Where Bluebirds Fly (Synesthesia-Shift Series) Page 12

  His cheeks redden in return. I almost laugh.

  Dueling embarrassments.

  “Like the snow. Pure and precise and…invigorating.” A smile parts his lips. I feel the unfamiliar longing inside me. His eyes widen slightly as if he senses it, and he pulls me tighter in his arms.

  He slowly bends his head toward me and his lips graze mine-softly at first, then they move furiously, with crushing swipes.

  I open my mouth and close my eyes, savoring the feeling. A hot flush rushes up my neck and I grasp the back of his hair in both my hands.

  I must not. I must not.

  But I cannot stop. I’ve waited so long...to have something to love.

  He pulls back abruptly, his face suddenly serious with some unspoken realization.

  “I will help you get back to Salem. To find your brother, but only if I can come with you.”

  * * *

  John jerked awake. Something had passed over his leg. He shivered.

  I shall not look.

  His mind paraded an endless stream of pictures. Pictures of comfort—his talisman against the continuous, almost inhuman, moans of the accused.

  He’d found a piece of shale within reach of his bars. So far, one half of his coffin cell was scrawled in memories.

  One wall housed his boyhood home, the sprawling countryside in Maine, where life was happy, before his parents’ death. He barely remembered it now; just random images, conjured from the back of his mind.

  On the other side, he sketched a quiet pond near the Parris household. He and Verity’s secret meeting place.

  “John, son. It’s time to go. Your trial be today.”

  Constable Corwin opened the cell. John’s legs quivered as he tried to stand. He clutched uselessly at the bars as they buckled. Corwin and the boy caught him beneath his arms, dragging him toward the light.

  Pangs of searing pain shot through his thighs with each step.

  “Open the door!” Corwin called into the other room.

  As they entered the Ordinary, and the makeshift courtroom, he felt the heat of a hundred eyes judging him. A shudder, borne of their scorn, slid down his spine.

  His eyes slid across their faces and he sucked in the musty air, trying to fill his lungs.

  His mind screamed retreat, to pull inside, like a turtle to its shell.

  But inside, Verity’s voice warned, “You must defend yourself John. Show no fear.”

  A choked sob escaped, nonetheless.

  Hands seated him roughly on a bench, where the accused were queued in the order of their hearings. Judge Hathorne pounded his gavel for attention.

  “Candy, slave of Mrs. Hawkes. You are hereby accused of witchcraft. How do you plead?”

  “Candy no witch in her country. Candy’s mother no witch. Candy no witch Barbados. This country, mistress, give Candy witch.”**

  “So your mistress made you a witch in this country?”

  “Yes, Mistress bring Candy ink, book and make Candy sign.” The woman pretended to scribble an imaginary pen.

  “Your spectral self is accused of attacking Mary Walcott and Anne Putnam, Jr.”

  John scoffed to the woman beside him, “Is there any afflicted who has not attacked Anne?”

  Constable Corwin shot him a glare, and he pressed his lips together.

  “How did you afflict these women?” Hathorne prompted.

  “If Candy allowed, she will fetch the items.”

  Candy left the courtroom, flanked on either side by two men. Within minutes, she returned with an armful of belongings. In one hand was a handkerchief, which circled a piece of cheese and a piece of grass and was knotted in the middle. And in the other, she grasped two knotted rags.

  Her feet no more than crossed the threshold when Mary Warren and Abigail and Deliverance Hobbs dropped to the ground, their bodies convulsing. The sound of Deliverance’s head bouncing up and down off the floor reminded John of smashing pumpkins.

  Mary’s eyes filled with terror as they locked with Candy’s. “She and her mistress and the man in black, they pinch us with the rags!”

  Judge Hathorne screamed, “Remove those from her immediately.” His gaze never left the spectacle of the women, who now shuddered and flipped like suffocating fishes.

  Removing the items from Candy produced no relief. Abigail Hobbs screamed in pain and grasped her leg as if bitten.

  Hawthorne intervened once again. “Untie the knots; they must be the voodoo items. A knot for each of their souls.”

  Corwin hurried over and untied the knots, looking expectantly at the writhing trio.

  “No good, sir,” Corwin said.

  Deliverance screamed, “Mercy, please sir!” Her head twisted and angled to the right as if slapped.

  “Candy, eat the grass!” he commanded.

  Candy looked as mortified as the witnesses. She shuffled over and stuffed the piece of grass into her mouth. She chewed it quickly and opened her mouth, like a child, to show she had swallowed it.

  Mary’s fit reached apoplectic proportions. Her form went tombstone-rigid, and her eyes rolling back to show the whites.

  John could scarcely breathe. The only time he’d seen such violent fits was when his father had shot a dog infected with the distemper.

  His desperate mind yearned for Verity, and he imagined her steadying hand on his shoulder. He felt vibration in his throat and realized he was moaning.

  Hathorne screamed, “Burn the rags, Corwin!”

  Constable Corwin hurried outside and returned, brandishing a foot warmer. He shoved one of the rags inside and quickly lit it. The dry piece of fabric blazed orange in the center of the dusky room.

  Every soul held its breath. Would the rag’s destruction halt the chaos?

  Deliverance’s wail fractured the silence. Her hands patted all over her chest, as if extinguishing flames. “It burns us! AHHHHH!”

  Hathorne’s face was now visibly flushed despite the dim light. “Douse it man!”

  Corwin bolted outside, returning with a bucketful of water. Half of it sloshed on the floor as he skidded to a stop in front of the burning heap.

  As the arc of water poured onto the flame, strangled choking sounds emitted from all three women.

  Abigail managed a whisper. “You be drowning us!”

  John’s hands flew to his eyes. He slipped into his head, reveling in the pictures there, willing his soul to be there.

  The room faded to a distorted reality, as if underwater. He knew his eyes were unfocused and far away. Verity had begged him to never escape, described how his face frightened her when he escaped. “Like a house abandoned,” she’d whispered.

  He cared not.

  Finally, a woman stood across the room, her hand clutching at her heart. Mrs. Hawkes was barely heard over the din of the hapless trio on the floor. “I confess, Candy and I are guilty.”

  The women’s writhing halted immediately and they lay still as the stones on the floor.

  In a far off voice, he heard Hathorne say, “Return the other prisoners. This is enough devilry for one day.”

  John felt hands grasp both his arms.

  He did not struggle as they hauled him back toward the witch-dungeon.

  **Author’s Note: part of dialogue was from actual Salem transcripts.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  I rub the soft dress betwixt my fingers, wondering at its texture. I gaze at the young woman in the full-length mirror; unconvinced it is truly my face which stares back.

  Sunshine peers over my shoulder, watching me with a tender expression. She smooths my shoulders and steps back. “Well, it seems to fit well. Will that be okay?”

  The dress is charcoal gray and I fidget as I try in vain to pull it down. My knees poke out the bottom, making me self-conscious.

  At home, to show one’s ankles be scandalous. The top bodice is tight and gathered, culminating in what they call a ‘turtleneck’. My dark red ringlets are a bright contrast lying against it. Sunshine has
completed my ‘make-up’ as she calls it, and one eyebrow rises in evaluation. She nods, admiring her handiwork.

  “I never had a little sister,” she quips, arranging my hair behind me.

  The result is remarkable. I pivot from side to side, trying to reassure myself I am truly the reflection. I look as beautiful as any of the gentry back home. If I wore a ball gown, I would be indistinguishable from the classes I’ve served.

  “Well, say something. Your eyes look fantastic with that color of eye shadow. They totally pop.”

  I blink and look closer. “That shadowing makes their unevenness more pronounced. Are you certain it’s acceptable? I don’t want to attract too much attention.”

  Sunshine pops a hand to her hip. “Honey, that’s impossible. You were breathtaking covered in mud. And your eye color is cool. I’ve seen actresses with two different eye colors, but never met anyone in person. They’re beautiful and different.”

  I blink again, one dark brown and one blue-green eye stare back at me. I bite my lip and meet her gaze.

  “Where I’m from…calling attention to yourself, standing out, is a sin.”

  Sunshine laughs. “Well, we got a whole world of sinners now then!”

  Shame burns my face, and I curse my eyes for wetting as Sunshine’s smile falters.

  “I’m sorry. I know this is all totally foreign and awful for you. It will be fine—no one will stone you or anything for the way you look, okay? I promise.”

  I don’t trust my voice, so I nod and feign a smile.

  “Besides, Truman would most likely rip their heads off if they got near you.”

  A hot blush creeps up my turtleneck.

  Sunshine doesn’t notice and motions for me to follow.

  “So, we’ve told the children you’re an O.T. student, who is visiting from a local university. You remember what that is, right?”

  “Yes, an occupational therapist. Someone who treats many different types of physical and mental illnesses, correct?”

  Over the past few weeks, Sunshine and Truman have pummeled me with instructions on how to behave. Truman tried the time door several times, but it will not open. Now that I can wander under the guise of a student, I will haunt the door every hour till it permits me entry.

  “Yes! You have a fantastic memory, also like Truman. The man’s a walking encyclopedia. He scares me, really.” She chuckles, but it’s an uncomfortable sound. “I think he even tones it down around me so I don’t feel totally intimidated.”

  “Yes, remember the color-word marriages,” I remind her. I tap my temple. “That aids my memory.”

  “Right! Synesthesia. You two are a little too alike if you ask me. Like you were plucked from the same mold, but landed in two different…times.” She shakes her head, disbelief still coloring her features.

  I tug at the hemline. “The dress is lovely, Sunshine. But I feel naked with my knees showing.”

  “Oh, honey. Wait till you see what is on television now. I’ll keep some smelling salts handy.”

  I follow Sunny down the stairs.

  Truman is standing at the entrance to the O.T. clinic, waiting. All the children are off to school, and the quiet of the house is deafening from the previous two hours of organized chaos.

  As we step into the light, a little whistle escapes his lips.

  Apparently unintentional, as he quickly runs his hand through his hair.

  His stare is intense and raises the hairs on my neck.

  I drop my eyes to the floor. He reminds me of a tentative groom seeing his bride for the first time.

  I shiver. A jolt of electricity flashed from my heart to my stomach.

  It’s unwise to allow him such power.

  I know it. But I cannot stop it.

  I pray he is exactly as he appears. He seems too good to be true. I smile at my pun.

  “Wow. I barely recognized you. Except for your color—it’s vibrant purple now, love.”

  My breath sucks in at his smile and his eyes dance.

  I shift, self-conscious again. “It is acceptable, then?”

  He laughs, grasping my hand.

  Leaning in close to my face, he whispers, “That’s a poor choice of words. It’s like saying the Mona Lisa is acceptable.”

  Sunshine clears her throat.

  Truman’s eyes do not leave mine. “She looks great, Sunny. Your charts are in room two. See you at lunch.” He waves her away.

  Sunshine snorts as her boots stomp into the other room.

  Truman checks his pocket watch, and then leans in, dangerously close. I smell his sweet breath and a little shudder courses down my back as the longing roars.

  I realize the hornets are absent. I haven’t heard their buzzing for days. I’m relieved, but the fear creeps around, looking for a way back in.

  I know they will return the moment I’m alone.

  Truman closes the small gap between us and all else fades. Only the tickle of his breath on my lips.

  “May I kiss you?”

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  His thin lips are soft as they graze mine and his breath intakes sharply.

  His hand slides into my hair, grasping the base of my neck as the stroking of his lips intensifies. Our lips move with perfect, heated synchrony for a few seconds. It’s like dancing.

  The hornets resume, squalling in my ear till the vibration rocks my head. I pull back.

  “Verity?”

  My voice is breathless. “It just makes me nervous. Where I come from, you can spend a day in the stocks for public affection. And they’re torture. I know.”

  I reflexively rub my wrists, where the ghosts of the manacles remain.

  “After we find John, and we will….” Truman trails off.

  My gaze drops to the floor with the mention of my brother.

  My heart beats in irregular patterns as if mangled. I miss him so much it’s unbearable.

  Truman’s finger slides gently beneath my chin, raising it; forcing me to look him in the eye.

  “I want the two of you to consider staying. Here. With me. Please.”

  A tremble ripples in my heart. In what fashion would he have me stay?

  “Forgive me, Truman. Your kindness is beyond comprehension. But might I ask in what capacity? Perhaps John and I could be your domestics?”

  The curtsey happens without thought. I blush, feeling ridiculous—but it’s ingrained in me.

  My confusion buzzes with the hornets; I will assume nothing. Assumptions are dangerous.

  Truman’s lips tremble and he roars with laughter.

  “What is so funny, good sir?” I ask indignantly.

  He forces the grin away. “Nothing. Of course we’ll find jobs for you and John. But I truly hope you and I can be more than…employer and employee. I don’t normally kiss my employees.”

  “Praise be for small miracles!” Sunshine’s voice calls from the other room.

  Truman yells back, “Shut it. Aren’t I paying you to work? Or something?”

  The front door knob twists, ending our conversation. A harried-looking woman kicks it open, holding her boy at the wrist. The boy flops to the ground, wailing and spitting.

  Truman turns and says quietly enough so only I may hear. “So it begins.

  * * *

  John plugged his ears, but the conversation was too close to block. The arguing couple’s cell was right next to his own.

  Martha and Giles Corey voices rose loudly enough for the whole of the dungeon to hear.

  “How could you accuse me, Giles? Me, your own wife, of witchcraft?”

  John listened intently. Giles Corey was known as a man who never minced words, and had a countenance only the devil could love.

  He winced, thinking of a barely-thwarted thrashing for accidentally tripping Corey on the street. It was rumored he’d once caned the village idiot to death.

  “I was mistaken. You are no more a witch than I,” Giles says.

  “What are we to do now? Both of our sons-in-law
are siding against us? What of a petition on our behalf?”

  Giles spits. “That is what I think of petitions. Many signatures have been drafted on behalf of the accused—old Rebecca Nurse, John and Elizabeth Proctor, Mary Bradbury, it did not a whit of good. The names not worth the paper they were writ upon. And who will come to my defense? You, yourself, called me a devilish rogue!”

  Martha sobbed into her hands.

  “I have a notion, Mary. You shall see.” Corey placed his hands on the bars, speaking to all in the dungeon. “I refuse to confess to a crime of which I am innocent. You know full-well, they will take our belongings if I do. We will go free, but a lifetime of work-stolen unjustly. I will not have it!” he roared. His voice echoed through the cells.

  Martha’s weeping incited an entire chorus of women and their wails combined in an eerie echo.

  John covered his ears. The sound was God’s hammer, splitting his skull.

  “Look at these wretches. Even if they’re pronounced innocent, they will remain jailed for their inability to pay. And stay here till they rot.”

  His old, bony finger shot-out accusingly at John. “Like you, artist-boy. Your soul be doomed.”

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  I crouch in the corner of the room Truman calls the O.T. Clinic. He’s trying to coax the little wild boy into a chair.

  I flinch and the boy dodges, ready to run if he charges me. His little teeth have already left one raging-red, bite-mark on Truman’s forearm.

  I must be fair. My brother is different, but John was never violent. I swallow.

  “Verity, it’s okay. He’s just a boy, really. A boy no one understands—but underneath it all, just a child. I call them Lost Boys.”

  “Lost Boys?”

  “Yes, Peter Pan? Wait, that may have been after your time.”

  The boy’s eyes, perceptive and aware, see Truman’s attention has left him.

  He bolts, reaching a swing that’s bolted to the ceiling and launches onto it, belly down and spread-eagled, flying into the air.

  My hands fly to cover my mouth.

  “No-you-don’t!” To my surprise, Truman laughs. A low chuckle that somehow manages to sound sad.