The Glory Wind Read online

  Valerie Sherrard

  Fitzhenry & Whiteside

  Copyright © 2010 Valerie Sherrard

  EPub edition copyright © July 2011 Valerie Sherrard

  Published in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside

  195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8

  Published in the United States by Fitzhenry & Whiteside,

  311 Washington Street, Brighton, Massachusetts 02135

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of Fitzhenry & Whiteside or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5, fax (416) 868-1621.

  By purchasing this e-book you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any unauthorized information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Fitzhenry & Whiteside.

  www.fitzhenry.ca [email protected]

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  Fitzhenry & Whiteside acknowledges with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.

  Cover and interior design by Erik Mohr

  Cover illustration by Erik Mohr

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Sherrard, Valerie

  The glory wind / Valerie Sherrard.

  ISBN 978-1-55455-170-5

  eISBN 978-1-55455-957-2

  I. Title.

  PS8587.H3867G56 2010 jC813’.6 C2010-904390-1

  U.S. Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (Library of Congress Standards)

  Sherrard, Valerie.

  The glory wind / Valerie Sherrard.

  [192] p. : cm.

  Summary: Luke meets Gracie, and despite her being a girl, they become close friends. When the citizens of the small, rural, 1950s town that Luke lives in learn that Gracie and her mother have a shady past, Luke must decide whether he will stand up for his new friend or save his own reputation.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-55455-170-5

  eISBN 978-1-55455-957-2

  1. Interpersonal relations – Juvenile fiction. 2. Courage – Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

  [Fic] dc22 PZ7.S5477Gl 2010

  You can always tell a real friend:

  when you’ve made a fool of yourself he doesn’t

  feel you’ve done a permanent job.

  - Laurence J. Peter

  By this, and many other definitions,

  I am blessed with more than my share of real friends.

  This book is for:

  Janet Aube

  Darlene Cowton

  Karen Gauvin

  John Hambrook

  Marsha Skrypuch

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many, many thanks to my fabulous editor, Christie Harkin. In addition to her brilliant editorial guidance, I am ever so grateful for her patience, her support and her friendship.

  Love and thanks to my husband, Brent, who has been unwavering in his support of my work. His enthusiasm for this story in particular has meant more to me than he will ever know.

  Some of the characters in The Glory Wind were named by and for students. For these contributions, sincere thanks go to Karly Grasse, Kevin Sarrazin, and Leah Zecchino.

  PART ONE

  The Arrival

  We like to measure.

  We like to know the size and strength and movement of a thing.

  Measuring helps us understand where and how something fits into our world.

  Tornados are measured on a scale called the Fujita scale (also known as the F-Scale) which is named for Dr. Tetsuya Theodore “Ted” Fujita. Dr. Fujita’s research unlocked many of the mysteries of tornados.

  The F-Scale measures a tornado’s strength—from F0, the least intense, all the way up to F5, which is the most intense.

  Chapter One

  When I think about all the circumstances that might have been part of our first meeting, I can’t help but be glad for the way it actually happened.

  It was 1946 and a scorching July afternoon. I sometimes wish I knew the exact date, but maybe it’s best that I don’t. Maybe being whittled down to a single day would make it too narrow and small. Some events need more breathing room than others. This was one of them.

  I was crossing through the field, coming back from Dempsey’s farm. I’d gone there hoping to find Keane Dempsey at home and bored. That was a requirement for him to let me stick around.

  “You might as well know,” he liked to tell me, “that you wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t bored out of my skull.” Then he’d tap his head. I was never exactly sure what the head tap meant, and it never seemed like a good idea to ask.

  Keane said I was lucky he ever hung out with a little kid like me. At thirteen, he had a two-year advantage, plus he told me once he was growing hair in places I’d never guess. There was no sign of a beard starting, and I spent a lot of time wondering about the location of these mysterious hairs of his.

  I never said anything back; he was the only kid around whose place was close enough for me to walk to. Most farms around Junction are on the north side of town, where the land is better for crops. Of the few farms here on the south side, the Dempseys’ was the only other one with a kid near my age. He could be a pain sometimes, but having someone to do things with once in a while was better than nothing.

  Besides, his uncle from North Dakota had sent him an old copy of Keds Handbook of Sports and Games last year. You can spend a whole afternoon doing some of the things in there. Keane liked the games best, but there were exercises too, and we always worked on them some. We figured that if we kept at it regular, we’d eventually have muscles like Charles Atlas, The World’s Most Perfectly Developed Man.

  But none of that mattered that day. Mrs. Dempsey gave me a cookie and the news that Keane had gone to Malcolm Nessling’s place and wouldn’t be back before supper chores.

  I headed home, cutting through the field where our sheep grazed, and crossed a second field to a double row of lodgepole pines. Beyond that was a hilly area, rock-peppered with a scattered mix of trees and shrubs. I decided to stop there for a while.

  It’s my favourite place to be when I’m alone.

  Except, I wasn’t.

  She was partly hidden by a bush, kneeling on the ground with her hands bunched in front of her chin as though she were praying. Her face was framed by brown hair that sprang from her head in loops and spirals. The position she was in put me in mind of an oversized prairie dog in spite of the navy skirt and red blouse she was wearing.

  The sound of my feet scuffing along the ground must have reached her because all of a sudden her head popped up. She darted looks about until she saw me. Her hands dropped to her sides and she fixed her eyes on me. I had the odd sensation that I was trespassing.

  I stood there immobile and confused as she stared at me. After all, there’d never been a little girl in my field before, least of all one in such an odd pose.

  She moved first, getting to her feet, brushing her knees off, and crossing her arms over her chest. She maintained that pose for a moment or two, and then walked toward me. As she approached, she looked at me like I was a big, ugly toad that was almost ce
rtainly going to give her warts.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Luke.”

  “I’m Gracie.” She made it sound like a grand declaration. “Is this your field, Luke?”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by the question. Obviously, the land couldn’t belong to an eleven-year-old boy.

  “Well, is it?”

  I could see that she meant to keep right on asking until I came up with some kind of answer so I said yes, it was my field.

  Gracie nodded. Then she said, “Well, I’m not leaving, if that’s what you think.”

  I wanted to answer her, to say something that would let her know she wasn’t going to prance onto my property and start acting like the boss, but my head felt kind of befuddled. After a few seconds, and doubtless emboldened by my silence, Gracie put her hands on her hips. I watched her in fascinated confusion, wondering what might come out of her next.

  “My daddy was a war hero,” she said.

  It was the last thing I might have expected and yet I don’t recall being particularly surprised.

  “Is that so?” I said.

  “Of course it is!” Her right hand left its hip long enough to wag a finger at me. “He died fighting for his country.”

  I agreed that would make him a hero. And I hoped she wouldn’t ask about my father and what he’d been doing during the war.

  Luckily, Gracie was busy with her own thoughts.

  “He doted on me.” She thrust her head forward and shook it. “See this? My daddy loved my curly hair.”

  I offered a sort of grunt in reply, so as not to be rude. It seemed to be enough for her, for she went on after a quick pause to shove the curly-hair-her-daddy-had-loved back away from her face.

  “I’m eleven now!” she declared next. “I had my birthday in June. It was just a few weeks ago, on the 22nd. I got a cake with a balloon tied to it and a new pair of patent leather shoes. My mother bought them for me at Eaton’s Department Store in Winnipeg. It’s the biggest, grandest store you ever did see.”

  “I’ve been there hundreds of times,” I said. Actually, I’d been there twice.

  “Do you have any snakes?”

  The change of subject threw me. It would be a while before I’d get used to Gracie’s ability to switch topics almost mid-sentence. Even so, I managed to ask what she meant.

  “You mean do I have any snakes on me…or are there any on the property?”

  “On you?” She rolled her eyes and laughed. Her hair shook and shimmered like a wild waterfall. “Why would you have snakes on you?”

  I wished with all my might that I had a snake in my pocket or down my shirt. But, of course, I didn’t.

  “What do you want a snake for, anyway?” I asked.

  “For a snake race.” She glanced at me and seemed to decide that I needed a full explanation. “We’d need two of them.”

  “Well, who wouldn’t know that?” I said. “Anyone knows you can’t race a snake alone.” The truth was I’d never raced snakes. The idea had never occurred to me.

  But Gracie had already moved on. “I can do all my times tables right up to seven. Can you?”

  Here, at least, I had her. “To nine,” I said proudly, ready to prove it.

  “Arithmetic is boring anyway,” she said. She offered an exaggerated yawn and then clapped her hands so suddenly that I jumped back a little. “My mother is making raspberry jam! Do you want to come to my place and have a slice of bread and jam?”

  Her place? It hadn’t crossed my mind to wonder where she lived but as soon as she said the words I realized that it was probably the Sharpe place. It had been empty for a couple of years, ever since old widow Sharpe had died.

  Alden Sharpe, her only son, was married to a girl from Winnipeg and he worked in the city as a shoe salesman. He liked to say that leaving Junction was the best move he ever made. After his mother’s funeral he’d put the family home up for sale but times being what they were, there’d been no offers. We’d heard last month that he’d rented the place, except when weeks went by without a tenant it seemed that the rumour wasn’t true.

  “Where do you live?” I asked, just in case.

  Gracie smiled. Her gold-flecked hazel eyes shone in the light and her loose curls formed a shining halo around her small, sun-browned face. Something odd happened in my stomach.

  “We moved into the house over there,” she said with a wave in the right direction.

  “When’d you do that?”

  “Yesterday. So, do you want to come for bread ’n jam or not?”

  The thought of fresh warm jam on a piece of bread had taken hold on me, so I didn’t need any persuasion.

  The house looked pretty much as it always had, which surprised me a little. I guess I’d expected something different, something that proved there were new people living inside. Instead, it stood there, as dark and unwelcoming as it had been when old widow Sharpe had lived there.

  Gracie flung the door open and stomped in noisily, calling to her mother that she’d brought Luke over and was the jam ready and could we have some.

  A head peeked out from the kitchen, broke into a smile, and told us to c’mon in and plunk ourselves down. I could smell the jam as we made our way to the kitchen, twisting in and around boxes and suitcases that were scattered about the floor.

  “Well, good for you, Gracie!” her mother said, leaning down to kiss Gracie on the forehead. “You found yourself a friend right off. Hello, Luke! I’m Raedine.”

  She turned and reached out to me. I had a horrifying thought that she was going to kiss me too, but all she did was take my arm and tug me over to the table, which was covered with stacks of dishes and things. It seemed she’d begun the unpacking process but hadn’t gotten very far with it.

  “I just found some jars in the nick of time,” she said, plopping down on a stool near the counter. “Didn’t have time to put anything away while I looked. I suppose most folks would think it was crazy to be doing this before we’ve even unpacked. But doesn’t it make the house smell heavenly?”

  As she sawed slices from a loaf of bread and smeared them with the fresh confection, I tried to but couldn’t picture my mother leaving a huge mess all over the house so she could go off to pick berries and make jam.

  “You want a cup of tea with this, Luke?”

  I said no thanks to the tea and was given a mug of cold water instead. Then she balanced a plate with my slice of bread on it on top of some cups and saucers in front of me. It was unbelievably delicious but I didn’t tell her that in case she thought I was hinting for more. Even though the war was over, sugar still had to be used sparingly.

  When we’d finished our bread, Gracie took me upstairs to see her room. A blanket had been tacked over the window and, like the rest of the house, there were things all over the place.

  “I haven’t decided what to call it yet,” she told me, holding her arms wide apart and twirling.

  “You’re going to name your room?”

  “Of course I am.” She seemed puzzled that anyone would be surprised at that.

  A little while later, as I made my way home, I thought about that, and about racing snakes, and about mothers who made jam while their house was upside-down messy.

  And for some reason that wasn’t clear to me, I said nothing to my folks about having met our new neighbours.

  Chapter Two

  There’s no hurrying two stubborn people when they’re at odds about something, which is why the waiting line at the post office had come to a standstill. Like a lot of arguments, it was hard to tell who started it.

  It was the day after I’d met Gracie, and I was in town with my mother, already fidgeting and regretting my decision to come.

  “You know perfectly well that I don’t accept these.” Mrs. Melchyn’s voice sounded as if the postmaster, Ned Aukland, had offered her a handful of spittlebugs instead of the coins he was holding out.

  “The tombac is legal tender in this country, ma’am.�
� Ned set the change down in front of her and crossed his arms over his chest.

  I listened while Mrs. Melchyn declared that she’d accept the Victory Nickel when it actually contained nickel, and not one minute sooner. By then the argument had gone on for three or four minutes while the rest of us stood there waiting.

  My attention drifted around the room, landing on a silvery web over the door. A fat spider hunched there, still as a stone, waiting and watching. Picturing the spider’s lightning strike and the battle that would follow, I willed a fly that was buzzing against the windowpane to venture over. But minutes dragged along without a sign of lunch delivering itself to the spider.

  I lost interest. My focus moved along, looking for a place to settle. The nickel argument was still going on and it seemed as though everything else in the room was frozen like it was in a photograph.

  I tapped my mother’s arm.

  “Can I wait outside?”

  “Well, all right, but stay on the step.”

  I was out the door like a shot. Ma has been known to change her mind and I wasn’t taking any chances. I planted myself on the top step and looked around, just in case any of my friends were in town.

  No such luck. I did see Mrs. Naismith, but I leaned forward, folded my arms over my knees, and ducked my head in there before she noticed me. Mrs. Naismith is the grade five and six Sunday School teacher. Anytime I see her outside of church she asks me if I have my memory work done. Then she’ll stand there and prompt me by reciting a few words at a time, like I might suddenly remember what comes next. She does that even if it’s only Monday, though why she’d think anyone would know it on Monday, I have no idea.

  I always do my Sunday School lesson on Saturday, right after my bath. Ma makes me say my memory verse for her on Sunday morning, to make sure I have it right. Then Pa gives me a penny for the collection plate. That makes me feel like I’m earning the money I give to God, though what good a penny is to Him I couldn’t say. Sometimes I think I could make better use of those pennies on some jawbreakers at Clive’s General Store, and that kind of sinful thought reminds me that I need to get to church all right.