Where Bluebirds Fly (Synesthesia-Shift Series) Page 18

  * * *

  “Verity, we have to get to the corn. Run faster!”

  They ran, as fast as they could, half-dragging John between them.

  Barks sounded in the night.

  “Not the dogs again. John, you must run!”

  The barks seemed to have woken a primal fear in John, his eyes churning. He launched himself into a gangly half-lope, half-run beside them.

  Weaving through the rows, the dogs’ clipped barks were mere rows behind.

  “They have to be in here somewhere!”

  After what seemed an eternity, the longest minutes of his life-the bridge came into view.

  Grasping hands, the trio bolted up its planks.

  “Please, open. Please, ruddy open,” he heard himself chanting.

  Another moon materialized on the other side, and he nearly wept.

  The three busted through the gelatinous door. Lights in every hue flickered, coupled by the perception of spiraling down the center of a cyclone funnel. The time stream whipped across his face, contracting and relaxing at regular intervals.

  “Don’t let go!” Verity screamed. He could no longer see her, but felt her grip tighten on his hand. She sounded miles away. And so terrified. He remembered landing in the corn alone, and crushed her hand in his.

  They landed with a thud on the other side, in a dog-pile of arms and legs.

  Verity shrieked, her brown and hazel eyes wide with horror.

  Dogs crouched at the gelatinous doorway, snarling and biting at it. Fangs bared, hackles raised, they stared with malice at the trio sprawled on the ground.

  “They can see us,” Truman marveled.

  A group of men appeared behind them, apparently seeing nothing. They stumbled around in confusion, yelling at one another in the chaos.

  “They were just here!”

  “That is bloody impossible! This cornfield is bewitched by the Man in black, no doubt!”

  They whistled the dogs back off the bridge.

  The three sat on the ground, huddled together in relief. John and Verity’s chests heaved in unison, desperately clutching one another.

  Truman swiped his face with the back of his hand, and bowed his head. Giving thanks for perhaps only the third time in his life. Perhaps there was some justice in the world.

  “Let’s get back to the house,” he said, gently grabbing each of them by an elbow. “I want to get out of the corn.” The music seemed to mourn, now.

  Verity shot him a tear streaked gaze. “Listen to it. So sad. That’s not your song.”

  He cocked his head. “No. It must mean something. And it cannot be good.”

  They took off at a trot down the row leading toward the orphanage.

  * * *

  Chapter 27

  Weaving down the rows, Truman was flat out running. An unpleasant apprehension was mounting and corresponding tracks of feelings, surging in his head, were doing miniscule calculations. They were not safe yet.

  Like a curtain call with the words spoken in his mind-the path ahead went black, as if night had fallen.

  “Like when darkness followed the Egyptians in the Bible,” he murmured.

  John nodded. “Y-Yes, one of the ten plagues.”

  Truman laughed nervously. “We better not be the Egyptians. I’m shooting for Israelite under the circumstances.”

  A cannon’s boom shot through the night. A hissing noise rent their ears as a projectile’s arc whizzed toward them, growing louder and louder.

  “Get down!” Truman screamed.

  A cannonball blasted through the curtains in the corn, landing not twenty feet away; its force taking out an entire row in one destructive swoop.

  They bolted past the open curtain, sprinting away toward the center of the maze.

  Truman yelled over his shoulder, not breaking stride. “The maze must open to other time periods besides yours, Verity.”

  The orphanage was in sight now, about ten minutes of winding rows away. Verity’s fingers grasped his arm, slowing him.

  From every corner of the corn, gruesome scenes raged—like a thousand drive-in movie screens, plastered into the corn.

  To the north, he plainly recognized Revolutionary War uniforms, as they whizzed past the open window in time.

  To the south, a huddle of children screamed in terror. A locust swarm gathered, so thick and tight, they disappeared beneath its undulating multitude.

  To the west, a beautiful girl, with raven-black hair, played a cello. Tears streaked her full cheeks as she stared lovingly up at the moon.

  “Who are they?”

  “We have been brought together for more than true love.” Her mismatched eyes were troubled and filling again. “I feel certain of it.”

  “Someone is coming! It’s from the direction of the south door, run!” Truman shouted at them.

  Verity grasped John’s hand and they flew through the stalks winding toward the orphanage.

  Truman shot glances over his shoulder trying to get a glimpse of the attacker.

  He stopped, giving them a lead, and slipped into a particularly thick cluster of stalks, waiting.

  A young man, blond and handsome, dressed in what he estimated to be 18th century attire, charged toward him.

  When the man’s foot struck the ground before him, Truman launched into the air, tackling him. Rolling through the corn, he grappled to restrain the stranger. The man was younger than him, and a little thicker-but the sheer adrenaline force surging through him gave him the advantage.

  Straddling him, he shot a punch across the man’s jawbone.

  It was then he noticed the colors outlining his person, so similar to the residents of Salem—deep azure blue, outlined in red.

  Fear. Is he frightened of me?

  Truman’s computer-like mind launched without his permission into a whirlwind analysis of the man’s expression. A database of micro-facial patterns registered, flowing toward him in a colored queue, and exploding into a tight analysis, culminating in an intuition.

  The man’s blue eyes widened, and Truman saw the familiar emotions which were all tagged by color and geometric shape. His analysis computed in ten seconds.

  He paused with his fist cocked in the air.

  “Please sir. The-the wind sent me. I desperately need your help.” He swallowed. “And I know that sounds mad.”

  Truman’s mouth dropped open, and he slumped to the ground beside him.

  He reached out to touch him. The man faded, like a photograph. First losing his color, turning black and white, and then to nothing.

  John and Verity reappeared, in time to see his disintegration.

  They stared at the spot, unmoving. John dropped to his knees, feeling around on the ground.

  “I, I don’t understand,” she finally said.

  A deep, mournful call of a cello surrounded them.

  A thunderous crack shook the corn.

  The whirling dervish appeared, and from it the whispers. “He will return. It’s a time track. A replaying of history, if you will.”

  “What can we do?”

  The whirlwind circled Verity. “She knows.”

  “To much whom is given, much shall be expected.” Her eyes searched mine, clear and open.

  “He will return. Will you help him?”

  Truman stared around him. The scenes were fading into the night, like a fizzling fireworks display. Popping out one after the other. Till the night was black, and quiet.

  The only remaining sound was…the bluebirds.

  His father’s words returned to his head, Your intellect doesn’t matter. It is what you choose to do with it.

  He knew. They were all chosen, bound together through a thread in time to help those who could not help themselves.

  Verity eyed him, but her expression left no doubt.

  He took Verity’s hand, and after a moment, hugged John to his other side.

  “Yes. What do we need to do?”

  * * *

  Epilogue

>   One year later, October.

  I walk out onto the porch and stare at the barnyard. To say this day will be hectic, is an understatement. The sun is burning off the morning mist, but I shiver a little and wrap my sweater more tightly around my shoulders. I drink in the cornucopia of fall leaves that litter the yard. The past year has been the best of my life, and it’s going to end.

  I turn to see my brother sitting on the rocker. I flinch. He’s so quiet, he blends into the porch furniture.

  “Hi, John. How’s it going with Edward?”

  The autistic boy looks up at me with the mention of his name. He signs ‘hello’.

  “That is wonderful, that he said hi to me on his own. You are doing a marvelous job.”

  John is not going with me, and for that, I’m glad.

  “Thank you sister.” John’s eyes shine with pride.

  He belongs here, where he is safe, and finally has other people who love him as much as I.

  Ram pokes his head out the door. “Come on, Edward, John. We have lots to do today. The Festival starts at noon, and we are nowhere near ready.”

  Shouts and laughter seep into the barnyard as Ram opens the front door wider.

  “Verity? You all right?” Ram asks. His eyes flick to the corn with a resigned expression. The clock is ticking. He and I have come to terms. We understand each other now.

  “Yes. I’m just going to find True, and then I’ll be right in to help.” I smile at him.

  I leave the porch and head across the barnyard.

  The cornfield towers above me, tall and green. I planted sunflowers at its mouth—perhaps to combat my own fear of the place. The result is a pleasing contrast of yellow flowers and black faces against the leafy green maze door.

  A map of the new maze is affixed to a wooden podium at the entrance.

  I stare at it, tracing the steps to the bridges in the maze with my finger.

  Where will we go this year? Will it be the same? Will that young man truly be waiting? And the voices? I’ve entered the stalks a million times, and it’s quiet. The music is gone.

  “But the birds are here.” I smile up at a flock of them. They perch on the corn, watching, as always.

  The sound of hoof beats cut through my musing. Truman angles the appaloosa around the hay bales, stopping in front of me. The sun glitters off the russet stubble on his cheeks.

  My stomach drops a little, just looking at him. I know it’s dangerous to love someone so much. But I have no choice in the matter. Time hasn’t dampened my desire.

  He extends a hand to me.

  “Ram is looking for you.”

  “One ride,” Truman says, glancing at the house like a boy escaping his chores.

  I grin and shove my foot in the stirrup, throwing myself behind him.

  His foot gives the mare a nudge and we’re flying. The wind streams through my hair like a crimson kite and I laugh.

  I squeeze him and kiss his neck. Make every moment count, is the way I live now.

  He slows the horse at the north mouth of the maze, and speaks quietly, so I have to strain to hear him.

  “It’s almost time.” My arms are around his waist, and his thumb caresses my fingers. “We promised we’d return.”

  I stare at the corn. If I die, I have had a year of being loved perfectly—which some will never experience. I lift my face to the sun.

  “I’m ready.”

  * * *

  Author’s Notes:

  Proposed Causes of the Salem Witch Trials

  Many theories have been explored with regard to the etiology of the Salem Trials-mass hysteria, class rivalry and strict Puritan behavior requirements to name a few.

  Children in Salem, most especially girls, had no creative outlet. Pretending and play were discouraged, and the tasks they were taught—sewing, cooking—provided no physical activity. Whereas boys were given the opportunity to hunt and fish which, at the very least, provided them with exercise.

  Women in particular had a difficult lot. If one was orphaned from the many Indian skirmishes of the time, the girl was destined for a hard life as a servant to a wealthier family.

  Mass hysteria is defined as a group of people’s belief they are suffering from a common ailment (often imagined) and occurs during extreme periods of stress.

  Salem has often been cited as one such historical occurrence of the disorder.

  Another fascinating explanation suggested by Linnda Caporael, a behavioral scientist, was that the people of Salem might have been poisoned with ergot, a mold that collected on the crops during the rainy season. Interestingly, it has been suggested ergot might have also been the root cause of the character in Shakespeare’s THE TEMPEST, who suffered convulsive fits.

  The people and animals (dogs) would ingest the grains and suffer the consequences. The witch-cake, mentioned in the book, is a documented event. The drug L.S.D. is actually a derivative of ergot. And the symptoms of the afflicted girls, the odd skin sensations, hallucinations, convulsions, and delirium could be readily explained by the effects of this drug.

  Of course, in some of the cases, outright maliciousness and class jealousy was undoubtedly a cause. The strict social norms of the time were a catalyst for more creative or active minds to act out. Continuous insistence on uniform behavior, and no free time for children exacerbated the girls’ attention-seeking behaviors. All claims of witchcraft were taken seriously, including those posed by children as well as adults. So all that was needed was a finger pointed in your direction, and you might be next to swing on gallows hill.

  *Lord’s Prayer—Many people in Salem were convicted for witchcraft for the inability to state the Lord’s Prayer correctly. So if one was under the effects of ergot poisoning with its muscle contractions, or born with a congenital stutter, or perhaps a learning disability…and were requested to perform this task-they were doomed.

  *Coffin Cells—According to the historians at the Witch Dungeon Museum, the very existence of the dungeon was disputed at first, but the site was unearthed during a construction project, later in history. Coffin cells were the size of telephone booths, and were impossibly cramped. The conditions of the dungeon were dank and wet; a perfect breeding ground for disease. Many did perish in the dungeons while awaiting their fate. All of the prisoners, even if released, were required to pay for their room and board while held. This left poor folks without family incarcerated indefinitely. Wealthier families were also afforded more spacious cells.

  *Pressing—The act of pressing, or crushing an individual with massive weight, occurred to one man during the hysteria of the trials. According to the history tours in Salem, Giles Corey, a difficult, belligerent man, felt all his years of toiling would not be passed on to his heirs if he falsely confessed to witchcraft. He needed only to confess and he would go free; however, his land would be forfeit. Therefore, Corey refused to enter a plea, and they sentenced him to be pressed to death.

  *Synesthesia—A condition in which normally separate senses combine. Sight may mingle with sound, taste with touch, etc. The senses are cross-wired. For example, when a digit-color synesthete sees or just thinks of a number, the number appears with a color film over it. A given number’s color never changes; it appears every time with the number. Synesthesia can take many forms. A synesthete may sense the taste of chicken as a pointed object. Other synesthetes hear colors. Still others may have several senses cross-wired.

  Estimates of the frequency of synesthesia range from 1 in 250,000 to 1 in 2,000. People with synesthesia are 6 times more likely to be female than male. Most synesthetes find their unusual sensory abilities enjoyable.

  People with synesthesia often report that one or more of their family members also have synesthesia, so it may in at least some cases be an inherited condition.

  It may be that synesthesia arises when particular senses fail to become fully independent of one another during normal development. According to this school of thought, all babies are synesthetes. Synesthesia can be in
duced by certain hallucinogenic drugs and can also occur in some types of seizure disorders.

  The words synesthesia is a hybrid of Latin and Greek—the Latin syn- (together) + -esthesia, from the Greek aisthesis (sensation or perception). MedicineNet.com

  *Synesthesia is a cognitive difference, well documented and quite real. Synesthaetes throughout history were classified as insane. This should not surprise us though, as almost any illness that was not clearly understood was seen as possession or the like.

  Many people hid their ability, and in 1812 a scientific paper was written on the subject. Most likely only medical personnel felt comfortable discussing their synesthesia for fear of repercussions.

  It can occur in so many different forms—some see shapes and colors from music, others taste different words or individual sounds. Some taste shapes or hear shapes. There are a myriad of combinations.

  It seems as individual as the person. For some, there are so many cross-wirings going on that overstimulation can occur while in crowded settings, but for others, with only one overlap in senses, it is quite manageable. Even enjoyable.

  Synesthesia does not have defined rules, it is as subjective as the person it inhabits. Meaning the letter K may appear green for one person, yellow for another etc.

  The ability to see colors around people IS a documented phenomenon.

  I had the privilege to interview some persons about synesthesia, and how it affected their lives. Many were unaware they were unique, thinking everyone thought in the same manner as they did. Once they were aware, they became self-conscious, only sharing it with trusted family or friends.

  *Lives Cut Short—Near the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, M.A., one may find the Salem Witch Memorials. Each of the park’s twenty stone benches represents persons hanged for witchcraft. Several of the stones contain chiseled quotes from the victims, including the haunting words, “God knows I am not guilty.” Some of the quotes are cut off, signifying the lives cut short.

  Definitions:

  *Maleficia—Any malicious acts which were contributed to witches and sorcerers in past times that were believed to cause harm or death to humans, animals or crops.