The Short Life of Sparrows (31 page)

We dance, because it’s all that’s left to do. With the quickening tempo of the music, he spins me. There’s a loud and rowdy clamor as two Seers drop their instruments to join the dancing, and there’s applause one beat later when a Nightblood spells the instruments to resume playing on their own. Under the trees that Odella chanted into blue marble sculptures, and beneath the floating violins, Murdoch and I make the most of an otherwise damned and haunted place. Our turns take us past Lil, who sits in a chair with a steaming cup of tea. She almost smiles at us. Almost.  When Murdoch nods toward her, I back away from him.

“Lil,” he says, extending a formal palm.

She shakes her head at us. “I should drink this tea, while it’s still warm.”

As he persuades her from her chair with his palm clutching hers, the furrowing of her forehead lessens. They move with ease into the crowd of dancing couples. There’s a beauty that I can’t describe, watching the way he turns my dear Aunt Lil—as if he is whisking her about to keep her pain from sinking its claws into her. Her gray dress twirls with the movement, and she loops her arms above her head. No Seer can match the arching of her back or the lightness of her steps.

I want to freeze this moment, to stay and watch Odella and the Elders clap for them. The music has changed to accompany Lil and Murdoch as the others give them the space to show everyone how it’s done. Mildred rocks in a corner, and there’s yellow paint dried at her neck. She brings her hand up, mumbling even as her eyes remain vacant. A silver dust coats the air when Mildred spells it, and I feel the rawness in my throat. There will never be a real apology, not in words, that she can give Lil for what her son did. And yet, the twinkling silver powder that glistens on Lil’s unadorned dress is as much as Mildred can do to speak of her love for Lil.

I study my hands, how they shimmer with Mildred’s handiwork. We all have a stunning presence under the glossy sheen. My peculiar, flawed coven glitters and shines in the silvery dye as they dance, all of them transformed from their ugliness and guilt, into a happy scene like those Mildred creates on the porch. She’s painted them all into a magical picture, like that of a grand fairytale. Lucas sparkles too, and he nearly looks angelic and redeemable from where I stand.

I turn my back on the impossibly high standards I had for them all—the silly ideals I had that never allowed for anyone in my coven to be flawed. It’s with that same forgiveness and love that I let go of the expectations they’ve had for me. Shrugging off the ideals of the people I care about might be necessary, but it’s also bittersweet. I can and do want to be different from them, to be something entirely my own. Still, even as I break away to find my place, I can’t help but hope they’ll be more proud than disappointed.

Leaving my childhood behind doesn’t permit for anymore childish notions. I think about how the people in my life have surprised and amazed me once I finally gave them the room to do so. I find myself a more careful person—humbled by the way I used to brand them all.

Once, I considered each and every one of them as sketched and unchangeable. Just as Mildred tries to paint everyone into something imaginary and innocent, I was drawing them up in my head with wide, brash strokes. It was too hard to comprehend that every person in my life was a muddied mix of brightness and darkness—that they could be equal parts selfish need and unexpected kindness. Lil. As she turns and curls her wrists to the music, I pray that I’ll never forget it. I’d never really allowed her the opportunity to be less than a saint until now, and I smile, holding the tears in again as I see that really, she only ever needed to be the perfect mother for me.

I’m walking into the trees beyond the Willow Circle before I can think of all the reasons to change my mind. It’s how I want to remember them all—defying the darkness and the sadness with music and enchantments. A Seer might not be meant to keep her joy, but I’ll chase mine anyway. I weave and run through the woods—hoping he’s still there, waiting to take me away.

41

CALLI

I
’m fighting for breath, panting from running as fast as I can without tripping. My smile explodes, because he’s there. Rowe crouches to make sure the saddle is secure.

“Am I still invited on this trip, or is one horse a sign that you decided to leave without me?”

He breaks from his bent stance, the relief washing over him as he turns his gaze to me. “You came.”

I’m walking briskly, and he catches me in his arms. His arms tighten around me, and he makes me laugh as he peppers the crown of my head with kisses.

“Do you know where we’re going?”

The sassiness of my question doesn’t lessen his grin as he hands me the cloak that hangs from the saddle. “Does it matter?”

No, it really doesn’t
. The night has thickened with black, and still, even the shape of him in front of me brings a reassurance that I have found the miraculous love that my people never get the fortune of enjoying. He’s an idiot for loving me, for putting up with my foul mouth and cantankerous tendencies. I’m all the luckier that he’s stubborn enough to fight for the gentleness I’ve hidden beneath it all. How could I have believed for even a day that I could live a life without him in it? As I take the cloak and begin to tie it around me, I realize there’s something in its pocket.

He picks up the lantern, angling it so the light allows me to see what it is. I notice his smile diminish as he waits for me to open the crumpled wad of paper. Instantly, I recognize who penned it. My heart wells within me, and I hesitate to read it.

“Read it,” he whispers. “It must have been chanted into the pocket, because it wasn’t there a few minutes ago.”

With trembling hands and one more deep breath, I read the last of what she’ll ever say to me.

My beautiful, stubborn Calli,

Rowe spoke to me this morning and told me of his intent to leave with you tonight. I’m surprised, and also grateful, that he would seek my permission before asking you.

I understand why you must do this. Still, I’m doing my best not to soak this letter in the selfish tears I’ve cried at never seeing you again. I know you’ll continue to do as you wish, despite any counsel, because that’s just who you are. But it might do you well to humor your jaded, fallible auntie just this once.

Whatever you decide to make of your life, don’t let yourself be ashamed of our heritage. While we Seers are ruled by the night, we have managed to remain a sisterhood unbroken by the ills of this world. There are a lot of things that you—and I—have wanted to c
hange about our customs.  But neither
of us has won anything by looking to control the things beyond our power.

Family has a tendency to wound us in ways that others cannot. I know I’ve hurt you deeply, as Murdoch has hurt you. But our merciful love for each other is what will be our saving grace when our summonings and spells are counted. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner that falling in love with Rowe was your true Awakening. I hope you’ll eventually forgive me for it—and for everything that has led to you leaving now.

If I could, I’d take back a great many things in my past, and yet I’ll never be anything but proud of what you and Isaiah had. It’s my only solace, that in his weakest moment, he was trying to care for you—as only an older brother would. Every time a bird stops on my fence, I’ll be reminded of it.

If I were Ordinary, I might wrap all of these thoughts in a hug. But I am a Seer. And Seers bear their love as they bear their torment—in hidden and sacred pockets of our hearts. That’s where I intend to hold you always.

AUNT LIL

I fold the wrinkled letter into the sleeve of my dress, seeing coils of smoke from the coven bonfire twisting up into the night. As Rowe lifts me onto the saddle, the slight tinkering of music and cheering carries out onto the barren dirt road. I bury the side of my face against the back of his shirt, feeling both the freedom of what’s ahead of us and the loss of those behind us. He coaxes the horse down the uneven path, but he doesn’t push the horse to canter.

“I didn’t realize you’d spoken to her.”

He turns his head to the side. “I spoke to Murdoch too.”

I pull my chin down to my neck, keeping the autumn bite away. “What did he say?”

“He handed me his cloak. Said I’d better keep an extra coat for you, because you always seem to get caught up in the weather without one. That you’re really so much like your mother was. ”

It’s a relief that Lil and Murdoch have made peace with my decision, but they also rightfully predicted that my leaving wasn’t to please anybody. I’ll be in my grave before I’ll know how to be a pretty puppet. I was never sweet enough to be a blinking, smiling doll. The only desire that drives me now is a hunger for a beginning with Rowe, for our own bit of space.

I lock my arms around his waist, feeling the warmth of his shoulders as I listen to the steady clop of hooves. My voice challenges the quiet again. “How fast can you ride?”

Rowe’s tempting smile pierces the dark—and me. The side of his face, the only part I can make out, arches in the moonlight. “How fast did you want to go?”

I’m resolute, full of the kind of reckless nerve that allowed me to survive so many excruciating truths. I dare anybody to try to hold me back, as I sneak away with the devil himself. “As fast and as far as you can take us.”

I press my hands to the hardness of his waist. The wind lashes my eyes, and I lean into his shoulders. The trees snap in and out of my view, the only shadows to watch us take our leave. A cool breeze relieves the sweat on my hands. I feel my heartbeat pick up as the horse gallops through the high weeds.

With my back to the river—to Isaiah’s resting place—it’s like I’m truly saying goodbye to him. Isaiah was the first man I ever trusted with my heart. I have no more tears, but my chest constricts anyway. If it weren’t for him, I’d never have dared to follow Rowe into the unfamiliar. I would have never trusted that someone besides Lil could really love me so much.

I want to hope that Isaiah will forgive me for not knowing how to save him—for traveling this road now without him. He only wanted to be loved and to matter. Oh, did he matter to me. He was the one person who could really hear me, once I learned to talk to him instead of at him. He returned his own pain and suffering with decided compassion until his end.

His death cuts at me. It probably always will. But maybe none of us were ever enough to call him ours. I think the purest of souls, those with the most fragile of hearts, must be meant for a short life. They can’t be tethered or held in your palm.

Just like a sparrow, they light on your porch. Their song might be brief, but how greedy would we be to ask for more? No, you cannot keep a sparrow. You can only hope that as they fly away, they take a little bit of you with them.

Emm Cole
resides in Northern Utah beneath some outrageously breathtaking mountains. She is the author of three books,
Merminia
,
Keeping Merminia
, and
The Short Life of Sparrows
. She hopes to write many more stories and to always challenge her imagination beyond the boundaries of the last story. Emm likes old rock music, Sour Patch Kids, sweaters, spicy foods, movie marathons, watching her two kids paint and create things, and hanging with her other half at the end of a long day.

You can find out more about Emm and her books at
http://
emmcole
.com
/
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:
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:
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:
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost, thank you to
my family
for supporting me in chasing after my dreams. Storytelling is the only thing I want to do, and I’m insanely lucky to have a familial posse who is so amazing about it. I’m grateful for all of the FB postings in my behalf, the truthful opinions, and for all of the times you patiently listen to me blather on about pretend people and mythologies.

Marie McKean
, my beastie, my friend who brings the nachos and laughs to my doorstep, I can’t express my thanks in enough breakfasts for all of the writing you sifted through and all of the days and hours you spent critiquing to help me really pull this one together. Rowe wouldn’t have his swagger or edge without a critique partner who gives it to me straight. My best Garth-wink and wookie cheer to you for that. You’re such a keeper.

David
, the Ordinary’s goodness and sweetness needed to be based on somebody real to be believable. I’m so fortunate that you are that somebody and so unbelievably giving. Thank you for always being there for me and the littles without ever complaining about what it takes. I wouldn’t want to do this whole life bit with anybody else.

Monkey and Biv
, as always, my love and hugs. Thank you for being your spunky, bright little selves and for allowing me those times to retreat and finish chapters.

To all of my beta readers:
Marie, Lisa, Jen, Howard Parsons, Jes
, and again
Marie McKean
for reading it one last time. Thank you for patiently reading my early draft. Your insights were invaluable, and you guys are magical for giving me honest and thoughtful feedback. If I was the hugging type, I’d bear-hug you all. It means the world to me to have such incredible friends.