Dustbowl

A blistering sun banished every hint of cloud cover and baked the life from the land. Sandy’s tanned bare feet shuffled down the dirt road, more like a withered hag than the youth she was. Wisps of soot-like soil rose disturbed as they padded along, ignorant of the scorching ground. Tufts of wheatgrass clutched in her hand brushed lightly against a dilapidated wooden fence; as puffs of seeds took to the wind, flakes of ancient white paint fell to the dust. Beyond were the remnants of a structure. Wooden ruins stuck out of deserted brushland, like standing stones of an archaic religion. Had it been a farmhouse or barn? She gave it no more thought than the dozen others just like it she’d passed that day. Her mind was elsewhere, a place in the past, with close friends, family, a home built by her father’s hands, and a harvest planted and gathered by a community, a place in the future with golden fields striped with blue streams, green trees, with red apple polka-dots. It was all so far, far away.

Her stomach gave a long, low growl, bringing her from the daydream to a starving reality. She had eaten little in the last few days. In truth, it had been months since she had felt truly satisfied. A strong wind kicked up a cloud of dry earth. Sandy threw a sun-scorched arm over her eyes as coarse grains raked her body. Her torn and ragged clothing offered little protection from the elements. She turned her back away from the gust. The cry of a scavenger bird caught her attention, and she risked a peek. The black form took flight from a death-grass field to avoid the brown tempest. An urge crept into her mind, and she stepped off the road onto a dirt berm to see the bird’s origin. From the burnished terrain came a glint of orange, a thing out of place in the beige wastelands. It called to her. She broke into a run as the storm of dust subsided. Well, it was less of a run and more of an exhausted scramble. Dried stalks snapped and crumbled beneath her feet.

At last, she reached the object, a giant, round pumpkin. The bird had already started in on it, having pecked a hole big enough for its head to get into the wet center. It didn’t detour her in the slightest. She plunged her hand inside and came out with a sticky seed-encrusted glob and took a blissful bite, the wet strands of pumpkin leaving steaks on her dirty hands. It was only after several mouthfuls that she noticed how enormous the pumpkin was. As far as she knew, nothing was growing for hundreds of miles, yet here was something and a big something. Could this be the first sign that she was on the right path? She thought back to the beginning of her journey.

* * *

It was the end of the day, and the low-hanging sun spread color across the horizon. The townsfolk spotted the caravan a while ago. At one time, not so long as to have faded from memory, the crops would have been so high as to hide an elephant. Now little grew at all. The wind quickly picked up the loose, dry ground strewn across the road so that any travelers would trail a cloud of brown seen for miles. As the first trucks pulled up, it became clear that this was not an ordinary group of travelers. It was a carnival.

Leading the caravan was a weathered and ancient moving truck. With a barely visible paint outline of some circus logo, the rusted passenger door creaked open, and a tall, thin man with a mustache that had out-grown him stepped out.

“Greetings,” he said with a low bow, “I am Tom Barley of the Barley Bros circus and carnival.” The townsfolk had already gathered along the main drag to see who was coming through. Day-to-day life was slow, with little distraction from drought and the hardship that came along with it. “We are on our way upstate and...”

“Then, I suggest you keep on moving,” a large farmer said, a pitchfork held visibly, but not necessarily threateningly, in his hand.

“The town we just come through said you had a working well. Perhaps we could trade a little entertainment, something to take your mind off your woes for a time, for a little water.” The townsfolk looked to one and other before the farmer spoke up again.

“We got nothing for you. Move on,” he said, holding up the pitchfork.

“.... Yes, I can see that.” The carnival man gave a smile. “We wouldn’t want to cause you any inconvenience. The sun is going down, and the road isn’t a safe place to be at night. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too much to ask then if we merely stayed the night and moved on in the morning.”

“I don’t think...” the farmer started to say when a girl of about twenty took the arm of his shirt and shot him a scornful look. “Daughter, what are you doing out of bed? Are you well enough to be....” She caught his eyes, and he stared back at her, not saying anything for several seconds. She held his gaze and seemed to speak with him without using words. Suddenly, he let out a short, mighty sigh that came out almost like a grunt, and turned back to the carnival man. “I don’t want you talkin’ to nobody. Make sure you’re gone by sunrise.” Then he turned and walked back through the crowd. As the people dispersed, women in wide midwestern dresses shooed curious kids away from the visitors, and everyone seemed to go back to whatever it was they were doing. The carnival man gave the girl a broad smile, which she returned before walking away.

That night, a quiet tapping came upon one truck. The carnival man awoke and answered the call. It was the same girl. “What brings you here so late?”

She said nothing, but he could feel she was there to help, despite her father’s warning of consequences. She gestured to the ground behind her, where two large buckets of water sat. The carnival man ran his hand down his mustache and chin. “You risk much to help strangers you don’t even know. I am grateful, as will be the rest of my troop. Is there some way I can repay you?” Before he even finished speaking, he sensed her answer. That this was an act of kindness with no need for repayment. She smiled at him. “You are unable to speak?”

The girl nodded.

“Ah yes, but somehow I can understand you.”

The girl nodded once again.

“I know you don’t expect payment for the water, but maybe there is something I can do for you, anyway. There is a wonderful strangeness about you, girl. Tell me, have you ever had your fortune read?”

The girl shook her head.

“Very good. Then that is just the thing. I shall wake Madam Lilliana.”

A dim light showed through a small curtained window. As they approached, the door opened, and the silhouette of a young girl cast a fuzzy shadow from a single candle. The carnival man glanced around to see that no one was about and then led the girl to a wooden trailer. “Come in, Sandy. I’ve been expecting you.” The girl stopped, those around her sensing her uncertainty.

“Don’t worry,” the carnival man said, “that’s how you know she’s good.”

The girl looked at him with wide, worried eyes, but then stepped up into the open trailer door.

* * *

The fortuneteller was very young, which surprised Sandy. The title had conjured up images of an old gypsy woman, frail and ancient. This girl had the look of a gypsy, but she couldn’t be over twelve, from Sandy’s guess. The inside of the trailer was a collage of light and dark. Brilliant red and purple silks hung from the ceiling as flames inside paper lanterns flickered dimly, and shadows clung to the further reaches of the dwelling. A table draped with a geometric patterned cloth and flanked by two cushions dominated the room.

“Have a seat, darling,” the fortuneteller said as she nestled in her own cushion. Sandy took a step forward when suddenly the door slammed shut behind her. Startled, she stopped. “Don’t be afraid. Come, please sit.”

Sandy sucked in a deep breath and sat. The fortuneteller produced a small pouch and pulled from within it a worn deck of cards. “These are the cards of the tarot,” she explained. “They will help me get a more accurate reading. Is there something, in particular, you would like to know?”

The girl looked at the soothsayer curiously, then lowered her eyes and bit her lip. “Of course. You would like to know when it will rain again and how to get more water for your town. Let’s see what the cards tell us.”

The fortuneteller handed the girl the deck and told her to shuffle it. She did so, though somewhat awkwardly, and handed them back. Then the fortuneteller began flipping them over one at a time and placing them on the table until seven sat face up. “Now, this is interes—oh dear...”

Sandy sat wide-eyed as the soothsayer meticulously gazed over the cards.

“You are very special, girl. Everything happens for a reason, and it is by no chance that we have met this night. Tomorrow, the town will discover that the well has gone dry, and we will be blamed, though it is no person’s fault.”

Sandy covered her mouth, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

“It will be up to you to restore things.” The fortuneteller ran an outstretched finger across one card. The girl shook her head and put her hand on her chest.

Madam Lilliana looked up at her. “I understand, but you are the only one. You have a gift inside you, and you can use it to save the town, but it will require you to leave all that you know and seek the tree that hangs underground.” The fortuneteller explained as she pointed to an upside down card with a large tree in its picture. Sandy continued to listen, grim hopelessness on her face. “The Chariot signifies you will have to undertake a journey, and the eight of wands puts your goal eight days away.” Madam Lilliana then pointed to the three of pentacles and the wheel. “There will be three signs that you are on the right path. The first is a fleeing shadow that will reveal a treasure that should not belong. Take it with you. The second a headless man, give him the treasure, and he will point the way, and the third is, a mouse on a wall will foretell of a fall.”

The girl waited for the young fortuneteller to go on, but she appeared finished, though a final thought seemed stuck on her lips. Sandy shook her head. The fortuneteller cleared her throat. “I know this makes little sense. I wish I had a clearer vision for you, but that is as I see it, and that isn’t all. To save your town, there must be a sacrifice. It will be up to you to decide if it is worth it.” Sandy bit her bottom lip and took several quick breaths. After what seemed like an eon, she stood and nodded.

Madam Lilliana smiled back at her and bowed from her sitting position. “Very well then. You shouldn’t leave until the morning. Travel only during the day, or else you might miss a sign.”

Sandy nodded acknowledgment, then started for the door.

“There is just one last thing...” Sandy turned back to see the girl was gone and an older woman sitting where she’d been. The old woman rushed forward in a blur, and suddenly all went black.

The next day she awoke in her own bed, the night before seeming like a distant dream. The sounds of yelling aroused her, and she dressed quickly to see what the commotion was. Outside, the townsfolk had gathered and were yelling at the Carnival Man. Calls of “thieves” and “the well is dry” rose in angry voices. The man explained that they had nothing to do with the well, as Sandy’s father held up a bucket that someone found near the trucks.

Sandy rushed over to her father and pulled his arm down. She took the bucket and patted her chest. “Sandy, what are you doing out of bed? Please tell me you had nothing to do with this.”

“The girl brought us a couple of buckets, that is all. She was trying to be kind. I swear we had no more than that,” the carny admitted.

“That’s not possible. My daughter is ill. Most days, she lacks the strength to even get out of bed.”

Sandy looked around at all the townsfolk. How could she explain everything and resolve this? Then she spotted the road stretched out in the distance, waves of heat devouring it at its end. Was it calling to her? Was such a thing possible? Suddenly, all the events of the previous night came rushing back in. She knew what she had to do. Her first step would be the hardest. The long, unending path of dirt differentiated from the surrounding land by deep ruts and sometimes long chains of broken posts. She turned, her whole body facing the endless track. The commotion fell further into the background of her mind, until all she could hear was the dusty wind. Then she walked.

It was after perhaps only ten steps that someone took notice and alerted her father. “Sandy, what the heck are you doing?” he asked. She stopped, looking back over her shoulder to him and the rest of the gathered group.

“I’m going to save us...” her words were clear and deep. The townsfolk stood there in complete shock. None of them had heard her speak in years. Her illness was supposed to have rendered her mute. Her father started after her, but the little girl who was the carnival fortuneteller stepped in front of him.

“Do not try to stop her.” the fortuneteller said. “She is this town’s best chance for survival.”

That was six days ago.

It had been difficult to transport the pumpkin. After all, Sandy was not strong enough to carry it for very long. She had tried rolling it, which worked okay, but dirt and dust had started to get inside, so she stopped. She was tired and frustrated. It had been almost seven days, with only one of the fortuneteller’s signs appearing. This seemed to be the first one, which gave her some hope, but the rest of the day passed, and she hadn’t traveled very far at all with the orange burden. On the bright side, at least she had something to eat. Sandy let out a sigh. How long could she keep on like this?

Not far down the road, she glimpsed a partly collapsed barn hovering in the heatwaves. Maybe I can find something there. The thought seemingly came into existence from an external source, as much as from inside her. She rolled the pumpkin just off the road and into a small ditch to hide it. Not that she had seen a single person once on her journey.

She hastened toward the barn, eager to find a way to move the pumpkin. Little remained of the structure. The entire thing must have collapsed in on itself years ago. Perhaps it had been a tornado or simply years of neglect after being abandoned. She walked around the outside, looking through the open spots in the walls to find something useful. As she rounded the last corner, a wooden wheelbarrow sat undisturbed against the structure, like a patch of blue sky in a thunderstorm. She smiled and jumped in the air before retrieving the wheelbarrow. She set it on the ground and pushed it to test the wheel. It rolled with relative ease, so she hurried off to pick up the pumpkin.

Sandy immediately regretted pushing the pumpkin into the ditch as it proved too difficult to roll out, and took all her strength to lift it high enough to be put in the wheelbarrow. She ate several handfuls of pumpkin guts just to lighten it a little. Afterward, she sat in the shade provided by a freshly loaded barrow to catch her breath.

When she felt a little better, she got up and pushed the transport down the road. A bit of day remained, and she wanted to make the most of it. Tomorrow would be day eight.

She was once again making okay progress, at least she felt she was, now that the pumpkin was more mobile. As the sun finally met the horizon, a black silhouetted figure appeared down the road a great distance away. It wasn’t much more than a speck, but it stood out like a sliver in the beige void. Sandy stopped and let the rough wheelbarrow handles slide out of her hands. She took several seconds to catch her breath. Who could this person be out here in the middle of nowhere? What if they want the pumpkin? There was little chance of fighting off anyone who tried to take it from her; this she knew. Could she run or hide? No, that would do little good. She certainly wasn’t faster than anything while having to push the wheelbarrow, and even if there was something nearby to hide behind, she was likely already spotted. No, the best plan she decided was to push on and hope this stranger would be friendly.

The heat of the day subsided much slower than the dwindling light. The figure still lay in the distance. As darkness crept on, it became apparent that they would not meet until tomorrow. Unless the person came upon her during the night. That thought alone kept Sandy up. Her mind conjured up all manner of wicked things this person might unleash upon her. However, eventually, sleep came. It was restless and full of dreams. But when she opened her eyes, the sun had just come up. This was to be the last day of her journey.

Sandy ate a breakfast of fairly dry pumpkin guts before starting along the road again. Much to her surprise, the figure still stood in the distance, having not moved since the night before. Had it moved at all in the last day? She quickened her pace, her feet springing off the dirt lightly, leaving behind little puffs on either side of the single track left by the wheelbarrow.

After an hour or so, she was sure the figure wasn’t moving toward her. And after several more, she stood in front of it, a headless scarecrow, in a dead field, just off the road. The fortuneteller said the second sign was a headless man. This has got to be what she was talking about. I just need to give him the pumpkin, and he’ll point the way. She took a couple more handfuls of pumpkin nourishment before heaving the big thing out of the wheelbarrow and setting it next to the scarecrow. Then she stood back and looked at it expectantly. The lifeless form remained still, its two straw-filled arms outstretched, a bare pole jutting out of the neck-hole of a fading and tattered wool shirt.

She waited for several minutes before deciding she needed to do what she’d dreaded, put the pumpkin where the scarecrow’s head used to be. The thing was taller than her, which made lifting the massive pumpkin to its shoulders even more daunting. With effort, she placed the pumpkin back into the wheelbarrow, which she positioned carefully at the base of the scarecrow. Sandy stepped up onto the precarious platform and steadied herself, taking hold of one of the scarecrow’s arms in the process. It seemed sturdy enough. Then she worked her arms underneath the pumpkin and lifted. Though it had lost considerable weight since she first found it, it was still heavy. She braced it against the scarecrow’s body, which allowed her to roll it up the stickly man practically. She strained and huffed, but eventually, she had it above her head and in position. With a final push, she rolled the pumpkin’s hole over the scarecrow’s neck, restoring the man.

Sandy let out a long sigh. Suddenly, the scarecrow tipped ever so slowly backward from the weight of its new cranium. She grabbed at the figure, attempting to right it. The wheelbarrow shifted on the soft earth. Sandy fell. Her grip on the scarecrow held firm. However, the frail body of the newly restored straw man did not. As she hit the ground, a scrap of straw, a stick-filled shirt, and a pumpkin that didn’t survive its impact with the earth joined her. What have I done?

Emotion overtook her. She lay motionless in the dirt amongst the remains of the scarecrow. Tracks of mud dripped down her face as tears gathered the dust from her skin. It was too much, and she was exhausted. This entire journey had been crazy. What had she been thinking? So what if she had found some signs? The clues were vague enough, and she was desperate enough that anything could have sufficed as a sign. How could she leave her family? When was the last time she had any water? It was eight days back to her town. How could she possibly make it?

Sandy didn’t move until the sun peaked in the sky. As the sun began to bake her properly, she rolled over and pushed herself to her feet. The remnant of a scarecrow lay there, its new head in pieces, its single-arm outstretched, a finger-like branch pointing to the distance.

She blinked her eyes. Was it pointing the way, or did she just want it to be? Her will to go on had suddenly given out almost unnaturally when the pumpkin fell. What did she have to lose by following it now? If she didn’t find water, she would die out here long before she made it home. If the scarecrow wasn’t pointing at anything, what did it really matter? She left it and walked alone through the desolate field.

Sandy had only gone a few dozen steps when she saw it. A wall, dancing in the heat waves, less than a mile away. The discovery gave her what she needed to press on, and her pace picked up a bit. After another ten minutes, she stopped. Before her sat a cobblestone wall, perhaps three feet high and ten feet long, out in the middle of nothingness. Root-like branches entangled it in dark brown shackles. Sandy thought back to the fortuneteller’s clue. A mouse on a wall will foretell of a fall. There was no mouse in sight. And what about a fall? As if she had willed it into existence, a mouse appeared on top of the stone structure. This is the sign! She almost couldn’t believe it, though there it was. Moments ago, she had nearly given up all hope, but the fortuneteller had been right, and she had made it! Now there was just the fall, and she hoped she wasn’t involved. Falling off the wheelbarrow had been painful enough. She touched a scrape on her elbow. It had only bled a little and was now caked with dirt. Nevertheless, it hurt now. She hadn’t noticed it before.

Without warning, the ground gave way and swallowed her up. She fell through darkness and landed in cold deep water. Her tired muscles struggled to bring her to the surface. She wriggled out of her ragged clothes, which threatened to drag her deeper. Through the watery lens, she thought she could see specks of light, like a starry sky. Her lungs burned. Fighting with all her might, she clawed her way to the surface. Air filled her lungs and her heartbeat furiously. She did her best to calm down, floating motionless. Her near-naked body a white beacon in the dark watery void. An unseen cloud of filth drifted from her as the pool washed her dry, cracked skin. Above hung a massive cavernous expanse. Light specks like glowing freckles adorned the ceiling. Among them stood a gigantic tree. Well, stood wasn’t the right word as it hung upside down from the cave’s dome.

In the windless cavern, a sourceless breeze shook the branches of the tree. All the lights across the ceiling twinkled. Sandy slowly rotated in the water. She lost all notion of time. She just floated. Waited. Watched. A minute could have passed or a thousand years. The illusionary wind grew in intensity, rocking the tree. The star-like dots of light became detached from the rock and swirled around in a chaotic tempest. Sandy blinked for the first time in an eternity, and all was black.

She awoke in her bed in her home. Her father sat beside her. He looked up as she stirred. “You’re awake. Thank god! I feared the worst when you left. But you came home to us.” He threw his arms around her and held her. A soft sob slipped out of him before he released her. “Are you alright, Sandy? Is everything okay, girl?”

Sandy nodded and gave a weak smile. Her head felt light. How had she gotten back here? Then she looked at his eyes, suddenly remembering, “The well…” she whispered.

“The well’s dry honey...it’s...” From outside came a commotion. Sandy heard yelling and people rushing about. Her father helped her to her feet, and they stepped out to see what had transpired.

A crowd had gathered around the town square, where they cheered and laughed. “What’s going on?” asked Sandy’s father.

“The well! The well is overflowing with water!” someone cried.

“What..?” They made their way to the front of the group. Sure enough, pure liquid rushed from the metal pump set in stone. “How is this possible?”

Sandy didn’t have any explanation, but she knew the tree and the lights had something to do with it. She later found out the townsfolk found her lying next to the well the night before. She never spoke again from that day forward, but everywhere she went, water seemed to flow back into the land, seeping up out of the ground, from a magical reservoir deep within the earth.