The Short Life of Sparrows (29 page)

As I approach the foot of the table, I see the mud and water drip from Isaiah’s boots. Rowe looks at me, and he shakes his head no. “You don’t want to see what they did to him.”

Murdoch puts two fingers to his own forehead—the other hand to Isaiah’s fevered brow. He hums the old language, rapidly slurring words I can’t understand, hastily stringing a chant together. As Rowe closes his eyes and joins Murdoch’s chanting, Isaiah gives them a weak shake of his head. “No,” Isaiah sputters. “I don’t want it.”

“I’ve got to do this now, boy,” Murdoch replies, the strain in his voice.

Isaiah turns his face sideways, away from Murdoch’s hand. With a burdened breath, Murdoch rises from off his knees. Before I can protest, Lil wrings her hands—blocking Murdoch from the doorway. “You have to help him. Murdoch. Please. I’ll keep him still while you do it.”

Murdoch places his hands on her shoulders, so gently that I know he’s made up his mind. My stomach sinks at the way Murdoch is looking at Lil. The lines in his forehead curve down into his hazel eyes, “He might be yours, but he’s a grown man now. I can’t do this if it’s not what he wants. He only has minutes left. Hold him. And then let him go.”

The wet gurgling fills my ears, coming from the crooked mound that is Isaiah. “What?” I cry. “Lil—what’s he talking about?”

Murdoch grips the door latch, looking back at Lil. “She doesn’t know?”

Lil whispers it, a haunted and ghastly expression overwhelming her features. “No. I don’t talk about the past with Calli. I thought it would do more harm than good.”

Murdoch stares back at me, a strange sadness cloaking him. “I see,” he says, putting his hood over his face. “I’d better let you say your goodbyes.”

I will myself to see how bad it is. Lil pulls the blanket down, and Rowe casts his face to his shoulder rather than watch the both of us comprehend the horror of it. The skin along Isaiah’s chest and stomach peels backward, muscle and intestine glistening. Like a common animal, they've skinned his torso. I gag into my hands, knowing it'll take everything in me not to vomit.

Lil and I collapse next to the table. As I dab his forehead with the sleeve of my nightgown, the tears are hot and rolling down my chin. Lil strokes his hair the way she does to mine when I’m sick. My voice is harder than steel or stone. "Rowe," I say. "Fix him already. I don't care how many birds or trees you have to draw from. Whatever it takes, just hurry up. He's hurting. He can't breathe."

Isaiah gasps. With every broken breath, he expels blood from his lips. He shakes his head. “Do you know what I’d have to take from something else just to keep on breathing? No.”

"Rowe," I plead, "He's not thinking. I don’t care what Murdoch says. Just do what you have to. Fix him."

Isaiah pulls Rowe down to him by the shirt. He whispers something that I can’t make out. Rowe looks baffled as he glances over his shoulder at me, and his face plummets.  Isaiah clutches his shirt again, frantic for Rowe to listen to him.

The agony of forming the words leaves Isaiah wincing as he talks. “You can’t take back what you did to them. But there’s got to be some peace in trying, right? I want to do this one magic thing before it’s over," he breaks, trying to focus his thoughts as he clamps his teeth together.

Chanting, Rowe puts the heel of his hand on Isaiah’s forehead. I wait for the skin to fuse back into place—for Isaiah's eyes to quit rolling into the back of his head. Isaiah's arm flops downward, his fingers swaying just above the floorboards. White vapor floats briefly above his unmoved face before it disperses. My scream twists into a piercing, broken sob. “What did you do?” I shriek. His chest has stopped moving altogether. There’s no movement. No more gasps for air. “You killed him!”

Lil covers her mouth, turning away to stare into the fireplace. As Rowe tries to put his arms around me, I pummel him with my hands. “I hate you! I hate you!”

“It’s what he wanted, Calli. What else would you have me do?”

Falling to my knees, I can't stop the crippled wailing that comes from my throat. 

Rowe slips clumsily into the chair, hanging his head over his hands. “Don’t you even want to know why?” he mutters, cradling the top of his head as he stares at the floor. He tightens his fingers in his hair, his knuckles turning white. “He wanted it for you. He said he wanted it for you and Lil.” 
I’ve never seen Rowe appear conquered, but whatever Isaiah asked of him has done it.

"Oh, Calli," Lil whispers, peering out of the curtains. Lil’s shoulders curl inward as she bursts into sobs, hurrying to her bedroom. Her door slams and locks, not willing to let any of us see her fall apart.

Fluttering noises come from the front doorway and windows. Something taps at the windowpane.
Chirping
. I creep for the door—afraid. I’m unable to believe the sound I hear, and unsure if I can bring myself to see it. My face runs with tears, wet and salty. The heaving pain in my chest from seeing the life leave Isaiah won’t subside. Lurching sobs force me to put a cupped hand to my mouth. Tears fill my mouth as I swallow.

Pressing down on the latch, there’s rawness in my throat from screaming. Although the pale blue of night is not quite gone, they sing as they dart their heads on their slight necks. In the rosy twilight, more birds light all along the porch railing Isaiah made. Their high-pitched calls are a beautiful morning song.

Sparrows
. One of them tucks his head, dirt and twig stuck to his wing as he perches on the shovel’s handle. They talk to each other, hopping here and there over the pruned yellow roses—because Isaiah told me—even if they were from Rowe’s tantrum, they were still too striking to dig up. The birds’ white breasts pulse, vibrating as they tip their heads, blinking innocently at me.

I put my hand out carefully—slowly. Yearning to touch one, I close my eyes tightly as I take another step. In my head I tell myself that maybe knowing the birds we buried are okay will erase the horror of seeing my best friend bathed in his own blood.
I know nothing really can
. As my fingertips almost touch its wing, they burst upward from their rest. I watch them flap up into the nearing dawn, golden sunlight obscuring their colors as I squint to track their direction.

There’s nothing to keep my heart intact, because Isaiah asked for the one thing he thought would give us comfort. I crumble on the porch step as it sets in—that Isaiah is gone. He knew he was never coming back. In his final moments, he refused to take away from anything, even to lessen his pain.  And he asked Rowe to pull his last breaths from his failing body, for me, to bring all of the sparrows back.

38

CALLI

W
e buried Isaiah late in the amber afternoon, in a place right before the ground slopes down into the river. Rowe and Murdoch only remained long enough to help dig the grave, and then they were gone. I think Rowe wanted to stay, but Murdoch insisted they go.  Maybe Murdoch decided Rowe looked foolish when his eyes watered over.

Even as Mildred and Daphne turn for home, Lil and I stay planted beside the fresh dirt spot. The green grass waves in reverent flutters around us. Indigo dragonflies flit up and down over the bursts of soft, white wildflower. My eyes sting—dry and swollen. It feels like I’ve been hit upside the head with a rock. The pounding in my temples reminds me that there are no tears or screams left in me.

“Lil?”

“Yes?” she asks, clinging to the bouquet of wildflowers.

“Isaiah was in my Awakening,” I say, ashamed as I whisper it. “I saw us holding hands and turning away from here. I didn’t think I could ever want him that way. It made me angry, like I didn’t have any say in who I’d love. I messed with fate. Maybe he’d still be alive if I hadn’t pushed him toward Daphne. I shouldn’t have helped them sneak around.”

She doesn’t respond, but looks to the packed dirt mound. Her bun is not as tight and precise as usual. Bits of her faded hair fall in wisps around her ears.

“Lil? I changed it. I wished so hard to change my Awakening. And it killed him.”

“No child,” she says, drawing in a giant breath. She stares back at me, her mouth downward in a haunted shape. “You’ve been dreaming about Rowe ever since, haven’t you?”

I don’t answer, because it feels like a conversation I’d never have with Lil. 
Yes, I have beautiful dreams of Rowe almost as often as I have nightmares of Ordinary troubles.

“An Awakening,” she says as her neck tenses, “is the one dream a Seer is given for herself. A dream she cannot run from, about where her path will take her. Something she’ll see over, and over, and over. I realized yours was about Rowe when he started coming around. There was something he was seeing as your Caster that was drawing him to you. And how stupid of us to think we could actually give you something different than what destiny wanted you to have.”

She clears her throat, her eyes widening as she turns her attention to Isaiah’s grave. “A week before your birthday,” she says, “Murdoch did a summoning—alone. To find out what the future would hold for you. It’s against every rule our coven lives by—to summon for selfish reasons. But he did it anyway—in secret. He saw a wolf in the flames of the fire, prowling in circles around you. There was only one thing to gather from that vision. You were in danger of something. Something dark was focused on only you. A Nightblood. We knew none of them were good enough for you. And that’s when Murdoch and I decided something must be done to keep you safe.”

“No,” I say, unable to believe it. “You wouldn’t lie to me like that. And Murdoch has never said more than two words in my direction. He doesn’t even call me by name. What does he care?”

“He cares, because he’s your father,” Lil warbles, holding back tears again. “And you’re all that either of us has left of your mother. If Eva hadn’t been out in that lightning storm, then she’d still be here. We both could’ve stopped her that night. We didn’t want to chance losing you too. I promised him I’d raise you to stay away from blood magic—and to not let you channel the way Eva did. Murdoch spelled the entire night of your Awakening, so you’d see something different than the truth. So you wouldn’t chase after a Nightblood who’d destroy the wholesomeness about you. I hate to think what Murdoch sacrificed to do it.”

“It’s too much,” I cry, shaking my head in repulsion. “I’m not a puppet. Why would you bring Isaiah into this? What makes either of you think you can play God?”

“When you’ve seen the sorrows we’ve seen,” Lil says, “it makes you desperate to protect what you can. I bundled Isaiah up when he was three days old—leaving him in the dark of night on someone’s carriage seat. I remember thinking no matter how poor and alone he might be—an Ordinary existence would at least allow him to keep himself.  I didn’t want to watch my son become vicious like his father—to turn into someone incapable of loving or caring.”

She rolls her sleeves upward, and my throat sticks together when I see it. The skin along her forearms shrivels against the bone. Her arms are colorless, like that of a stiffened body. “I haven’t channeled since the night Eva died doing it,” she continues. “But I’m already marked. I wasn’t going to risk my son being labeled as evil. If I’d have left with him, Isaiah could’ve been branded as one of us. He and I would have been ostracized. So I did the hard thing, and kissed him before leaving him to the Ordinaries. But I never had any idea that Murdoch would make you see Isaiah at your Awakening. Maybe he noticed the gentleness in Isaiah, and thought steering you toward him would offer you more protection than we could give you here. Your father must’ve thought it was finally time to let you go—the way I tried to do for my son. We can’t change the old ways. He and I just hoped that the two of you could have something different—better.”

The agony shows in every bend of Lil’s face, and yet I can’t hold back my disgust. I feel betrayed—my trust crushed beyond repair. It’s as if I’ve never truly known her or anyone else. “Why did you coax Isaiah back here then? If sending him away was best, why’d you let him come back at all? How could you do that?”

“I just needed to see him once,” she sobs, smashing the flower stems in her grip. “I thought I’d have this one summer with him. To see what kind of man he’d become. And now I know how pure and kind my sweet baby grew up to be. But never mind it. The Nightbloods destroyed his goodness anyway.”

I can’t listen to another word
. Lil grabs my arm to keep me from leaving. “You’ve got to understand 
why
 we did these things. I’ve never done anything but try to save you from making the same mistakes as me.”

Jerking my arm free, I’m boiling in my own anger. I’m fighting the urge to channel the grass until it blackens and curls. I’d yell and raise a storm to show Lil how she’s ripped my heart to tatters. But instead I give her a vacant look, knowing that my wariness and disappointment will wound her most.  “Don’t worry,” I say. “There’s nothing about love with a Nightblood that I want. The thought of Rowe ever becoming as manipulative or as distant as Murdoch—living up in the hills while I’m down here all alone—is enough to drive me in the opposite direction. It’s like you’ve always raised me to remember. 
A Seer is not meant to keep her joy
. I’m done kidding myself.”

“Calli,” Lil calls after me.

“I think toads have it more together than we do,” I shout back. Heading for the cottage, my legs drag. Weak and drained from the lies—from watching Isaiah give up the last of himself despite the pain he was in—I’m tired in a way I’ve never been before. I want to crash under my quilt before nightfall, to sleep in utter blackness before the moon robs me of my rest.

I’ll dream of something awful tonight. I only hope to see a stranger’s sadness. I’d rather witness the loss and anguish of Ordinaries than meet with Rowe or his smile. If there’s any mercy, I’ll never dream of him again. Fate has teased me with a happiness that can never be mine.

39

CALLI

T
he early morning hours are always filled with his sharp blue eyes. I wonder at first if I’m still dreaming. He looks through my cracked windowpane, rapping his knuckles on it. I stare at his outline for a moment, listening to the glass rattle, before I realize I am in fact awake. Rowe taps at my window, checking over his shoulder as he does it. Running my fingers through the nest that is my hair, I kneel on my bed to unlatch the window. The crisp hint of the looming fall weather wafts into my room as I push the panes apart. “What is it?”