Where Bluebirds Fly (Synesthesia-Shift Series) Page 14

  “Someone help John!” A young woman’s voice called beside him. “John, who be afflicting you? Help us help you,” she pleaded.

  No-one did this to him. He was not enchanted, he was ill. Just like that poor dog after eating the witch-cake.

  The twitching began last night directly after he ate the bread.

  “No one t-t-torments me, I am ill.”

  Finally, the contractions released him.

  He lay still, waiting; every few seconds his limbs gave a residual twitch.

  His head felt empty and numb, and he welcomed it; the corners of his mind were mercifully quiet.

  His body was hauled to sitting; his head lolling to the side.

  The same girl’s voice spoke up. Her voice sounded far away. “Surely his trial should be stayed.”

  A male voice responded, “We have put his judgment off too many times already. Begin.”

  Constable Corwin’s voice was so close, he felt his breath on his ear. “John, please recite the Lord’s Prayer.”

  John licked his cracked lips, and was thankful when a tear wet the hardened skin.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy n-name.”

  “Continue.”

  “Thy kingdom c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-,” another seizure shook him, shaking his voice out of control. His leg banged against the desk and he howled in pain.

  Across the room, a chorus of screams echoed in the ordinary.

  John forced his eyes open to see the familiar pack of girls, writhing and contorting in response to his stutter.

  He stared, beseeching Hathorne. “I cannot help it.”

  All three girls mimicked in sing-song voices. “I cannot help it.”

  “Stop!” John yelled.

  “Stop!” They chanted.

  “Condemned. He is a witch. Unable to state the Lord’s prayer, a sure sign of guilt. Date to be set for hanging. Remove him, please.”

  John couldn’t speak.

  He prayed. Someone must save him.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  The voices follow me. I’m running, dodging them, dodging the stocks. One slashes my cheek, but I don’t miss a step.

  The orphanage roof is visible. I’m almost there.

  A deafening flutter hits my ears. The bluebirds are giving chase.

  I glance back, stumble and look forward again; afraid the voices will catch me.

  As one, they leave the path and fly above the corn-tops. The squawks and shrieks are deafening. They’ve grown in number; they’re uncountable. The flock folds in and on itself, reminding me of the ocean’s tumbling surf.

  I break out the corn’s mouth and the congregation halts, fluttering about the entrance. As if they are bound to the corn.

  Only here. In Salem, they go where they please.

  “They do travel through the doors.”

  My heart is in my mouth and I bolt for the house.

  The worry is a part of me now, like an arm or leg and the hornets feast on my anxiety.

  I stand on the porch, trying to catch my breath.

  The bluebirds are slowly leaving, and I can’t hear the voices. They are trapped in the corn as well.

  The tears on my cheeks are almost dry, but I swipe them again. No sense upsetting the children, they have their own worries.

  I open the front door. Raised voices filter from the kitchen. I turn the corner and hesitate, watching.

  Ram and True have managed to get every boy at the table—more or less.

  A few smaller children crawl under tables.

  “We’re losing the battle, I sense a mutiny,” Truman says to Ram, grasping a four-year-old boy by the scruff and placing him back into his seat. “Eat.”

  Ram sees me first and nods to Truman; his eyes narrow and scrutinize his friend’s expression.

  Truman looks up from tying Anthony’s shoe, and relief floods his face.

  His half-smile constricts my chest.

  He slides his chair back and his eyes never leave my face.

  It’s as if I’m the only person in the room.

  My skin burns under his touch as his fingers grasp my elbow. He leads me into the hallway-away from ten sets of staring eyes.

  A collective, “OOOO!” echoes down the hall.

  “Zip it or no dessert!” Ram’s chastises.

  Truman leans in so close, his breath tickles my cheek.

  He kisses it gently.

  I lick my lips, which feel suddenly dry.

  “I’m so thankful you’re all right,” he breathes quietly, “I was about to go to the corn—you were gone quite awhile. And it’s getting dark. All I got was static on the talkie.” He kisses me again, feather-light on my lips and pulls away.

  He eyes tighten. “It wouldn’t open, then?”

  “I saw….” I close my eyes, trying to name it. “The cyclone of sounds. Of voices.”

  Truman’s hands rub up and down my arms. His eyes scan my body as if checking for injuries. “Did it speak?”

  I nod. “It said, face your fears.”

  Truman’s face drains. His eyes widen in comprehension. “Of course. I was so stupid.”

  “What do you mean? Speak plainly.”

  “Never mind. I’m going with you. The townsfolk will capture you, put you on trial. I’ve been studying Salem—we’ll talk tonight, okay? After the tribe’s in bed.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He takes my hand, leading me back into the fray with a reluctant glance.

  I give Ram a tentative smile, which he returns.

  “Hi Miss Ver-i-ty,” Anthony says.

  I ruffle his hair and sit beside Truman at the table.

  * * *

  Next morning

  They were sequestered behind the barn. Away from the tribe of prying eyes which currently gawked from every window of the farmhouse.

  The words privacy and orphanage were oxymorons. He should know.

  “Is there ennythin else I need to know before we open the door?”

  “Remember, you cannot touch me in anyway. It will land you in the stocks. Remember you are a gentleman; they shall be more likely to heed your words if they think you wealthy. So, I am beneath you—don’t show too much interest in me. Like you do.” Her face flushed.

  He smiled. “That is so ludicrous.”

  “Truman, it’s vitally important—”

  He silenced her, placing his index over her lips, stealing another kiss.

  “Sorry. I know it’s important. I’ll play my part. It’s just barking to think the most important person in my world is beneath me because she wasn’t born to wealth.”

  Anxiety raised its head. It was becoming real. This wasn’t a game.

  He paced beside her, thinking out loud.

  “So I am to buy your service from the Putnams.”

  “Yes. You obviously don’t have the right currency. You will have to barter.”

  He slid his hand in his pocket and extracted his great-grandfather’s watch.

  “We’ll start with this, and I’ll bring more heirlooms, for insurance. We’ll find John, and bring him back. Hopefully without anyone getting hurt.”

  “I’m worried. I’m dreaming of him every night, now.”

  “We’ll try every day, Verity. Starting now. Let’s go see if it is open.”

  He glanced back at the orphanage. He felt the guilt on his face and covered by rubbing his growing beard.

  “I hope Ram will get on without me.”

  Verity gave his arm a shake. “True-this isn’t your battle. You do not have to come—everyone in that house depends on you.”

  Her mismatched eyes dropped to the ground.

  He touched her chin, and was momentarily distracted by its softness.

  He waited till she met his gaze. “And who can you depend on, love? Annethin that affects you, affects me. C’mon, we’re losing daylight.”

  They headed north, to the top of the maze. And the bridge.

  * * *

  Chapter 1
9

  After hours of trying, we finally relented and returned to the house.

  Truman is gazing out at the corn, his hand resting on the porch railing.

  I keep crying. I can’t help it. John shall die.

  The words keep repeating, a haunting mantra in my head.

  “Why won’t it open?”

  Truman’s face matches the anguish in my heart. “I don’t know. If I did, we’d already be there.”

  We continue to try and weeks fly by. I am as sick and stick-like as the scarecrow in the corn. I cannot eat or sleep—to breathe in and out each day seems too much.

  I stare out my window into the night and shiver, thankful the voices and birds are bound between the stalks.

  My heart is sinking.

  Is John still alive? Does the chronology of time runs equally between the two worlds? If so, he is doomed.

  I sigh. Two boys bolt past my room, darting down the hall.

  I foresee bruises, and hurry to the door.

  “You can’t catch me!” Anthony teases, sticking his tongue out at the older boy.

  “You are so dead,” Tim replies.

  They dart back toward me. I turn sideways, lifting a leg to avoid a collision.

  “Sorry!” Tim shoots over his shoulder. He doesn’t miss a step.

  At the end of the hall, two deep voices argue but drop when they hear my footsteps.

  It’s odd. I’m closer to one of them in age than Truman, but our minds couldn’t be further apart.

  I’m jealous of how long children are permitted to stay children in this time.

  This reality bonds Truman and I together. We barely remember the safety of childhood.

  I head into my room and collapse onto my bed, draping my arm across my eyes.

  The intercom buzzes and Truman’s voice pipes into my room. “Ram, Edward is freaking out. Can you help me get him into bed?”

  I stare at the speaker, taking deep, ridiculous breaths.

  It’s technology, not enchantment.

  “Yeah, sure.” Ram’s reply is tired.

  I know he resents me and I cannot blame him. I’ve wrecked his plans, stealing Truman’s direction.

  I take more breaths, trying to block out the sounds.

  Life here is a stark contrast to Salem, where children are seen and not heard.

  I shudder, thinking of Edward’s fate, were he born in Salem.

  He reminds me of a younger John. His violent tantrums and inability to speak would’ve at best landed him a life in shackles, at worst…hanged for witchcraft.

  I swallow and block the images. It’s the only way I can carry on.

  One of my mother’s favorite phrases pops into my head. From the Holy Writings, ‘Expectation postponed, makes the heart sick.’

  Here, children can say what they think, and play till all hours.

  The Putnam household seems like solitary confinement in contrast. I count them on my fingers; ten children from age eighteen to three.

  I check my watch and bolt upright. It is time to bathe the toddlers.

  With so many children, it’s imperative to follow the schedule. And, I admit, the nightly routine gives me comfort.

  In a few moments the little ones are playfully splashing one another, not a care on their beautiful, tiny faces.

  I stare at the hot water trickling from the spigot. It feels almost sinful, the way I can bathe daily. I check my watch again. It’s time to tutor the older boys.

  “Time to get out.”

  “No!” Both whine in unison.

  I hurry down the stairs to the kitchen.

  “It’s time to get started.”

  The boys obediently sit at the kitchen table, handing me their assignments.

  My fingers trace their spelling words. Truman enters behind me, and I startle.

  He smiles, raising an eyebrow at my skittishness.

  He takes me by the elbow into the hall, out of the boy’s earshot.

  “Why so anxious, love?”

  I shrug. “Habit. Thinking of Salem again.”

  I cannot allow myself to call it home. This is home now. “Reading was a legacy in my family. Mother taught me and then I, John. Most women are only taught to sew and mind children.”

  My gift highlights words in my memory. Reading is as natural as breathing for me, so my mother’s job had been simple.

  Anthony pokes his tiny blond head around the corner, staring into the hallway.

  I stare at Truman’s face. His eyes are red-rimmed, watering with fatigue. “I’ll take him back up, True.”

  “Thank you. I’m going to get another cup of coffee. I’ll trade you chores.”

  I hoist the boy onto my hip, and feel his downy soft curls brush against my shoulder.

  On impulse, I bury my nose in Anthony’s sweet-smelling locks. I reach his room, and tuck him under the covers.

  His eyes are full of trust before they disappear beneath thick lashes.

  He reminds me of….

  My heart aches for John. I pray he lives. The urge to return is a compulsion, never leaving my thoughts. I have no break from it.

  Anthony’s mouth yawns into a perfect circle and I smile despite the pain.

  He looks perfectly contented, as a child should. With a realization, I understand Ram’s resentment.

  This place, this house, has such a noble purpose, and I will be ruining someone’s dream if Truman leaves.

  To provide children like Anthony, the childhood they so deserve.

  That I never had.

  Truman is standing in the doorway, as if my doubts have summoned him. His deep russet hair is a mess, and his blue- green eyes narrow. He’s always evaluating.

  “You look so tired.”

  Truman pads quietly to Anthony and pulls the covers up to his nose. Anthony’s eyes pop open and shine with the well-known routine.

  “Say your prayers. Goodnight.”

  I stand and follow him to the doorway, where he flicks on a contraption called a night-light. He extinguishes the overhead light.

  I fight the urge to switch it on and off, like one of the children.

  “Sleep well. You know where to find me if ya’ need me.”

  “Can I have the dog?”

  “Sure. Pip!” He whistles.

  The Border collie bounds into the room and follows his outstretched finger, snuggling against the boy.

  He closes the door with a click.

  He turns to face me, and I flinch.

  His eyes are burning. They rove over me with an outright hunger.

  I’ve seen that look before—mostly from drunks at the Ordinary. It used to frighten me.

  But with him….

  He doesn’t speak.

  The house sounds fade to nothing. The hornets, for this blissful moment, seem like someone else’s nightmare.

  His thumb caresses my hand with smoldering little circles. I swallow, watching his face.

  A longing ripples down to my core.

  He pushes me against the wall, leaning in, inches away.

  It makes me nervous and I fiddle with the top of my shirt.

  He noticed and grasps my hand. “It’s only me. Doan be nervous. You’re always safe with me.”

  He takes my hand and pulls me into his room.

  I am vexed and my face surely says so.

  He rolls his eyes playfully and pats the place beside him. I tentatively obey.

  My heart pounds in my ears as he leans in, and his lips pet mine. His hands slide to my back, tracing the curve of my hip.

  I sigh, which comes out like a shudder.

  His scent, a mixture of strong soap and musk overwhelms me. He gathers a handful of my hair, placing it behind my shoulder.

  Melancholy arrives, constricting my chest. Our time together may end—and it’s been the best of my life.

  I cannot be silent, I must leave him with no regrets.

  “I’m so frightened we, this, will end when we return to Salem—I—”

 
He quiets my protests with a kiss. As the intensity escalates our mouths open and close and he presses the back of my head with his hand.

  I hear my breathing—quick little gasps—in time with his fervent kisses. His tongue sweeps mine with a rising need.

  Then his lips are gone. I open my eyes, confused. And longing. I am dizzy and disoriented.

  His hands linger on the back of my head, as if he’s reluctant to release me. His thick fingers toy with one of my red ringlets.

  Ram passes by in the hallway, and Truman’s face abruptly changes—his brow wrinkles and his eyebrows converge in a tight V, indicating his displeasure. Or guilt.

  My presence comes between them.

  His eyes search mine, and seem to reach a decision. “Nothing will change when we go to Salem. Your heart is my home—if you’ll have me, that is.”

  What does that mean? Does it mean something different in his time than in mine?

  My heart is pounding. I barely notice as he stalks across the room to fling open the closet.

  “I have much to show you. I won’t pretend, it could end badly for both of us.”

  He reaches inside, extracting a pair of riding breeches, a white shirt and jacket that would have been commonplace on any man in Salem. We were woefully unprepared on our first attempt through the time-door, leaving much to chance. Our clothes haphazard and a great risk.

  “Would this do? To go with you, I mean?”

  “How? I don’t understand?” My head swirls. Could he mean what I think he means?

  His smile is wicked, his eyes without a trace of sadness. They flare with the familiar spark of determination. “I have a friend who works in theater. She’s an expert at clothes from every time period.”

  Staring at the clothes is like a harsh slap. The joy ebbs away as the tentacles of dread threaten, tightening.

  In my world, a debilitating fear of the unknown clouds my mind. And a constant helplessness. I have no say in my own existence, no rights, in Salem.

  I stare at the clothes with loathing; a jolting reminder of exactly who I am.

  I stare down at myself, half expecting my shift to materialize.

  When he sees what I am to others in my world-someone to be tread upon, ordered around, and who is wholly invisible, will his feelings change?

  A young woman unfit to wed, with no wealth, no family. Will he still feel the same, or will he leave me for the gallows?