The Short Life of Sparrows (5 page)

4

ISAIAH

M
y neck has a cramped muscle from sleeping in a bed that is too short for me. Not that any bed I’ve ever had was what I’d call comfortable, but I have to keep pushing my thumb into the top of my shoulder to release the tension in it. I throw my hat into the dry rushes, soaking in the damp shade of the riverbank. The tumbling stream seems to be about the only predictable piece of scenery. I awoke earlier to all of the other houses being different dimensions, colors, and shapes.
“Something that will cease to shock me after a while,”
Lil said.

I didn’t imagine anything about this job would be easy. I’d successfully chopped half a cord of wood and only started on securing a loose post on the front steps before the Seers were all at the front fence wagging their fingers about how I must not be so noisy. One of them offered to spell my tools so they wouldn’t make a sound, but Lil came out onto the porch about then. She just shooed them away, saying she’d try to be more mindful of the coven schedule. So here I am, idling away good daylight, because repairing framework is too
distracting
.

“Shouldn’t you be working?”

I turn my head just enough to see the tiny redhead who almost got me pummeled at her party last night. “Some of the older women complained that my hammering was interrupting their tea. Lil wanted me to take a break until they’re finished.”

She folds her arms tighter, clearly changed from her welcoming disposition yesterday. “Their damn tea times,” she says, her lips twitching to the right. “You know, they do that twice a day? You’ll have to quit again at about four. Hot tea and biscuits in the morning, iced tea and frosted cake in the afternoon. And they’ll just rotate to each house’s yard, so that they can brag about who has the most creative paint or staircase of the day. They love outdoing each other.”

“Yeah, I saw the trees around the house next to Mildred’s. Today it’s blue striped bark and orange leaves instead of yellow and pink. And the grass was bent in these giant zig-zags? It was kind of impressive actually.”

She stares at me with the good nature of a hissing branding iron. “Give it one week, and it’ll all bore you. That’s why they do the tea and the dances—why they pour rum down their gullets when the Nightbloods come. I’m sure you’ve seen Odella’s pig—in a collar and ruffles? They’re in a perpetual state of boredom. Outrageous becomes dull eventually.”

I pitch another rock into the rushing water. She huffs. So I toss another one. Maybe I have to behave a certain way when there’s a large group of belligerent Nightbloods around, and maybe I have to do the work that will get me paid—and pretend that I’m not bothered by losing part of a work day to teatimes. What I’m not about to do is indulge or cower to a girl with the temperament of a mad turkey.

She picks up a rock, but it hits the other bank. “Do you think throwing rocks into a body of water means you have deep thoughts?”

I brush my hands. “Do you think talking more makes you sound smarter? You may be a witch, but that doesn’t mean you have to go around acting like one.”

She spins on her heels, her teeth locked. “What did you just call me? You did not use that filthy word.”

“You heard me.” I must be looking for a fight, but she obviously is too. She swipes a loose strand of hair out of her face, stepping up to me. The flat of her hand slaps me in the chest.

“Listen to you—with your ignorant, little Ordinary slurs. If I knew how to chant you backwards into that treetop, I’d do it. I’ll only accept the term
witch
because I’m tired of hearing a name used to describe us, knowing it’s said with such disgust. Every time Lil and I leave these walls to get supplies for winter, we have to hear that blasted word. We may be dysfunctional, and strange, and wild. But we aren’t some trashy, animalistic scourge with warts and brooms between our legs. We’re not evil or possessed. Witches see visions of which kings will fall and which ones will rise to control. We’re Seers who smell the iron-like odor of blood from every defeated army—we smell the pungent rot of dead soldiers as they bloat and burst with maggots. We get the pleasure of seeing every grotesque thing
your
people will do. But yes, I will answer to witch, because when you claim a nickname with confidence, you take your power back.”

I rub my temples, because I clearly underestimated her ability to win an argument by talking someone into the ground. “Can we start over? You and I are still basically strangers. I’m not even sure why this argument started in the first place. I apologize. I won’t use that word again. Okay?”

“You need to leave,” she says. “If you go then it can’t happen.”

“Pardon?”

“My Awakening dream was about you,” she blurts out. She waits, like I should be the one to explain myself.

“Your what dream?”

“Never mind,” she snaps, pinching at her skirt. “If you knew better, you’d listen to me and go. You’d take your things and run. I don’t like that you were in my dream any more than you do. In fact, I can’t think of anything worse.”

“I don’t even know what that is.” I shrug, putting my hat back on my head. I’ll risk the wrath of the old women over this incessant chirping. She just follows behind me though.

“I saw you in my dream,” she shouts. “We’re not strangers. Unfortunately, we’re to become quite intimate. Intimate enough that I’m supposed to run away with you. And there’s nothing I can do about it. So forgive me if I’m a little annoyed by you just being here. You’re about to ruin everything, and I don’t even know if there’s a spell that will get me out of it. I’m telling you to warn you. If you go, you’ll save us both a lot of unnecessary and unwanted physical interaction.”

I’m laughing now, because she doesn’t pause from her thoughts long enough that any man could kiss her anyway. “The way you carry on, I’m pretty sure kissing you would be as pleasant as diving headfirst in the shallowest part of that river.”

“See?” She throws her hands up, hurrying to keep up with me. “It was wrong. My Awakening has to be, because we both agree it would be disgusting.”

Sighing, I stop—if only to make her take a beat. “Listen,” I say, pushing my hands deeper into my pockets. “You’re a pretty girl. You seem—”
Crazy
. “Determined. If we’ve decided that neither of us would ever consider it, why are you still worrying about it?”

“Because everyone around here treats Awakenings with this scary reverence. Even Lil. And she makes light of almost every other tradition we have.”

“Maybe you should talk to Lil about this then, huh?”

“I can’t. The last Seer who went around talking about what she saw in her Awakening dream ended up being cursed mute for an entire spring. She couldn’t undo it, no matter how many grimoires she looked through. If I’m heard talking about it to anybody else, they aren’t going to listen to me long enough to understand why I’m scared of it. They’ll just make an example of me for breaking their archaic rules.”

“I’ll make you a promise,” I say, blinking my eyes to ward off the headache she’s giving me. “The moment I consider tempting the angry torches and magical wrath of the Nightbloods to steal a hot-tempered Seer from her coven—I’ll know it’s my cue to take my bag and go. Fair enough?”

She looks back at the clustered Seers who have visibly stopped their chatter to listen. Three houses down, under a glittering white canopy, their prying eyes watch us with unflinching curiosity. The kettle is even tipped without anyone to hold it, pouring tea all over their red silk tablecloth. I pretend our conversation never happened. If I show no interest, they won’t either. Scooping up a handful of nails, I go back to work. Calli stands there, her glare so intense that I can feel it as I hammer away at the post.
One day down, 86 more days to go.

5

CALLI

I
get rapped on the forehead with the end of a rigid wooden spoon. Lifting my head from the table, my wincing is slightly delayed. “I’m up. I’m up.” A large circle of drool marks my sleeve, but Lil isn’t about to take pity on me.

She pushes a plate my direction. “Take that corned beef and the pickled beets to Isaiah. It’s nearly noon. He’ll be getting hungry. And then you can dish up some for yourself.”

I’d remark on how the hired hand is receiving quite the special treatment—having his food brought to him, but then again he’s also saving me from all of the outside chores. The chair hits every uneven floorboard as I slide it into the table. Rolling my sleeves to hide my own slobber, I steal a glance in the mirror above the rusted quilt chest. While nobody could call me cheerful or smiley, they’d certainly avoid calling me such terms today. My eyes are itchy and dry, and my hair is as limp as my legs are sluggish. I’ve spent the last two nights walking the field to stay awake. I need more time before these nightmares. Lil taps my head again with her spoon, but this time it’s gentler, like I’m supposed to find the funny in how slow I’m being. She may not be a practicing Seer, but I swear she reads minds.

“You can put off the dreams all you like, but sooner or later you’re going to have them. Depriving yourself of sleep is trading torture for another kind of torture. And frankly it just makes you useless to me when we have things to get done.”

“Yes ma’am.” Ma’am is the type of phrase that makes her eyes crinkle.

“I’m not that old.” She swats me on the behind. “Hurry up. His food is going to get cold.”

The daylight outside of our dimly lit house causes me to shield my eyes with a disinclined arm. Mildred sits in her usual spot, the corner where the sun spills onto the house and gives her the best lighting. She heaves uncontrolled, wailing and sniffling. Splatters of brown oil paint cling to her dress as the tears glide down her plump cheeks. Don’t ask me why she doesn’t do so on her own porch. She’d say it’s only about the lighting, but I think we have more patience for scrubbing up her paint spills than Daphne does.

I note Mildred’s blunt, short hair sticks up on one side, the back knotted in a dreadful mat.
She didn’t even attempt to untangle it this morning.
I sigh, thinking I should find her comb and leave it next to her paint for later. She curls her brush along the canvas, flicking white along the dainty trickle of water under the figure’s feet. The blond woman in the painting wears a tailored blue dress, holding her skirt up as she splashes in the stream with her bare feet.

“That powder blue is looking good,” I say, mustering the only enthusiasm this day is going to get from me. One never expects her to answer back though. She’ll turn her smile back on the moment the picture has the brightness of a children’s storybook. I turn the corner of the house for the woodpile, nearly bumping into Isaiah.

Daphne stands beside him, a heaping basket of cookies at the crook of her elbow. Her face instantly goes as white as the ribbon around her head, and she sets the basket on the top row of firewood. “Well,” she says, managing a flat smile, “let me know if you like them. I’d best be getting back to my embroidery.”
Oh sweet Betsy
, I think as she beelines for her house. As if she’s ever cared for making pillows and doilies.
She hasn’t wasted any time at all
. I can’t remember the last time I saw her bake this many cookies, and for one person too. His face is twice as empty and slack-jawed as hers was.

“Lunch.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, giving me a brief nod. He dips his fork into his food, leaning into the side of the house.

“You don’t have to hide with your food.” I jerk my head toward the front porch. “Don’t let what I said the other day keep you from at least sitting on the steps. I won’t tear into you again, if that’s what you think.”

“You’re not going to start into that bizarre rant about fate?”

“I’m too tired for it.”

We walk around to the steps, but he stops with the back of his hand at my arm. Under his breath, he turns into me. “Is she all right?”

I breathe out, looking all directions for what has him unnerved.

“Her,” he says, pointing to Aunt Lil’s porch. Mildred’s heavy sobs leave her hand shaky as she dots at the woman’s outline.

“She’s fine,” I say, shrugging.

‘That’s not fine,” he replies, looking at me as if I’m the most unfeeling person he’s laid eyes upon. Propping his plate on the railing, he walks briskly. A wadded handkerchief appears from out of his left pocket, and I chase after him. I have to grasp his shirt to stop him as he gets to the bottom stair. “Don’t interrupt her,” I demand, shaking my head. “And your handkerchief won’t help her. She has a routine. This is how she deals with it. And she likes her space while she sketches and paints. Everyone here has their own quirks when they’ve seen something they can’t forget. Daphne bakes pies when she’s had a really jarring nightmare. You’re going to get so sick of pie. And if Aunt Lil gives you a long work list, just do it and steer clear of her for the day. Lil always makes lists and scrubs the floors really hard when she’s seen something. Mildred paints. Every day. If you try to get her attention, she’ll only cry more.”

He studies Mildred, his forehead crinkled. I fold my arms, waiting for him to accept it and go back to his food.
It’s most certainly cold by now
. “Are you going to gawk at her all day?” I push, picking at the peeling white railing. “She’s not here for scientific observation, Isaiah.”

He revolves into me, accidently brushing my arm. “But her painting is bright—and cheerful. Why is she still sobbing like that?”

“She paints whatever she saw,” I say. “Except she changes the ending of all her dreams to rid herself of the sadness. Since that one has a woman wading in a tiny stream, I’m guessing she saw someone drowned. Or held down in the water. Once she saw a man decapitated. She spent three weeks painting twenty different hats and smiles on him, because she couldn’t decide what a happy face would look like on the man. The second shed behind Lil’s is where we keep them all. I’m not even sure why we insist on saving them. It’s depressing if you ask me.”