Where Bluebirds Fly (14 page)

Mercy’s eyes brim and she turns to John, shaking her head. “Oh, John. I am so sorry! I should not have told her!”

Dread and bile fill my mouth, and my limbs shake with a violence to rival Anne’s.

Anne Sr. stares at John, her gaze lighting like a match-struck.
 

“John Montague, be you in league with the dark one? Have you signed his book?”

The hornets whir to life, and I see the word,
death
, flash, blinking red in my head.
 

“No!” I scream, launching myself at Ms. Putnam’s feet with outstretched arms. Blocking John.

“Please, Mum, John is an innocent—
incapable
of deceit. Of lying, even!”

John opens his mouth, and stutters. My heart bleeds in my chest at the thought of him gone from me. Back to the dirt, with the rest of my family.

“I l-l-love God, Mum. I would
never
do wrong.”

Anne Sr.’s eyes are hard as flint. She juts a finger toward the door. “Mercy. Go and fetch Constable Corwin.”

“No! No! No!”

I fly in front of John, spreading my arms wide. “You shall
never
take him! Or hang him! You shall have to kill me first!”

A blinding red rage grips me. I will hurt her now, if she’s so daft to try and touch him.

Mercy stands frozen, hands covering her face, appalled at the circumstance she’s created.

Mrs. Putnam shrieks, stamping her foot on the floor at my insubordination. “
Now,
Mercy!”
 

Mercy bolts, eyes cast down, out the door.

Anne Jr. continues her theatrics, writhing and making strangled sounds from the floor. I’ve learned, when Anne’s eyes roll and jiggle the fit be real, but now, every once and again she steals a glance at me. She’s pretending.

I grasp John’s hand, hurtling toward the front door.

“Where do you think you are going?” Anne Sr. screams, a bit of spittle flying. Her eyes are mad. A rabid animal.

I yell over my shoulder, “My brother is innocent, same as most of the accused in Salem.”
 

Years of hatred, encased in years of silent servitude, crack open and overflow from my mouth.

I stop, scowling back at the writhing girl. “Sarah Good, a poor beggar-woman. Tiny Dorcas Good, Anne? Bewitching you?
Dorcas is but four years old.
What could that child do to you? You’re right the devil is in Salem, but it’s in his works, not the Man in Black. Selfishness, greed,
and lies
.”

“You will both hang!” Anne Sr. shrieks.
 

She lunges, grasping for my frock. I twirl out of her reach. Her desperate fingers clutch to find purchase on the fabric.
 

I wrangle out of her grasp and haul John toward freedom.

I kick open the door with my boot-heel and plunge him out through the thigh-high snow, slogging headlong across the yard for the cornfield.

“Please, open. Oh, dear merciful heavens let it open,” I whisper over and over as we charge into the withering, yellowed rows.
 

* * *

Chapter 12

Truman bolted through the corn, half-screaming into the walkie-talkie. “Ram, can you see him ennawhere?”

His reply crackled with static. “No, not yet.”

Turning, he searched above the corn tops for the observation tower. It was built precisely for such occasions, but never used in the past three years of the maze.

“Try to send out a call to the other talkies.”

He skidded to a stop in front of the first one, mounted on a stalk. It was Ethan’s job to go through the maze once a week and to check the batteries. With the sheer size of it, they’d devised this back-up plan. Eight different talkies were planted throughout the leafy puzzle to lead children to the exits. Like an auditory trail of breadcrumbs.

A few rows over, the crackle of the Victrola started.

“Oh, please, not now.”
 

Ram’s voice sounded from the stalk. “Can you hear me? Tommy?”
 

Truman depressed the button on the mounted talkie. “I’m at number one, it works. Keep calling him and keep trying. I so do not want to call in a ‘copter; it will be terrible press.”

“I’ve got the older kids going out in pairs, starting at the four corner entrances, closing in toward the center.”

A rustling to the north caught his ear. He bolted, changing directions.

A beat up trainer disappeared into a neighboring row ahead.
 
Disembodied crying erupted directly beside his ear. He whirled, tripping. It faded in and out, like a stereo turned up then down. His head swiveled, trying to keep up with the circling sound.

The snuffling rose to howling.
 
Howling like an animal in pain.

The raspy voice surrounded him, a puff of breath into his ear.

He whirled. His heart throbbed, skipping a beat.

Nothing, no one anywhere.

“Wot is going on now? I dunna have time for this!”

Truman flew to the spot where the shoe had evaporated, following the pinnacle of the wailing.
 

He halted, dumbstruck.

A section of corn shook to life; the stalks collapsed, falling one over the other like rows of dominos, resulting in a tiny crop circle.
 

The circle darkened as the bright blue sky above it faded to black. A circular room materialized, dusty and lined with books from floor to ceiling. A rocking chair creaked before a blazing fire, which blasted his face with heat.

His heart went apoplectic, then gunned into overdrive, as if someone’d injected it with pure adrenaline.

His legs quivered, preparing to bolt.

“I-I….” No words would come. Would fit.

A small boy crouched in the center, his arms wrapped about his knees in a tight ball. A book lay at his side,
Oliver Twist
. His body gently rocked, as he tried to console himself. Tears cut dirty tracks down his cheeks.

Odd, he doesn’t show a color.

Fear and empathy warred in his chest. He hesitated, foot poised to step inside the circle.

Empathy won. He stepped into the darkened library. The door slammed shut, and the cornfield evaporated. His dry throat clicked as he opened his mouth.

The Victrola crackled to life. Judy’s voice again. This time skipping “…that’s where, that’s where, that’s where….”

“You’ll find me,” he whispered, completing the sentence.
 

A burning, paternal protection swelled his heart.

“Are you all right? I’m ’ere, now. I’ll take you home, boy.” He was but five feet away from the cowering child when a chill scurried up his back like a smattering of spiders.

His heart leapt, plummeted, and lodged somewhere near his stomach.

The boy’s hair, dirty and unkempt, had a familiar cowlick. His tiny hands kneaded a filthy stuffed dog; its once brown-coat was now black with use.

Pain shot through his nose and a bitter taste filled his mouth. Signs that tears were brewing.

The pain-fear sensation shot through his groin.
He knew those trainers.
He’d worn them till they rubbed raw blisters on the tips of his toes, till social services finally got him a new pair.

And Oliver Twist. Reading kept me sane. Becoming part of the story was my only escape.

It was
him
. A younger him.

Bottled pain—kept at bay by years of practice—popped open, bubbling back into his consciousness.

He dropped to his knees beside the boy, sobbing. Reaching out, he tried to gather him into his arms. To give his younger self the comfort he so desperately desired. To tell him one day, it would be all right. He wouldn’t be lonely.

A shrill blast, like a freight train, swept up about his head. The entire circle rotated, like a dizzying merry-go-round. Its revolutions spiraled faster and faster till with a pop, the boy and the library disappeared.
 

Cramming his eyes closed, he waited for the spinning in his head to quiet.

Ram’s voice came through the talkie, uttering a string of curses. “Truman! Where are you? I can’t see you in there! Answer me
right now
or I’m coming in.”

True stumbled, one foot collapsing as his ankle twisted from the trembling. “I’m here. I thought I found him…but I didn’t.”

“What are you babbling about?” Ram’s voice was quavering. No doubt, vivid images of their dream being shut down were playing in his mind, as the identical scenes flashed behind Truman’s eyes.

A great, grumbling hiss erupted, filling the air. He wheeled toward the sound. A myriad of bodiless voices erupted in a strange sing-song harmony.

They surrounded him, like a circle. He twirled on the spot, head revolving. Nothing. Just the stalks swaying in the summer breeze.
 

The a capella harmony rose, getting closer and fading, getting closer and fading; as if the voices whispered in his ear, then darted away. His head rocked with vertigo.

“
Truu
-man,” a sad voice crooned, rising above the humming.

His gut contracted as if sucker-punched.

The talkie bounced off the ground as his hands flew to the sides of his head. To protect his mind.
 

I am having a psychotic episode. I’ve finally snapped.

“The silly boy is to the South,” the whisper said. Its voice was a growl and a rasp; a horrid union of splintering tree branches and the hissing of wasps. “Mind the girl, she needs you. Her hourglass is almost empty.”

The chorus of voices held one long, droning note, and cut off like the closing of a maestro’s fist. The whispering grew fainter, moving away, and disappeared with another sucking pop.

“Truman! Truman! I can see you now, what was that I heard?”

He bent, retrieving the talkie. His shaking hand bashed it against his jaw. He depressed the button. Every movement was labored, to keep plugged into reality.

“I dunno. I’m so glad you bloody heard it. I thought I was losing me mind. Use the binoculars; they said he’s to the South.”

“They…spoke to you? I just heard some freaky-weird sounds.”

“Yeah. I’m a freak-magnet.” His chest convulsed with laughter. It felt wrong, hysterical.

“I see him! Head down there, I’ll transmit to the talkie down there and try to keep him still.”

Within ten minutes Truman was carrying the shaking boy out of the exit of the maze to a waiting camera crew, courtesy of the local news station. Flashbulbs exploded, making instant spots dance before his eyes.
 

Ram waited behind the mob of reporters, looking irritated. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
 

A microphone was thrust two inches from Truman’s lips. He considered biting it.

“How is the boy doing?”

“He will be fine, just a little scared is all.” He handed the boy off to the waiting arms of his teenage sister.
 

A car screeched to a halt in the barnyard, sending gravel flying. A woman busted out of the passenger side door and bolted toward them. “Billy! On my heavens, Billy!”
 

“There are voices in the corn,” the boy whispered, so low only Truman and his sister heard him. The girl eyed him warily.

Truman held up his hands. “That’s it folks, show’s over!” He and Ram motioned to the older boys to assist in escorting the media off the premises.

Truman searched for Cruella in the crowd, but she was nowhere. His gut thumped with another pulse of worry.

“I think it’s fine. I think she’ll still donate.” Ram had reassured him later. But his stomach was not a believer.

Twilight fell, and with it, the milling festival guests finally departed. He’d thought it wise to cancel the story readings in the barn, much to Sophie’s outrage. She never missed a chance to perform.
 

“Truman,” she whined, “It’s ridiculous! You know how good my readings are!”

“Tomorrow night, I promise, love. Ram and I are spent, even if the rest of you aren’t. My nerves are frayed like I’ve just had a lobotomy.”

When the girl reluctantly let Jo shuffle her onto the bus, he stood and paced in front of the porch till it was out of sight.
 

“Settle down, Scotty. It’s over now, and Cruella was easily placated.”

“That’s not the point!” he screamed. His carefully jailed emotions busted free of their incarceration. “Our whole dream could have been destroyed today! There is
something
in the corn! Don’t reason it away, Dr. Strangelove—you bloody well heard them too!”

He bit his lip and squinted toward the corn maze.

He strode over to the barn, plucking a flashlight off the shelf. Its strong beam cut a line of light through the thick blackness of the barnyard.
 

“What are you doing? We have at least three kids to ready for bed.”