The SAND SIFTER
Julie Lawson
Illustrated by Anna Mah
Copyright © 1990 by Julie Lawson
Illustrations copyright © 1990 by Anna Mah
First Edition
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage, retrieval and transmission systems now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This edition is published by Press Porcépic Limited, 4252 Commerce Circle, Victoria, B.C., V8Z 4M2, with the assistance of the Canada Council.
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Lawson, Julie, 1947-
The sand sifter
ISBN 0-88878-288-8
I. Mah, Anna. II. Title.
PS8573.A97S2 1990 jC813’.54 C90-091176-X
PZ7.L39Sa 1990
1
“I’ve seen the man who makes the sand,” Jessica announced as she and Andrew were playing on the beach.
“No you haven’t.” Andrew kept on shaping the sandy tower of his castle.
“Don’t be silly, Jess. He couldn’t make all this sand. Just look!” Andrew stretched out his arms to take in the curve of the beach. Sand, sand, sand— to either side of the cove and then beyond to the next one, sand to the tide line, and further out beneath the waves, sand under their feet, deep, deep down as far as you can go. “He just couldn’t do it!”
“Well, maybe not all of it. But some. I’ve seen him.”
“No Jess, you haven’t.” And that put an end to that. Andrew took his shovel and started digging the moat.
“And he knows all about you, too.” Jessica added softly. Too softly for Andrew to hear.
In a tumble-down home carved out of the dunes lived the old man who sifted sand. His home was not a castle of sand, nothing fancy with turrets and towers and winding staircases of periwinkle shells. No gardens of cockles or mussels, no flowery sea anenomes teasing the waters of the moat. No, nothing fancy for the sifter of sand. His home shifted as the weather shifted the sands. In the rainy season it was hard and firm, but on dry days it was like a mist, no more solid than air. On a windy day it curved one way, in a slight breeze it curved another. During a storm it fairly tumbled and toppled on top of him. But it never bothered the old man. Even when it seemed like his home was blowing out from under him and over him and likely to disappear altogether— no, that didn’t bother the sifter of sand.
2
It was early in the summer, shortly after moving to Weatherseed that Jessica first heard about the old man.
“He lives in the dunes,” her new friend Carey told her. “And he tells stories. You can come with me if you like. I’m going this afternoon.”
“O.K! Sure! Can I bring my brother?”
“No, better not this time. And don’t tell any-body. Only a few people know about him.”
“Will he tell stories if I’m there?” Jessica asked.
“Oh yes! He loves to tell stories. All kinds of stories! He knows everything, and he’s been everywhere!”
“He just tells stories?”
“Well … he just tells stories and sifts sand.”
“What do you mean, sifts sand?”
“You know … like he takes a handful of sand and puts it in a sieve so that the little bits go through.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To make the right sand for our beach, of course.”
“Oh,” said Jessica. She was not altogether convinced. But she was happy to have a secret.
Later that afternoon Jessica went with Carey to see the sifter of sand. Across the beach they walked, until they came to the dunes. Great masses of sand piled up by the wind, where you could slide and ride as if on the crest of a wave; where you could hide and never be found, or disappear forever, swept up and buried by the shifting sands. Across the dunes they went, climbing up, slipping down, sinking their foot-steps into the sand. Soon they came to the sand sifter’s tumble-down home, deep in the dunes. And there they found him.
He was old, old, old. Why, his body was like his home, shifting in the sands. Sometimes he
looked so frail and slight you’d think he’d blow away on the wind. But then in the next instant, he’d appear so strong and powerful even the waves could not break him. And his face! Weathered by time, furrowed with lines, like the ridges sculpted in the sand by the tides. It seemed like he’d been there forever, as much a part of the dunes as the wind and the sea.
“Don’t shake the sand off before you go in-side,” Carey said. “He doesn’t mind it.”
The old man beamed as they entered, and dusted the sand from their feet. Then he swept it into a pile to be sifted.
He was surrounded by pails. Pails of all shapes and shades, colours and sizes. And every-where you looked were piles of sand! Mountains of sand, peaks and gentle hills of sand! Some pillars stretching up to the ceiling, some no more than a handful. And every pile in its proper place, waiting to be sifted into the proper pail.
And for every type of sand there was a sieve. With big holes, medium, or small. And some so tiny you would hardly know they were there. To sift the fine particles from the coarser ones, and the very fine from the fine, and every type of sand in its proper place
“My wife’s tea strainers,” he said with a wink, catching Jessica’s eye. “Don’t tell her I’ve got them!”
“I didn’t know you had a wife,” said Carey.
“I don’t,” he said with a wink. “But don’t tell her that!”
Jessica
