. His uncle shut the door.

Elliot stared at the closed door for two ticks of the clock. He ran the rest of the way down the stairs.

In the kitchen he filled his father's army-issue canteen with water, and then filled a jar to water his sapling.

The back door opened. The cook puffed inside wiping sweat from her red face. She motioned him nearer. Is today one of your business days?

Yes, ma’am.

She took a small loaf of bread from the pantry and handed it to him. He stuffed it in a pocket. He had a lot of pockets. Thank you, he said.

She put a finger to her mouth. You know not to disturb your uncle.

He nodded and watched her pull something from her apron. She grabbed his empty hand, put a wad of paper money in his palm and curled his fingers around it. She bent close and whispered, For new shoes. Twelve-year-old boys are growing boys.

He pulled her close enough to smell the tar soap she used and said in her ear, I’ll pay you back.

Her eyes were wet as she shooed him away.

The front door closed behind him with a sound like a sigh. He clambered down the plank steps to the sapling he worked to keep alive in the deathly dry. Something squirmed at his feet. It was a fishing worm twisting in the dust. He picked it up and laid it under a leaf at the base of his little tree and dumped the water from his glass over it.

You saved that worm. A man's voice startled Elliot.

He looked up at the gawky man smiling down at him from the other side of the iron fence. Everyone in town thought Morgan Johns was simple. They called him a changeling, a terrible thing to say. But Elliot liked him. No use in letting something like that die.

This dry 's just about killin' ever'-thing.

I reckon.

I got somethin'. The man held out a shiny watch case. Here.

I can't take that off you.

It's mine so I can give it to you.

Elliot shook his head. But why?

I see you go down to the station ever' day waitin' for yer paw. You gonna need this watch. Open it.

Elliot took the watch. He popped the case open. All the dials and levers clicked and turned inside the watch face. It ticked loudly. But the watch ran backward. It was just about the strangest and most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He looked up at Morgan Johns’s smooth face, the way his eyelids blinked slow over large eyes, the glint of silver in his mouth.

The man nodded. Can you read the time on it?

It says eight o'clock.

See? I can too. We about the only two people in the world, I reckon, can tell its time. So you take it.

Maybe. Okay. Just today.

You goin' to the station?

The train's due at nine. Might be early. Sometimes is.

Okay. See you again, Elliot Sweeney. Morgan Johns loped with a jerking awkward stride to the other side of the dirt road.

Mule-drawn wagons swayed past. Some loads were the size of small houses. Dust billowed, floating like a red haze. When Elliot looked again, Morgan Johns was gone.

He took off for the station, his mouth dry already. He squeezed the canteen under his arm and kicked at pebbles to distract himself. He couldn't give in to thirst. The water had to last all day. A messenger in an old uniform hurried past. Elliot hoped the news he carried was good, not like the telegram he had received months ago. Sam Sweeney disappeared, it had read. Disappeared, just like the children he went looking for. His stomach hurt thinking about it.

This marked the ninety-first day since he began his vigil. The ninety-second since his father left.

But something strange took a-hold of him this morning. He had a feeling deep inside where it mattered most that today would be different.

The station was empty. He crossed the platform to the news stand. He spotted a drawing of his father's face on the front page. His heart did a double-time thump when he read the caption of the paper:

SEARCH ABANDONED ~ For missing Newspaper man ~Well-known for his Campaign Against CHILD LABOR

The approaching train whistled and whooshed into the station, bringing with it every kind of dust and dry from fourteen counties around. He listened to the huffing train engine, he sucked in the throat-drying diesel smoke, and he made a mighty decision. Even if every other human on the face of this old earth had given up the search, he would not. He would find his father.

With a lump the size of a fist in his throat, he bought a ticket and boarded the train.

Fact: Only female wasps sting.

Chapter Two

A

n old man, a woman and another boy shared the train carriage with Elliot, none of them talkative. The day dribbled past like cold molasses. His bottom was sore and almost all his bread was gone. He shook his canteen over his open mouth hoping for another drop.

Resigned to his thirst, he screwed the cap back on. Worse than his need for water was his need for a plan. Even after hours to sit and think on the train, he did not have a single idea how he was going to look for his father. He was just a kid.

Beyond his window, clouds of locusts rose up like fine powder in the wind. Their wings glittered in the dying light. The swarm curved toward the train.

As Elliot's carriage passed, the insects latched on. The repulsive bugs covered his window. A single locust, larger than the rest, angled its head at him. Its face! Elliot reeled back. Impossible! Its long nose, its jaws looked human. Fierce eyes glowed orange. It gnashed at the rubber that held the window in place. Why hadn't the others noticed? What was wrong with them?

The large locust gnawed past the rubber. It was trying to get to him. Heart racing, he pressed against the plump, sleeping woman next to him. This couldn't be happening! The insect wiggled farther in, its eyes on Elliot.

The old man across from him whipped his cane up and mashed the locust against the window with a crackle like a dried corn husk. The breath he'd been holding whooshed from his lips. A cloying, sweet smell filled the compartment.

The mass of weird locusts shot away from the train and disappeared.

Thanks, he whispered. His chest hurt. A paltry draft barely cooled the sudden sweat on the back of his neck.

The man frowned. He tugged his cap forward, where it perched on the bridge of his bear-like nose.

All that was left of the locust was part of its head – it no longer looked human, and one leg that tick, tick, ticked against the glass.

Elliot rubbed his face. It must have been a sort of waking nightmare – the insect's human face. It couldn't have been real. The landscape faded as dread darkness crept on spider legs across the fields. Nightfall always left him feeling like there wasn't air enough in the world. It was the time he missed his father most.

The woman beside him clutched at her shawl in her sleep as if she too felt the creeping darkness. Next to the old man, the other boy had crammed his hat almost to his ears and by turning away made it clear he did not want to talk. He looked about twelve years old as well. The old man hadn't said anything since smashing the locust, but piercing dark eyes regarded Elliot from beneath his cap.

Elliot shifted, uncomfortable under this new scrutiny. He tugged the watch from his trouser pocket and rubbed a finger along the scribbled lines engraved on its case. The watch sure was a funny old thing. He popped the case open. Eight o'clock. It had been twelve hours since the start of this journey. He sighed and tried to get settled.

The cat-ta-thunk, cat-ta-thunk of train wheels added cadence to the question that ran in an unending loop in his brain, what-did-I do? What-did-I do?

He looked down at his feet and tried to wiggle cramped toes, recalling how he’d asked his uncle for new boots when he encountered him yesterday. Must be how the cook knew. His uncle's words were bitter: Your father, so famous with his concern for justice! Said he'd be gone a week and it's been three months. All his preachin' 'bout sacrifices of the heart being greater than gold. Well, let me tell you! Gold pays for supper! That money he left for your care is gone. So here I am saddled with a worthless runt of a boy... I'd like to know where the justice is in that!

His father was only lost, just like those disappeared children. And Elliot would find him. The lamp above the seat sputtered and Elliot pulled his father's last letter out of his jacket pocket. He wanted to re-read it before the light fizzled. It likely contained clues that would lead him to his father, if only he could figure it out, if only he was clever enough to figure it out.

He read, mouthing the harder words aloud.

––––––––

Dear Elliot,

I hope this letter finds you well and studying hard. I sent this to Uncle so he could read it to you. Study hard in school. I'm counting on you.

I am getting closer to the end of this investigation and plan to be home soon. Let me tell you what has happened~

With everyone's attention on the drought, missing mine children receive little notice in the papers. I plan to change that with my article - The Mysterious Case of the Vanished Children.

The latest anonymous note indicates the children were supposed to be working in a coal mine called Wingate in West Virginia. Rumor has it the scheme involves parents or relatives selling them. Such a monstrous act is difficult for me to comprehend. Whoever is behind this is very secretive. I wish to catch him out, so must remain as surreptitious as he.

Elliot glanced up at the other boy. Do you know what 'sur-rep-ti-tious' means?

The other boy snickered. I saw you moving your lips. Can't read, huh.

Can, too.

Sure ya can. What are you, twelve? Who ever heard of a twelve-year-old can't read?

Elliot leaned toward the other boy, fists clenched. I can read... as good as any, 'n probly better 'n you!

The boy held up his fist. Them's fightin' words, kid.

The old man’s cane crossed between them. A train's no place to fight, boys, he said. He had an odd sing-song way of talking. He nodded in Elliot's direction, Your watch, lad. Show it once more.

Elliot hesitated. He glanced at what the man had done to the locust, the lightning-fast jab of the cane. The old man had protected him from something, even if it had been partly imagined. He folded his letter away, pulled out the watch, untied it from the string he used as a watch fob, and handed it over, leery but curious.

The man examined it for a few moments, turning it, running a thumb over the engraving, all the while muttering, It is. It is. Finally, he handed it back to Elliot. From Penumbra, that.

No, it's Morgan Johns’s watch. He only lent it to me.

Morgan Johns is a likely name. Where is he?

Not here.

I can see that. The watch came from Penumbra. Strange this fellow having it. Why did he give it to you?

I don't know, told me I might need it. Can you tell me what the scribbles on the case mean?

With a nod of his head at the dead locust, the man drew closer and whispered, The language of Penumbra, a land full of boogies and bugs, monsters and devils.

Elliot shivered as the words washed over him. Perhaps the man was a might touched in the head.

The other boy rolled his eyes. The plump woman snored, her chin folded into itself.

The man rubbed his face, the sound like the scratch of sandpaper. Elliot heard him mutter, For good or evil who's to say?

When the train slowed, Elliot glanced at the other boy. He did not want to fight. He'd been in plenty of fights, and he wasn't one to back down. But right now he had more important things to do than sit around and nurse a bloody nose. Then the other boy held up his fist again, as good as a promise. He inwardly groaned.

The train came to a squealing stop. Beyond the window, there was only the dark. This wasn't good.

The other boy half smirked. This is my stop, kid. Wingate.

My stop, too, Elliot told him, hoping he could get things quickly squared away and the boy could maybe point out the way to the mine. He would find somewhere to lay his head and start his search in the morning.

The old man's cane tapped the floor. Home at last, are we? He struggled to his feet and into the passageway. The woman snorted in her sleep as Elliot squeezed around her.

The crowded train station bustled. Black-dusted smoke hung heavy in the air, moving in drifts, occasionally obscuring the people.

As he climbed down the steps, a savage shove from behind sent him tumbling. He landed on the platform and rolled face up in time to see the other boy staring at something across the depot landing. The boy's face drained of color. Then he leaped from the train, hightailing it through piles of luggage.

What had spooked him? Elliot noticed nothing through the haze.

He'd already lost sight of the old man and the crowd had dispersed. Not wishing to be alone in a strange place, he took off after the other boy, finally catching up to him under a street lamp.

Look, Elliot grabbed the boy's arm, I don't know my way around. Could –

The other boy shook free and said through clenched teeth, Not my problem. Hat pulled low, he took off again.

Without many options, Elliot followed. After a few blocks the street lights were fewer and far between, and the road less populated and scruffier, with boarded-up storefronts and piles of debris.

When the other boy slowed again, he turned on Elliot. Why are you following me? Do you want to fight?

No! I need help is all.

I'll show you what you need. The boy socked Elliot in the face with a left hook that Elliot hadn't seen coming. Pain lanced across his cheek. Angry, he slammed against the other boy's chest, knocking the boy against a wall and sending the boy's hat to the ground.

The boy scrabbled around for the hat but dark curls fell around his ears. Before the boy could cram the hat back on, Elliot knew the terrible, awful truth.

The other boy was a girl.

Wasp venom contains a pheromone that causes other wasps to become more aggressive.

Chapter Three

"W

hat're you doing dressin'