Where Bluebirds Fly (23 page)

He kicked again, and the crack sped up to his hands. It crumbled, releasing them.
 

The bluebirds squawked, their disharmonious cries crowding out any other sound. Their voices rose and fell, as if mourning. They were everywhere. On every stalk, their shrill trills pierced his ears. It sounded like wailing.

“Can nothing—nothing—in life be easy for me?” He screamed upward, shooting his accusatory gaze into the corn.

His knees gave way, and he stumbled forward. The door popped shut behind him and a sparse rain ticked against the corn-leaves in response.
 

He automatically started in the direction of the orphanage. Seeing nothing. Hearing only the calls of the bluebirds as they followed him—they moved in one blue, flowing drove, trailing behind his every step.
 

His legs run, independent of his will.
 

Sharp leaves cut his cheeks as he whizzes through the winding, muddy paths. Thunder erupts, close enough to vibrate through the stalks.

The birds are wild. Four swoop in his path and he dodges, spinning out of their trajectory. He busts out of the corn to stare at the orphanage. The birds tumble over one another in a mess of feathers and beaks.

Ones at the flock’s rear slamming into those in the lead—who are unable to go further.

“They can’t leave the corn.”

He looks up at his window. Shakes his head once.
 

“I can’t act normal. I can’t do it.”

Ram appeared on the porch. “Truman—what’s going on? Where’s Verity?”

The sound of her name sends a surge of rage clawing up his throat. “She’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

Truman bolts up the porch steps. “Back to Salem.”

He swings open the front door, headed for his bedroom. Ram’s footsteps hurry behind him. “What happened?”

“I have no bloody idea. It’s like it separated us.”

“What did?”
 

Truman whirled. “The corn. The freaking voices in the corn—flying on the wind.” He stalked over to the closet, ripping out clothes, shoving them into his rucksack.

“What’re you doing? Where’re you going? She’s gone, man.”

“Ram, I can’t do this. Pretend like she didn’t exist. Like I don’t know what’s going to happen to her.”

“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be?”

He screamed. “I don’t believe that. Not for a minute! I…can’t believe that.”

Truman grabbed a sleeping bag, shoving it under his arm.
 

“What will you do?”
 

Truman stopped, finally taking in his friend’s expression, which had gone as bleak and stark as he felt inside.
 

“You already have a replacement lined up. Just pretend I’m not here.”

“Where—”

“I’m sleeping by the door. I’m not moving till it opens.”

* * *

Mistress Putnam’s two hands connect with my chest in a hard shove. “Where have you been, Verity? Been in league with the dark one, this many weeks?” Her eyes drop to my middle. “Perhaps you increase with his child, now?”

Her eyes glow with a manic tint. It was the illness, to condemn.

Show no fear.

If they sense a droplet of fear—a judging frenzy, like a shark’s bloodlust—will ensue.

“No—I—”
 

Mistress Putnam lunges, pushing with all her weight behind it.
 
My boot entangles with a foot warmer, and I sprawl.

“Where is John? Does he still live? Please tell me he lives?”

“That warlock be no concern of yours! You might worry about your own neck! It shall snap soon enough.”

I wince. “Where is he? Where is he?” I stand up, fist raised, ready to strike. “Where is he, you evil, self-righteous—”

“Verity!” Mercy’s trembling voice stops me. “John still lives. He be awaiting trial.”

Mistress Putnam strikes her across the cheek.

I raise my fist again, and an iron grip wraps around it. “You…shall not strike you mistress. What has happened to you, girl?” Master Putnam wraps my arm behind my back, till my wrist is between my shoulder blades.

“Ahh!”
 

“Walk, Verity.” He shoves me out into the snow, walking down the road, to town. To my death.

“I do not deserve to die! The devil is not here, master. Listen to me, I have seen the future.”

He shoves my arm further up my back and I scream. “Divination. More heresy. Your depravity knows no bounds, girl.”

“No—that’s not what I mean. I can’t see the future—”

I will not go quietly. I now know I will have rights someday—or my descendants will. I stamp my boot against his toe.
 

“Ah! You little tartar!”

I feel his fingers loosen. I kick his shin and bolt.
 

To the corn.

* * *

Chapter 23

Truman drops the sleeping bag on the bridge’s apex and paces.
 

“I have to get it together.”

He jogs down the planks, heading into the rows. Surely if the wretched door is about to open, he will hear some indication. See the second moon in the sky.

Dusk is falling and his mind keeps taunting him.

What will you do if you cannot see her again?

“I don’t know.”

The fact is plain, he’s forever altered. If he can’t save her—he will have to start again.

In everything. His whole life.
 

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming.

One bluebird has arrived. It tries to land on his trainer.
 

“What the—?”

Somewhere far off, the music begins, like a badly tuned radio.
 

Another bird arrives and another. A row of them are sitting on the corn like a bizarre string of animated party lights.
 

He follows them, and they sing in approval.
 

He’s back at the bridge. And…
 

His stomach plummets.

The journal is back at the apex.

He flies up the boards and they shiver, alive once more. His shaking hands crack it open.

~ ~ ~

Oh, my love. Where have you gone? I lost you, along the way. I fear it’s over, True. I’ve escaped. But it’s freezing. I have no shelter. My hands…the flesh is changing in the cold. I cannot stay awake. I will not survive the night. Remember me, True. Please—don’t give up your search. Love exists. Live your life, give away your heart—but keep a tiny portion, only for me. I’ve given you all of mine.
 
Know that its last beats sounded your name.
 

* * *

Hands lift me roughly as someone haphazardly tucks me into his chest. I don’t care. I’m so grateful for the warmth. I can no longer feel my left hand. It’s like someone cut it from me and cast it aside.

A frantic thought cuts through my dark mind. I peer behind him, looking for the journal.

Tears leak down my cheeks and I smile. “It went through. It went through.” My voice is a whisper.

“She’s mad.” The man carrying me proclaims.

“She knows full well her mind.” Constable Corwin. “Don’t let her feminine figure addle your mind.”
 

I laugh quietly. I’m no longer afraid of him. I’ve accepted I’ll die. Hate has replaced the fear. I’m not sure which is worse.

“Where is my brother?”

“You will see him soon enough.”
 

We enter Salem Town. Crowds upon crowds follow behind us, trying to catch a glimpse of me.
 

It’s so ridiculous. I, who was once invisible, now cannot hide anywhere. The center of attention.

A house, our destination, looms ahead. I memorize the position of the entrance; the direction, the number of doors.

We enter the house rumored to sit atop the Witch Dungeon.

We follow Corwin’s back down a dank staircase.

Manacles, chains, iron. Extra stocks litter the entryway.

My heart shudders as I stare at the prisoner’s faces. Their eyes are dead as they’ve already given away their hope.

“Verity! Oh, laws, Verity!”

“John!”

 
I am coming apart. My heart falls to pieces. I am crying and ranting and my hands are fluttering as my fingers splay to touch him.

Corwin shoves me into the cell beside him.

My hands instantly grasp both of his. He’s crying. I’m crying. I stare so gratefully into those chocolate brown eyes.

“Your joy will be short-lived.”

But I barely hear him. His voice is far away and unimportant.

“Oh, John. Just stay close, as close to me as you can.”

He snuggles up to the bars between us and I wrap my arms about him as best I can manage.

Somewhere, the jail door clangs shut.
 

* * *

The journal is strapped to his chest with a piece of leather from the barn he’s fashioned into a carrier.

The sleeping bag isn’t touching the cold, and his body convulses. He can no longer cry.

He’s numb, now. Which is better. His mind’s closed off his emotions—keeping them at bay like a rabid dog.

He slips the sleeping bag onto the bridge and crawls inside it. His mind and body are exhausted from the emotional thrill ride of the past twenty-four hours.

He closes his eyes, unsure if he should sleep.

The birds linger unnaturally despite the cold, like bright-blue sentries all around the bridge.

Will the sound of it opening wake me?

He knew he would be unable to keep his eyes open. He was spent.

He stopped fighting, but not listening. Night breezes rose, whipping his hair, breathing across his face.
 

Whispers, snippets of conversations were like points in space, all around his head, by his feet.
 
Like the disembodied voices have returned.
 

Fire in the hole!

The baby is gone, Miss.

It isn’t time yet.

Jameson, where are you?

The trial be set for the Montagues; two days time.

His eyelids instantly snapped open. He sat straight up, whipping his head toward the door. It shimmered like crusted ice, backlit by sunshine. Sunshine from Verity’s side.

* * *

Chapter 24

He plunged into the door. It welcomed him, it seemed.

Instead of fractured ice, it now felt like swimming in a warm pool. His body tumbled over and over and he closed his eyes against the force tugging at his face.

He landed—hard, biting his tongue as his face connected with the boards on the other side of the bridge.

Truman patted himself all over, feeling as if disembodied bits of him might still be in the cornfield back home. He was face down in the snow and utterly frozen. He shot to sitting, his head swiveling in every direction. She was nowhere.

“Verity.” He whispered her name like a promise.

Screaming for her, a lowly servant girl would only call undue attention to himself.
 

The nagging fear seemed to mock,
I told you so.

Happiness is not for you.

Pulling out the map, he located Ingersoll’s Ordinary and headed immediately in that direction. He quickly dusted the snow off his trousers. He would need immediate shelter against the frigid, falling temperatures.

He located the establishment quickly and slogged, head down against the wind, as quickly as his feet could carry him through the knee-deep snow.

Upon reaching it, he took a deep breath, pushing the heavy door open with a creak. The dark place smelled musty, and a woman of indeterminate age eyed him warily from behind the bar. Her body was stocky and sturdy and her face a ruddy, healthy complexion—but the lines suggested she’d seen her fair share of sunrises.

“Might I help you, Good sir?”

“Yes, I need lodging.”

“You are new to Salem? We do have one open. Might I inquire your name?”

“Truman Johnstone.”

She led him to the room, up the staircase without much fuss. A shout sounded from downstairs, and she bustled away. Closing the door after her, Truman placed the single bag he’d brought to the ground. He dropped to his knees, checking for loose floorboards. One lifted up near the bed, and he stowed the small bag beneath it.