Dust by Arthur G. Slade Page A

dream."
    The lights dimmed all the way this time, and the room grew dark as night. A long, low noise reverberated through the walls. A familiar sound. After a few moments of slow struggle, Robert recognized it as the whistle of a distant train. It was the eerie cadence of time going by, of journeying to another country, of things passing on. It made him feel tired, as though he was about to slip into a dream.
    Then the mirror flashed. The people of Horshoe caught their breath.
    "I see rain," a man exclaimed a few seats away. "Glorious rain."
    "And flowers," a woman said, breathlessly.
    "Dolls!" a girl peeped. "A closet full of dolls!"
    Robert didn't see anything. The others gaped at the mirror, faces slack-jawed or agog with wonder. They were seeing something, but there was nothing for him. Just a dull gray. The mirror wasn't even reflecting light.
    "Matthew," he heard his mother saying quietly. "Oh, Matthew. My dear Matthew."
    Robert swallowed, an acidic taste in his mouth. His mom's faint voice was terrible and sad. Hearing his brother's name made Robert's guts flutter.
    Abram stood, hands behind his back, watching the crowd. He looked happy, apparently content that everything was working properly. Robert still saw nothing—no flowers, no rain, no Matthew. The mirror must be broken, he thought.
    Just then the gray behind the glass began rolling like storm-laden clouds. Winged shapes circled inside shadows. He couldn't look away; the mirror was the only thing that existed.
    A figure appeared and moved close to the mirror's edge, walking with a lopsided, limp. Robert dug his fingers into his legs as the form got closer. Go away! he thought. Go away! He heard grunting and a low rumbling, like ice cracking on a lake. He could make out the shape of a man, near enough that Robert heard his dragging footsteps. Finally he emerged from the fog. He was wearing an army uniform.
    Robert's heart thumped hard in his chest. It was his Uncle Edmund, who had died so long ago, whose picture Robert had committed to memory.
    This was Edmund during the war, alive and breathing but badly injured. He had been hit by shrapnel; his uniform was tattered and bloody. He reached out, fumbled momentarily, and found the frame of the mirror, and it creaked as he leaned on it. Behind Edmund was the battle-field: explosions blossomed brightly, sparks of gunfire dotted the land, smoke blended into storm clouds, wounded men screamed in pain.
    Edmund looked back at the battlefield, then out again through the mirror. His face showed the confusion of a man who had staggered into unfamiliar territory. He squinted, scanned the crowd. He can see us! Robert thought.
    Edmund found Robert, caught his eye for a moment, then swallowed hard, leaning forward so it seemed he might come right through the mirror. He waved weakly, his hand rising slightly above his hip. His mouth moved but produced no sound. Robert thought he was trying to tell him something.
    I'm listening, Robert thought, I'm listening.
    A shell shattered the ridge behind Edmund, sending a blast of heat over Robert. Edmund struggled to stay upright, gesturing desperately with one hand. His voice was muffled when he yelled, and it sounded as though he was saying "Ay-vil! Ay-vil!" He pointed at Abram, who had been standing a few feet from the mirror. "Ayvil! Ayvil!" Then Robert heard him more clearly: "Evil!"
    Abram must have heard too, because his smile faded. He charged at the mirror.
    No! Robert wanted to yell, but he couldn't force the word out of his mouth. Abram plunged his hand through the filmy barrier of the mirror and pierced Edmund's chest. It exploded with crimson light. Edmund screamed, his head thrown back, his hands thrust out in front, one flailing right through the mirror. Then he disappeared.
    The mirror went black, and the audience woke with a shudder, as if startled by a loud noise. They glared at the stage like children whose toys had been taken away from them.
    "The Mirror of All Things