A Town Called Dust: The Territory 1 Read Online Free
Author: Justin Woolley
unfurled. “Yes,” he said, “I am. Now, if we’re gonna get away early we need to be ready to load at first light.”
“Sure,” Squid said, because for once his Uncle’s demands seemed reasonable. It was a bit of a trip into town so it made sense to get loaded up as soon as they could.
“One paddock of dirt is already barreled up and just needs to be loaded onto the carriage, but this paddock here,” Uncle gestured around, “is still sittin’ on the ground.”
Squid’s heart sank. Uncle looked at him and smiled, his round cheeks pushing his eyes half-closed.
“You better get goin’, maggot.”
There was no moon in the sky that night but the stars were out in all their glory, sprinkles of light clustered around a brilliant white stripe across the sky. Squid looked back over what he could see of the paddock in the colorless light. The field was turned far too lightly. They may as well have spent the whole afternoon kicking the dirt over with their feet. The deeper the turn, the better the dirt, but that meant a slower plow and usually two or three runs. There was no time to fix it now.
The Horse snorted as it looked at Squid, its front right foot scraping the dirt. Squid wished, not for the first time, that he wasn’t afraid. He wanted to be brave enough to stand up to Uncle, to stand up to The Horse, and especially to stand up to that gate so he could escape and go back to school.
“You already hate me so I guess I might as well tell you we’re gonna be out here a while longer,” Squid said to The Horse as he removed the plow from the harness, ready to attach the dirt loader. It was designed to run along the ground, the fertilized dirt moving up an old tin chute and into a wooden barrel. Squid dragged the loader over, thankful for the physical work now as the cold night air pressed in on him. His stomach growled its objection; he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He lifted an empty barrel up onto the platform, tied it down and moved the chute into position. Squid had been through this routine so many times in his life that it was all but automatic. He wondered if he could sleep and still manage to maneuver the equipment around the paddock. Squid stepped forward to grab The Horse’s harness, and the animal took a step away. Squid sighed.
CHAPTER 2
Squid awoke to the familiar spray of morning light through the cracks in the walls. He watched the gentle swarms of red dust dance in the streamers of light for a few moments. His head was heavy with an insistent dull ache. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all. It had only been a few hours from dawn when he’d finished collecting the turned dirt and he could barely remember stumbling into the small outhouse he called his bedroom.
He twisted around, levering himself onto his feet. His mattress, so worn and thin that it was little more than torn material and missing cushion, was doubled over so that it would fit in the cramped space and even Squid, as small as he was, needed to curl up to fit on it. He slipped off his bed clothes, an old fertilizer bag with holes cut for his head and arms, and stretched out his body.
In the corner of the outhouse was a dark wooden box with patterns carved into the lid, thirty-six leaves in symmetrical spirals that met in the middle. Squid ran his fingers over the smooth rises and falls in the polished wood. He opened the box, taking out his good shirt and pants. Squid had two sets of clothes: the rough hessian he wore around the farm and a cotton shirt and pants for wearing in public, or in the event that Aunt and Uncle ever received visitors, something that had happened twice in the fifteen years he’d lived on the farm. At least if he ever got up the courage to run away it wouldn’t take long to pack.
Squid picked up the tin cup that sat in the dirt next to his bed. Inside, on a fraying string coiled like a snake, was his key. He lifted it out, letting it dangle in front of his eyes. It was a small thing, really, and
“Sure,” Squid said, because for once his Uncle’s demands seemed reasonable. It was a bit of a trip into town so it made sense to get loaded up as soon as they could.
“One paddock of dirt is already barreled up and just needs to be loaded onto the carriage, but this paddock here,” Uncle gestured around, “is still sittin’ on the ground.”
Squid’s heart sank. Uncle looked at him and smiled, his round cheeks pushing his eyes half-closed.
“You better get goin’, maggot.”
There was no moon in the sky that night but the stars were out in all their glory, sprinkles of light clustered around a brilliant white stripe across the sky. Squid looked back over what he could see of the paddock in the colorless light. The field was turned far too lightly. They may as well have spent the whole afternoon kicking the dirt over with their feet. The deeper the turn, the better the dirt, but that meant a slower plow and usually two or three runs. There was no time to fix it now.
The Horse snorted as it looked at Squid, its front right foot scraping the dirt. Squid wished, not for the first time, that he wasn’t afraid. He wanted to be brave enough to stand up to Uncle, to stand up to The Horse, and especially to stand up to that gate so he could escape and go back to school.
“You already hate me so I guess I might as well tell you we’re gonna be out here a while longer,” Squid said to The Horse as he removed the plow from the harness, ready to attach the dirt loader. It was designed to run along the ground, the fertilized dirt moving up an old tin chute and into a wooden barrel. Squid dragged the loader over, thankful for the physical work now as the cold night air pressed in on him. His stomach growled its objection; he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He lifted an empty barrel up onto the platform, tied it down and moved the chute into position. Squid had been through this routine so many times in his life that it was all but automatic. He wondered if he could sleep and still manage to maneuver the equipment around the paddock. Squid stepped forward to grab The Horse’s harness, and the animal took a step away. Squid sighed.
CHAPTER 2
Squid awoke to the familiar spray of morning light through the cracks in the walls. He watched the gentle swarms of red dust dance in the streamers of light for a few moments. His head was heavy with an insistent dull ache. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all. It had only been a few hours from dawn when he’d finished collecting the turned dirt and he could barely remember stumbling into the small outhouse he called his bedroom.
He twisted around, levering himself onto his feet. His mattress, so worn and thin that it was little more than torn material and missing cushion, was doubled over so that it would fit in the cramped space and even Squid, as small as he was, needed to curl up to fit on it. He slipped off his bed clothes, an old fertilizer bag with holes cut for his head and arms, and stretched out his body.
In the corner of the outhouse was a dark wooden box with patterns carved into the lid, thirty-six leaves in symmetrical spirals that met in the middle. Squid ran his fingers over the smooth rises and falls in the polished wood. He opened the box, taking out his good shirt and pants. Squid had two sets of clothes: the rough hessian he wore around the farm and a cotton shirt and pants for wearing in public, or in the event that Aunt and Uncle ever received visitors, something that had happened twice in the fifteen years he’d lived on the farm. At least if he ever got up the courage to run away it wouldn’t take long to pack.
Squid picked up the tin cup that sat in the dirt next to his bed. Inside, on a fraying string coiled like a snake, was his key. He lifted it out, letting it dangle in front of his eyes. It was a small thing, really, and
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