Where Bluebirds Fly (25 page)

Angling his way through the dinner crowd, he headed upstairs, intent on getting to his room. On the steps, the bar keep stopped him.
 

“Can I get you anything Good Sir? Are you to retire?”

“No, thank you. I’m off to bed. The trip has made me weary.”

The constant stream of rewording in his head, from modern Scottish-American to colonial dialect was exhausting. His slow replies made him look dim-witted as there was a pregnant pause before every response.

Verity was right—he was a terrible actor. The mere thought of her sent another wave of anxiety crashing on his head.
Every
thought was of her, who was he kidding?

“Good night, Good sir.”

He walked past the doors on either side, wondering about the people behind them.
 

No one was safe here—all potential death row victims.

He reached his door and entered the sparse room with a sigh.

Sitting on his bed, Truman listened till the sounds of the Ordinary died away, and no footfalls could be heard on the stairs outside. His fingertips thrummed on his kneecaps-his nervous tension rose, scratching at his gut like an impatient rodent.

He checked his pocket watch. “Finally. I can’t wait any longer. She’s so close.”

Wrenching open the floorboards, he extracted the rucksack. He opened it, checking the contents.

A compass, a few items for barter, if necessary, and chloroform. Ram had weaseled some out of his chemist friend, convincing him it was for rat experiments at his psychology lab. He didn’t have much—he’d have to use it judiciously.

Another pistol, loaded. A carton of ammunition. Ram had taught him to use a gun after coming to the U.S. Living in the woods, with no one around for miles—Ram felt it essential they were able to defend themselves. To protect the boys.

A flashlight—also a potential heap of trouble if it were discovered.

I hope I don’t set off some timeline continuum warp if someone sees it.

“This is mental. I will probably be tried as a witch alongside her for my
spectral
light source.”

Truman rose, staring out the window. The night outside was utter blackness, no streetlights, very few homes lit. The whole of the village died after sundown. Nothing like night at home—where the reassurance of light was never far off.

He returned to checking the contents.

A baton, which Ram called a nightstick.

Sweat beaded on his brow.

If I’m caught skulking around downstairs, they will know I’m up to something
.

In this century, people did not go out at night unless they had a specific purpose.

Opening the door a crack, he peered down the hall, and debated the staircases. He decided. The back one, as dealing with a few servants was preferable to explaining himself to any lingering patrons.

He crept out, his heartbeat so loud, he swore its echo followed him down the hallway.

The back staircase creaked with his every footstep, making the sweat trickle down his back, despite the bitterly freezing temperatures outside.

He paused at the mouth of the stairwell, listening intently behind the door. From the sound of it-only one person worked in the kitchen. He cracked the door a slit, and spied a young woman tidying up around the fire.

She shoveled coals from the fire into a foot warmer, and heaved it up.
 

He held his breath.
Was she going to come up these stairs?

He exhaled through his teeth as she pushed open the door and lugged it into the eating area.

Moving swiftly, he darted out the back door and sprinted in the direction of the witch dungeon.

* * *

Truman arrived at the witch-dungeon with surprisingly little fuss, using the flashlight only when it became utterly too black to see his own feet on the ground before him.

Several small lights glowed in the windows of the building, reminding him of glowering, evil eyes. The dungeon was secluded in the lower basement of the building.
 
When researching the Salem Trials, Truman remembered reading the remnants of it were not discovered till many years later.

But Verity had known of it, so she was able to describe its location.
 

He circled the building, searching for the most likely entry point. He decided on a nondescript door at the back of the building.

To his surprise, it was unlocked. However, this most likely meant somewhere in the house, someone was awake and standing guard.

As the door creaked open he immediately spied the familiar door, behind which was concealed the stairs leading to the witch dungeon.

Moving as quietly as possible, he stole down the staircase. Massive stones lined the walls, and the familiar musty smell of fetid water stung his nostrils. His eyes watered and he swiped them with the back of his hand.
 

Colors swirled through the air of the stairwell; remnants of emotional energy from the prisoners below were so violent, they refused to be contained within the thick stone prison walls. If their owners could not escape, they would.
 

Gritting his teeth, he fought against the despair and anger welling inside him. He wondered at the atrocities human kind was capable of committing. The majority of those housed below were
ill
, mentally or physically, not witches. Most were poor victims—the outcasts of society; or the opposite, people so blessed, others coveted their lives.

Outcasts like he, and Verity, and John. Persecuted because of their differences. It disgusted him.

Who of us is so worthy, to decide what is normal and what is not? To decide who’s soul is worth saving?

He reached the bottom of the stairs, listening for the jailer. One man had his back to him, his head half-lolling in sleep.

Across the room, another doorway was visible. A man’s foot stuck out in the middle of the entry as he relaxed in a chair.

He launched himself at the closest one, smacking the back of his head with the baton. The man crumpled to the floor. Truman stepped over him.

Hurrying to the entryway, his eyes spied the ring of keys. They hung on a ring beside the guard’s head. This sentry half snored as well, his body draped over the desk. Truman debated the club or the chloroform, deciding on the latter.

He poured a small amount on the rag, holding it far from his face.

Crossing the room in a tic, he clamped it over the man’s mouth. The guard’s hands clawed wildly at the air, and their glance connected for a brief second till the lights of consciousness extinguished in his eyes. He slumped forward to the desk.

The captives in the dungeon were frantic now.

Screams and shouts were filling the air.

“Be quiet!” Truman chastised. “You will never get out if the whole town is awake.”

“Truman, I cannot believe it. I thought all was lost.” Verity grasped John’s hand through the cell bars.

Truman’s hand fumbled, trying to locate the correct key. Shouts echoed down the stairwell. Reinforcements were coming.

There were at least thirty on the ring. He’d never find it in time.

 
A stampede of footsteps barreled down the stairwell.

“Tru-man!” Verity’s eyes were manic. “You must go. Leave us! There is no other way!”

“No. I can’t.”

John’s eyes grew uncharacteristically focused. “Truman, you must. Go. Run.”

His panic stuttered his thoughts, and he looked wildly around for an escape. One small window was his only hope. He bolted toward it, scrambling upward. As it slammed shut, he heard the voices of the constables and the screams of the prisoners gel into one sickening sound.

He bolted toward the ordinary.

* * *

Truman paced, not seeing anything. Shockwaves of adrenaline pulsed from his heart and mushroomed down his arms, making them weak.
 

“What am I going to do?”
 

He crammed his eyes shut, and slid down the wall, clenching into a tight ball.

The sun was rising and Verity’s life was setting.

Hundreds of scenarios played out behind his eyes, all ending with him hanging as well.

So he shot his way to her at the gallows? He couldn’t fight off an entire town.
He had a pistol, not a semi-automatic rifle.
 

 
A tapping sound shattered his reverie.

A bluebird sat on the windowsill, its beak pecking on the glass.

Truman stared. It stared back.

“What the…”
 

He
swore
it was waiting for him. How had it gotten out of the corn?
 

It tilted its head, in question? Its eyes looked deep, not superficial, like many animals.

He gasped. It had a color. Blue, what else?

He barked a laugh.

It flew away and he flew down the stairs after it.

People were heading toward Gallow’s Hill, whispering.

“Who is it today?”

“John and Verity Montague.”

“Really? I thought she was dead already?”

He ground his teeth together, speeding up so as not to hear the rest.
 

He squinted, staring at the sky. The sun was bright today.

The blue bird hovered above the migrating crowd, never getting too far ahead.
 

Then he saw her. And John.
 

His hands shook so violently he shoved them in his pockets.

And felt them.
The lemon drops were still there. On a whim, he’d shoved them in; it had felt wrong, somehow to leave them in his time.
 

He counted them with his fingers.
Ten.
 

At last count, he’d had only five.
 

Verity held John’s hand, and he could see her whispering to him, keeping him calm. All of his perception tuned on Verity. Her face a mess of emotion. John’s eyes were downcast, and he rocked in place. His senses honed, he could read her lips.

“Remember John. We’ll be with mama and papa, soon. It’s just like going to sleep. When you wake, it will be like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

“Will it hurt?”

Truman’s whole body quaked. A sadness so large, it teetered on madness, reeled through his mind.

His teeth gritted, as a fierce, protective urge demanded action.
 

He thrust his hand inside the bag, grasping the pistol.
 

The bird flew to the front of the crowd, to the bottom of the knoll. He followed it, angling his way through the expectant onlookers.

Truman’s throat constricted so tight, his breathing came in gasps now.
 

“Verity Montague. You and your brother be charged with witchcraft. How do you plead?”
 

“Not guilty.” Her voice rang, clear as a bell across the crowd.

A ruckus at the front of the knoll shifted the crowd’s attention. Several girls fell to the ground at the sound of Verity’s voice.

“Not guilty. Not guilty.” The gruesome trio, Anne Jr., Abigail and Mercy, mocked in unison, in their sing-song voices.

“You are condemned to die. May God have mercy upon your soul.”
 

Truman slid the gun out, concealing it beneath the bag, ready to aim at the hangman’s leg.

A tug at his sleeve bade him look down.

A tiny girl held out her hand, waving a yellowing parchment.
 

“It’s from her.” She pointed up at Verity.

He almost pocketed it, but the bluebird swooped beside him, landing square on his boot.
 

He opened it.

~ ~ ~

One who condemns the soul to die,

To him, all the pretty birds must fly,

His breath, like lemon, sour-sweet,

It holds the key, him to defeat.

~ ~ ~

Revelations sparked, then ignited in his head, in a split second. Reaching into his pocket, he grasped a handful of the lemon drops, and turned, running toward the corn.

He cocked his arm, pelting them into the rows. Several people turned toward the commotion, including the hangman. His hand stayed on the noose.

The victrola music crackled to life, filtering out of the corn.

“And the dreams…”

Nothing was happening. His mind whirled, searching desperately for something, anything, that might help them.

He spun toward the crowd, they gave no indication of hearing the music. Most eyes were still staring fixedly at the gallows.

He turned to the knoll. Verity’s eyes caught his.
 

Her full lips mouthed the words, “That you dare to dream.”

An
explosion
of blue erupted from the corn. Thousands of bluebirds barreled out of its depths, shrieking and screaming, dive-bombing the crowd of villagers.