Where Bluebirds Fly (20 page)

The images rear again, a monster refusing to die.

My brother, toddling in a circle, his eyes wide with fear; around him, cruel children taunt, “Idiot! Idiot!”

I ball my dress in my shaking hands.

My mother’s voice shouts, silencing the hornets. Love is their poison.

John needs you.
 
Be strong. Save him. You have not time to be frightened.

I hear them, then. The whispers on the wind.

My head swivels left and right. Bits of conversations swirl, popping in and out around me in a circle.

Like several personalities are debating, examining me.

She needs us.

Why her?

She is chosen.

“I want to go home. My brother needs me.”

The words grow louder, arguing in a heated whisper, till the air is clogged with raspy, verbal spider-webs.

“He will die!” I plead. “Please.”

My legs give way. Pain shoots through my knees as they strike the wooden bridge.

The whispers intensify, till I can hear and see the tiny funnel cloud generated by their arguments.

It encircles a cornstalk, spiraling up and down, faster and faster, spitting out yellow kernels.

They sink into the ground, disappearing.

A twisted vine erupts from the dirt and climbs; two-four-six feet, in the space of a breath.
 

It splinters with a thunderclap, in a myriad of directions, like woody capillaries. Its writhing tendrils scrawl to form words.
 

My heart hammers. They are alive?
 

The brown-briar spirals, weaving in and on itself. The length of it expands and contracts, as if breathing.
 
It stretches and grows till a reedy tapestry spans ten feet across.
 

It stops, and I wait in a loud silence.

Even the bluebirds, perched on top of every stock, are silent.
 

At first, I see nothing.

I squint my eyes and cock my head as the patterns slowly appear.
 

I walk off the bridge.
   

Words appear at an alarming rate, the vines twisting, curling, and stretching to accommodate the script.

“Face your fears.”
 

My
fears are mind-shattering. I do not wish to
acknowledge
them, let alone face them.

I hold out my hand, feeling for the murmuring breeze, but it’s gone.

The air turns tight and caustic. I choke on it, and cry out as I look up.
 

A discolored field of wheat appears, its blackened heads bending in the breeze.

A forest materializes in a blink, in the middle of the cornfield.

Every branch is covered in them, like macabre, hanging decorations.

They’re endless in number, as far as my eye can see. They materialize in and out with every breath of the breeze.

Nooses
swing from every limb.

* * *

John’s body shook.

It began with a finger twitch. It traveled like a lightning-strike up his arm and he was its pawn.

His boot banged rapid-fire off the wood floor.

His thigh screamed; the contraction spread like an invisible vice, milking his legs, contorting his torso. His arms jerked straight like a scarecrow.

The muscles seized in a collective-clench and he toppled from the bench. Like a petrified boy.

The seizure changed its mind. His limbs rippled without purpose; his head crashed and bounced off the ordinary floor.

“Someone help John!” A young woman’s voice called beside him. “John, who be afflicting you? Help us help you,” she pleaded.

 
No-one
did this
to him. He was not enchanted, he was ill. Just like that poor dog after eating the witch-cake.

The twitching began last night directly after he ate the bread.

“No one t-t-torments me, I am ill.”

Finally, the contractions released him.

He lay still, waiting; every few seconds his limbs gave a residual twitch.

His head felt empty and numb, and he welcomed it; the corners of his mind were mercifully quiet.

His body was hauled to sitting; his head lolling to the side.

The same girl’s voice spoke up. Her voice sounded far away. “Surely his trial should be stayed.”

A male voice responded, “We have put his judgment off too many times already. Begin.”

Constable Corwin’s voice was so close, he felt his breath on his ear.
 
“John, please recite the Lord’s Prayer.”

John licked his cracked lips, and was thankful when a tear wet the hardened skin.
 

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy n-name.”

“Continue.”

“Thy kingdom c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-,” another seizure shook him, shaking his voice out of control. His leg banged against the desk and he howled in pain.

Across the room, a chorus of screams echoed in the ordinary.

John forced his eyes open to see the familiar pack of girls, writhing and contorting in response to his stutter.

 
He stared, beseeching Hathorne. “I cannot help it.”

All three girls mimicked in sing-song voices. “I cannot help it.”

“Stop!” John yelled.

“Stop!” They chanted.

“Condemned. He is a witch. Unable to state the Lord’s prayer, a sure sign of guilt. Date to be set for hanging. Remove him, please.”

John couldn’t speak.

He prayed. Someone must save him.

* * *

Chapter 18

The voices follow me. I’m running, dodging them, dodging the stocks. One slashes my cheek, but I don’t miss a step.

The orphanage roof is visible. I’m almost there.
 

A deafening flutter hits my ears. The bluebirds are giving chase.

I glance back, stumble and look forward again; afraid the voices will catch me.

As one, they leave the path and fly above the corn-tops. The squawks and shrieks are deafening. They’ve grown in number; they’re uncountable. The flock folds in and on itself, reminding me of the ocean’s tumbling surf.

I break out the corn’s mouth and the congregation halts, fluttering about the entrance. As if they are bound to the corn.

Only here. In Salem, they go where they please.

“They
do
travel through the doors.”

My heart is in my mouth and I bolt for the house.

The worry is a part of me now, like an arm or leg and the hornets feast on my anxiety.

I stand on the porch, trying to catch my breath.

The bluebirds are slowly leaving, and I can’t hear the voices. They are trapped in the corn as well.

The tears on my cheeks are almost dry, but I swipe them again. No sense upsetting the children, they have their own worries.

I open the front door. Raised voices filter from the kitchen. I turn the corner and hesitate, watching.

Ram and True have managed to get every boy at the table—more or less.

A few smaller children crawl under tables.

“We’re losing the battle, I sense a mutiny,” Truman says to Ram, grasping a four-year-old boy by the scruff and placing him back into his seat. “Eat.”

Ram sees me first and nods to Truman; his eyes narrow and scrutinize his friend’s expression.

Truman looks up from tying Anthony’s shoe, and relief floods his face.

His half-smile constricts my chest.
 

He slides his chair back and his eyes never leave my face.

It’s as if I’m the only person in the room.

My skin burns under his touch as his fingers grasp my elbow. He leads me into the hallway-away from ten sets of staring eyes.

 
A collective, “OOOO!” echoes down the hall.
 

“Zip it or no dessert!” Ram’s chastises.

Truman leans in so close, his breath tickles my cheek.

He kisses it gently.

I lick my lips, which feel suddenly dry.

“I’m so thankful you’re all right,” he breathes quietly, “I was about to go to the corn—you were gone quite awhile. And it’s getting dark. All I got was static on the talkie.” He kisses me again, feather-light on my lips and pulls away.

He eyes tighten. “It wouldn’t open, then?”

“I saw….” I close my eyes, trying to name it.
 
“The cyclone of sounds. Of voices.”

Truman’s hands rub up and down my arms. His eyes scan my body as if checking for injuries. “Did it speak?”

I nod. “It said, face your fears.”

Truman’s face drains. His eyes widen in comprehension. “Of course. I was so stupid.”

“What do you mean? Speak plainly.”

“Never mind. I’m going with you. The townsfolk will capture you, put you on trial. I’ve been studying Salem—we’ll talk tonight, okay? After the tribe’s in bed.”

“Yes, of course.”

He takes my hand, leading me back into the fray with a reluctant glance.

I give Ram a tentative smile, which he returns.

“Hi Miss Ver-i-ty,” Anthony says.
 

I ruffle his hair and sit beside Truman at the table.

* * *

Next morning

They were sequestered behind the barn. Away from the tribe of prying eyes which currently gawked from every window of the farmhouse.
 

The words privacy and orphanage were oxymorons. He should know.

“Is there ennythin else I need to know before we open the door?”

“Remember, you cannot touch me in anyway. It will land you in the stocks. Remember you are a gentleman; they shall be more likely to heed your words if they think you wealthy. So, I am beneath you—don’t show too much interest in me. Like you do.” Her face flushed.

He smiled. “That is so ludicrous.”

“Truman, it’s vitally important—”
 

He silenced her, placing his index over her lips, stealing another kiss.

“Sorry. I know it’s important. I’ll play my part. It’s just barking to think the most important person in my world is beneath me because she wasn’t born to wealth.”

Anxiety raised its head. It was becoming real. This wasn’t a game.

 
He paced beside her, thinking out loud.

“So I am to buy your service from the Putnams.”

“Yes. You obviously don’t have the right currency. You will have to barter.”

He slid his hand in his pocket and extracted his great-grandfather’s watch.

“We’ll start with this, and I’ll bring more heirlooms, for insurance. We’ll find John, and bring him back. Hopefully without anyone getting hurt.”

“I’m worried. I’m dreaming of him every night, now.”

“We’ll try every day, Verity. Starting now. Let’s go see if it is open.”

He glanced back at the orphanage. He felt the guilt on his face and covered by rubbing his growing beard.

“I hope Ram will get on without me.”

Verity gave his arm a shake. “True-this isn’t your battle. You do not have to come—everyone in that house depends on you.”

Her mismatched eyes dropped to the ground.

He touched her chin, and was momentarily distracted by its softness.

He waited till she met his gaze. “And who can
you
depend on, love? Annethin that affects you, affects
me
. C’mon, we’re losing daylight.”

They headed north, to the top of the maze. And the bridge.

* * *

Chapter 19

After hours of trying, we finally relented and returned to the house.

Truman is gazing out at the corn, his hand resting on the porch railing.

I keep crying. I can’t help it. John shall die.

The words keep repeating, a haunting mantra in my head.

“Why won’t it open?”

Truman’s face matches the anguish in my heart. “I don’t know. If I did, we’d already be there.”

We continue to try and weeks fly by. I am as sick and stick-like as the scarecrow in the corn. I cannot eat or sleep—to breathe in and out each day seems too much.
 

I stare out my window into the night and shiver, thankful the voices and birds are bound between the stalks.

My heart is sinking.

Is John still alive? Does the chronology of time runs equally between the two worlds? If so, he is doomed.

I sigh. Two boys bolt past my room, darting down the hall.