The Short Life of Sparrows (8 page)

“The tea was helpful,” I say, digging my fingers into my palm. “Thank you Lil. But if Rowe shows up here for anything, I’m not home, okay? And I hate pink flowers. Not hate.
Loathe
. You tell him that if he comes. That pink is frilly, and wishy-washy—and yellow is much prettier. Those Nightbloods think they’re so crafty with their chants.”

Mildred and Lil exchange uncomfortable glances, but return to their sewing without a word. 
I’ll take his game and throw it right back at him.
 If he supposes he can steal his way into my good graces, sabotaging my dreams is not the way to do it.

10

ISAIAH

T
he late afternoon could use a breeze to take the soupy heat out of it, but only the buzzing of grasshoppers disturbs the air. Beads of sweat form on the back of my sunburnt neck. I make a mental note to repair the chair I’m sitting in when it groans under me. My hands are uneasy and stiff as I hold the indigo yarn taut around my hands. “I don’t think this is what Lil meant by keeping busy.”

“Oh nonsense,” Mildred chirps, rocking her chair as she rolls the string. “It’s too hot for anyone to stand out in that sun. When we’re done winding the yarn, I’ll have Daphne bring us lemonade. Besides, I don’t like being the messenger all by myself. You just sit here and look stern while I do the talking.”

I’d ask what she means by
look stern
, but Mildred’s face blushes as she readjusts her ample weight in her seat. “Rowe,” she says, her greeting too high in her throat. She grins, rubbing her fingers together in nervous quick motions. “I take it those are for Calli?”

Rowe mocks me with one eyebrow as he waves the bunch at the fence. “So you’ve found some use for the Ordinary. That’s good. One step up from owning a kitten. And I bet he doesn’t even bat at it or knot it up in his paws.”

“Now Rowe,” she says, sounding even less assertive as she fumbles for the yarn rolling off her lap. “Let’s try to play nice, shall we?”

He shrugs, already bored with talking to either of us. “Is she here?”

“Oh, she’s here,” Mildred clucks, raising her voice to the windowpane behind us. Her pudgy cheeks puffed up, she lets a long breath whistle from her lips. “Now, remember I’m just delivering a message young man. I don’t know what’s gotten into Calli lately. But she says—”

“She says,” Mildred starts again.

His chin juts out under his mouth. “Yes,” Rowe says, tapping the long stems against his palm.

“She said that if you were going to bother to call at all, you should’ve settled on yellow flowers. Something about pink being a frilly, wishy-washy color.”

A sharp tension builds between where he stands and where Mildred and I sit. No man wants to be chastised for bringing a gift—but the way Rowe glares at the windowpane makes me think there’s more to his walloped pride than just Calli disliking pink flowers. Mildred clambers up out of the rocking chair, swaying as she gets her balance. “Well, I think they are just lovely, Rowe. Calli is usually so easy to get along with. You just leave those flowers with me, and when she gets over whatever is ailing her, I’m sure she’ll be glad to see them.”

He faces toward the window, perceiving Calli’s shadow dodging back away from view. “You tell her that if she was the all-seeing Seer she parades around as, she’d have seen that pink flowers were anything but simple for me to bring her today,” he yells. “And if you would, please, also tell her that if she felt like yellow, she should’ve just opened the door and said so.”

He arches his hand, like he’s clawing at something invisible.

“But,” Mildred mumbles, before pursing her lips shut.

Rowe stares at me with a heated look, like his eyes are made of tempered metal. He twists his arm down, and a cracking sound splits through the wooden porch. Mildred knocks over her paint jars as she dodges the slithering vines. Yellow flowers slide over our feet, creeping up and around the posts. One snakes its way up the door, curling itself over the doorknob as the bud blooms. He rolls his shoulders back, chucking the pink flowers into the grass as he strides away. The door flies open, rattling on the hinges as Calli runs down the bowed stairs.

“I do like pink,” Calli cries out, almost tripping over her green dress as she takes the battered bouquet up in the crook of her elbow. Rowe spins on his boots, a menacing edge to his smile. “How about the yellow ones though?”

“They’re very pretty,” Calli says, her eyes slipping to her shoes. “I’m sorry for being so rude today. It’s my eighteenth year. I’m sure you’re aware us Seers can be emotional as we adjust to it.”

He cradles her chin in his hand, and I nearly vomit from how arrogant his touching her is. “You dreamt about me, didn’t you? Why?”

She hardens, folding her arms around herself. “You know I did. Don’t feign innocence about it. And you also know Lil would kill me if I did a spell to keep you out. So please don’t do it again. You should wait to be invited.”

“Sure,” he says to her while glaring at me.

I’d rather wrap up in a wet blanket than have any more stare-offs with this slick bastard
. It’s not as if I have anything to do with his moody witch girl anyway. I pretend he’s already gone, picking up the pile of yarn on my knees. Mildred’s hands tremble as she takes my silent cue to ignore them. She winds her yarn with such force it breaks. Neither of us wants to watch him hover over her like a hawk who’s about to peck its prey to death.

“I’ve got to go,” he says, swaggering away toward his horse.

Calli waits there with the flowers in hand until he’s out of sight. “I can’t believe he did that,” she says, turning to Mildred. She drops the flowers, wiping her boots over the tops of them. Taking the shovel that is resting near the fence, Calli’s cheeks flush. She drags it behind her as she hurries from the yard.

“Where are you going Calli?” Mildred shouts. “Don’t you go looking for it. It’s not your fault, do you hear me? Come back.”

She looks at me, her mouth stricken open. “You’ve got to follow her. My knees are bad, and I won’t be able to catch up and stop her.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, unsure of what has happened. “What’s wrong?”

Mildred rocks violently in her chair. She refuses to speak, and I realize she’s back in one of her dazed trances. She flags the air with her hands, humming and rocking faster.
She has retreated from whatever it is worrying her
.

I tear off into the thick patch of woods. The heavy grating of the shovel being dragged gives her direction away. “Calli?” She sounds like she’s on a warpath, and she doesn’t stop to answer me. The bushes and trees swish as she stomps up ahead of me. I catch sight of her copper red hair in the shadows, but she keeps a maddening pace.

“Would you slow down?” I call out, swerving around a thicket of thorns.

I run into her, but she doesn’t make a sound as I grab her to keep from knocking her forward. Her voice cracks. “I did this.”

Brown and white striped feathers litter the forest floor. Dead sparrows lie in the leafy dirt, among the pine needles and stray logs. Soft tufts of gray are strewn around the hardening birds, as if they all fell to the earth with enough force to expel parts of their wings. My stomach tosses. “There’s no way you’d do this.”

“But I did,” she shrieks, digging frantically at a blank spot of dirt. Turning the ground up, she flings it. She stabs the shovel deeper. “I shouldn’t have danced with him. I shouldn’t have insulted him today. What is Lil always telling me? I react without thinking things through.”

She leans over, scooping pebbles from the shallow impression. A rock thuds when she throws it over her shoulder. Taking the shovel back into her grip, she levels soft piles out of the growing hole. Every time the shovel hits, I can feel her anger in the deliberate strokes. I grab the shovel’s handle, staking it firmly in the hole. “Stop,” I whisper, trying to keep her hands from quivering beneath mine. “How can you say this is your fault?”

Her expression ices over, her eyes vacant as she shivers. She cranes her head to look at the slivers of powder blue sky that show through the tree boughs above us. “I angered him. I should’ve just taken the flowers. No—the first thing I said. I shouldn’t have danced with him on my birthday. I took it too far. He’s set on it now. And I know better than to make any Nightblood feel anything about me.”

She slips to the dirt. A wet splotch of mud streaks her face as she brushes a stray tear with the top of her wrist. “Magic doesn’t just happen, Isaiah. To curse something, to bless something—to create anything, you have to channel the life or energy of something else. You have to have a living cornerstone to draw from. If we counted all of these poor birds, there will be the exact same number as the—”

“Roses,” I finish, realizing the reason for Mildred’s instant terror. “He took the breath from these sparrows to grow flowers over your porch.”

“I killed them,” she says, scooping one up in her palm. “Same as he did. The least I can do is bury them.”

“Calli, it’s going to be dark before you can gather them all. It’ll get cold out here in the trees.”

“I didn’t ask you to follow me,” she says, lining the feathered bundles in rows. “Tell Lil I’ll be late for dinner.”

Pulling my pant legs up, I crouch down. “No, it’ll go faster if you let me help. And you’re not even in long sleeves. Let’s get them in the ground before you catch a cough. I’m not going to get in trouble for leaving you out here.”

We work in silence. After filling the first hole, I dig another with more width, while she scours the bushes for the ones she’s missed. I sweep the piles of earth back over the top with the side of the spade, packing it down with my boots.

“Please don’t tell anybody you watched this,” she says as she pats the dirt and brush over the patched holes. “Seers aren’t supposed to do this in front of Ordinaries.”

“If you’re about to do some kind of spell—”

“It’s not a spell,” she cuts me off, seemingly insulted by what I’ve said. “It’s only a prayer. I need to try to set this right. If I don’t leave this place with something peaceful, it’ll only hold the energy of what Rowe did.”

The clouds blacken as she clasps her fingers together in her lap. Bowing her head over her emerald colored dress, her hair floats with the whistling breeze that tugs at the tree leaves. As her mouth speaks soundless things, it stirs something in my chest. Growing up without anything but scrapped clothes to my name, I’ve watched many women pray over me. It’s always been a pretentious thing—a way for someone more privileged to remind me that they know a God who considers the few. The poor are always made to search out God, as if their plight is only because they’ve never discovered him. Someone with good fortune wants to believe they’ve earned it—and the reality of the sick and starving isn’t a companion they usually care to keep.

Never has anyone showed me the concern that this witch girl now shows these birds. I ball my hands in my pockets, looking up at the dark puffy clouds that shroud all proof of a summer day. The wind rises, the trees creaking and tipping as the storm thrusts them about. A low rush picks up, the pitter-patter of water falling down through the branches. As the rain starts to drip from the weeds, she closes her eyes tighter. Her dress drenched, her hair clinging to her neck, she moves her hands to rest them over the two small graves.

I think how I’ve never seen any woman make her prayer so careful and slow—how this Seer feels no need to say her words over these dead things aloud for approval. There’s nothing ceremonial or proper about it. She’s so lost in the pain of it, that I’m relieved her eyes are still shut when I find a stray casualty. It’s tiny and the way the bush overshadows it makes me consider for a moment that she’ll never see it. I begin to budge the loose dirt and pine needles toward it with the side of my boot. It’s only one, and if I can hide it then she won’t crumble again.

But this girl with mud down her dress and dirty fingernails—is still pleading under her breath, mourning the loss of common birds that nobody else will miss. My jaw tightens. Sweeping the delicate mound into my hand, I hurry to hide it in my pocket.
I’ll have to come back and bury it later.

She rotates her palms upward, letting the rain puddle in her hands. She stays unmoved until the gusts die down. A tiny smile dips across her face as she opens her eyes. “Did you feel it? The earth cried over them with me.”

I’m certain thick clouds only mean rain comes next, but I don’t say it.
“You’re soaked through. And Lil is going to give us both an earful for missing dinner. Let’s go.”

She nods as she searches the drab, shadowy woods for the shovel.

“I’ve got it,” I say. “Let me carry it.” We walk in cautious steps, unable to see more than a foot in front of us with the branches blocking the last of the blotted daylight. Hiking through the mud, I notice that she stays close to me. My free hand manages to button my coat pocket. I’ll have to dispose of the bird soon. Maybe I can find a place behind the shed where it’s less obvious. I quicken my steps to encourage her to do the same.

“If I say something,” she says, brushing the drying dirt off her hands, “will you promise not to repeat it? Not even to Daphne?”

“I thought you and Daphne told each other everything.”

She sighs. “I can’t tell her this. Never mind. It’s—”

“Don’t worry,” I say, elbowing her. “I’m not going to tell anybody. My social circle here is pathetically limited.”

She chuckles, raking a hand through her hair. “I guess so.” Her hazel eyes crease with embarrassment. “I hate myself for this. But the truth is, for an instant, I liked that he grew those flowers for me—that he’d do such a thing for me in front of other people. And I felt sorry that I’d made him lose his temper. But then I realized what those roses meant. It’s a much less pleasing gift when it comes with destroying a flock of harmless birds. If I liked the flowers—for a moment—does that make me a complete fool?”

“Probably,” I say, holding back my laugh. “But I’ve yet to have a Nightblood grow flowers in my behalf, so I can’t speak to this subject.”