Where Bluebirds Fly (8 page)

~ ~ ~

Truman blinked, felt the wetness. His mouth still hung open—he wasn’t sure if it was the shock of the wordy revelations, or that he was actually crying. He hadn’t cried since he was what…twelve?

He squinted. He couldn’t see the page anymore. It was too dark.

“Oh my gosh, it’s too dark. Ram is going to go ballistic.”

He tore off the bridge, heading through the rows.

He looked down at the journal.

He was torn. Ram was already going to be so ticked—he’d likely ignore him for days. He’d have carried out most of the nightly rituals without him.
 

“So dead.”

He reached the corn’s mouth, and stopped to stare at the orphanage’s wraparound porch, and back to the journal.

“He’s already furious. What’s five more minutes?”

He darted into the barn, and to the pile of junk stacked at the back beside the hay bales.

He rooted around, till he finally found it. “Yes.”

A dirty, plastic container, with a lid.
 

He grabbed a pen from the miscellaneous charity pile, and cracked open the journal. He hastily scribbled a message, and jammed the lid back on.

He darted to the barn-door, back out into the corn, toward the bridge.
 

This was one time his speed was actually coming in handy.

* * *

Chapter 6

Who are you? Where are you? Your words…well, I could’ve written them myself. I am so very sorry about your parents. But they obviously taught you well—your love for your brother shines in every word. I, too, am listening. What could I do—to help you? What is your name?

~ ~ ~

I’m very frightened, writer. There is something wicked happening in our town. People are being accused, and hanged. And—well, not only am I different on the inside, I am different on the outside. My eyes—are unmatched. People have taunted me for as long as I can recall. Today—I heard their whispers as I passed by. So many names for my brother and I.

~ ~ ~

Reader, hanged, really? Are you serious? What matters, is who you are. And by your words, it’s evident—you are a pure, pure soul. One undeserving of all this unkindness. I—I never knew my mother. She left me, at an orphanage. Truth be told…I’ve never known a home. So, although your home is lost—keep it close to your heart—to carry you through—when these others ridicule you.

~ ~ ~

Writer, I have not heard such kind words, for so many years.
 
I hope, good sir, you find your home. Everyone does have one. But sometimes, it’s not within four walls. But within your heart.

...I feel as if I live in my head. In my own dream world. Never confessing what I really feel to anyone. I feel I’m on a dangerous edge. That I can no longer contain my thoughts.

~ ~ ~

…I live in my thoughts too. No one I know…thinks like me. Sees the world as I do.
 

Reader. I must meet you. I have not dated anyone…in years. I never seem capable of small talk. How do I start a conversation? Hi. I am a complete hot mess? We’ve already shared the deep dark recesses inside…I feel I must meet you. Please.

~ ~ ~

Writer. I don’t know if that would be proper. But I must admit—I want to. I find myself thinking of your words all day long. I cannot focus, and find myself wishing. Wishing too much, for too many impossible things. All of which concern you. A man I have never laid eyes on.

~ ~ ~

Reader (what is your name!) nothing is impossible. Well, some things are…but one must hope. Hope is at times, all we have. And as to convention—I have lived my whole life on society’s fringes. Convention is for the weak.

~ ~ ~

…her blood…was all over my hands. I still see it there—in my dreams I scream and scream, but it won’t wash off. The stain is permanent.

~ ~ ~

…the second orphanage was bad.

~ ~ ~

Tell me. I’m listening.

~ ~ ~

…there were cockroaches, under the covers. They cut a hole in the second floor, and put a burn barrel beneath it—to keep us warm. It was so cold. I wore my boots to bed.

~ ~ ~

Oh, writer. I wish I could be there. To hold your hand.

~ ~ ~

We must meet. Tell me when.

~ ~ ~

I-I’ve never done anything…improper. But…yes, I shall meet you.

~ ~ ~

Meeting won’t be wrong. I promise.

~ ~ ~

I will have to come at night. At dusk?

~ ~ ~

On the top of the bridge?

~ ~ ~

On the top of the bridge.
 

* * *

Verity

I stare at the sun. Its orange glow just visible over the tops of the corn. Only for a moment, and it’s gone. The night birds are calling as I reach the bridge.
 

My heart falls. I look around, past the bridge, through the rows. No sign of him anywhere.
 

I hear my mother’s voice, scolding,
Verity, you do not know this man. Or his family. He may steal you, hurt you.

“No. I don’t think so Momma.”

My heart beats hard, and I wish, again. I care not if he is old. Older than even my master. Or if he’s ugly as a troll. It is who he is. I just wish to talk to him, to be near him.

I stand on the bridge, holding my breath, still turning in a circle, searching.

My boot kicks something.

The box.

The strange, clear case that houses the journal. It was not there a moment ago. I shiver, still not convinced this is not the work of the Man in Black.

I crack it open.

~ ~ ~

Where are you? Why didn’t you come?

~ ~ ~

My stomach flips. I hastily scribble in the book, place it in the container and kick it.

It slides over the top…and is gone.
 

“Where are you?”

I hear his voice, just like the first day in the corn. It sounds far away. Like it’s floating upwards, out of a deep well.
 

“I’m here!” I flinch, and quickly turn as a flock of birds—those odd bluebirds, take flight.

I hold perfectly still, entranced. There are so many, for a moment the sky is blotted out.

“I can’t find you.” His voice is closer. Like he’s beside me.

“Keep talking. I can hear you now.” I bite my lip. “Your voice is lovely.”

I hear the smile in his. “You stole my line.”

“Verity! Where are you, girl?”

“Oh no, my mistress is calling. I must go. I am so sorry. Please—can we try again?”

“Your mistress?”
 

“I have to go. Write me soon.”

* * *

Chapter 7

John crawls into his bed whilst I perch on the edge. He slides beneath his blankets, and looks helpless and innocent. Even in the relative safety of the Putnam house, my fears resume. My hands flutter almost as violently as Abigail’s. I sit on them so John won’t see. My mind keeps returning to the pitiful dog, and how every day seems one step closer to the noose. For everyone.

“Are you warm enough?” I try to force my face into calm.

John nods, but his color is pale, his eyes, dim.
 

His hope is fading. I don’t know if I can raise his spirits, my own be so melancholy.

“I am so sorry about the dog.”

He holds up his hand, shaking his head. He does not want to talk about it.

“I understand.”

Some things, no amount of talking will heal. Only time. He feels pain so acutely.
 

I drop my eyes to stare at my hands, thinking of the endless taunts he’s endured. Since he was old enough to walk-lope, really.
 

Monsters, all monsters, they are.

“Do you want me to sleep with you?”
 

“No. I will be fine. I will see you on the ‘morrow.”
 

I stand to go. His hand catches mine as I turn away.

I face him again.
 

“I love you, sister.”

I blink back the tears. He needs me to be strong. To
believe
I will make him safe.

 
A silly, weeping girl cannot protect him. A fierce, consuming, motherly instinct roars in my chest. Ignorant people.

It is
they
who are stupid. Who cannot understand his paltry words don’t match the depth of intelligence inside his head.

I seethe, thinking of their stares. Through condescending eyes. Considering him
less
than them. Indeed, he is so much
more
, than anyone I’ve ever met. I swallow my hatred, and unstick my throat. “I love you, too.”

I walk to the doorway, not seeing. Yearning for the past has me by the heart now, refusing to let me be. I turn to face him, repeating the words we’ve heard together when home was
home
. And our beds and minds were safe. “Till the sun doesn’t rise and the moon doesn’t shine, love.”

His responding smile finishes me. My breath stutters.

Shutting the door, I press my cheek against the wood. Both hands cover my mouth, squeezing my cheeks.
 
My chest shakes silently. I feel the wail building—I will wake everyone.
 

Something snaps inside. I fear it’s my self, my sanity?

I feel detached, like my insides fight to separate my soul from the cloying, sodden pain, infecting my heart.

Blackness crouches on the edges of my sight. The halls waver, dreamlike.

Would anyone love John if I passed?

A life without love. Perpetual loneliness.
Why live?

I long to be with my parents, even in death. When I was with them, I felt whole, a person deserving of love.

Every day in Salem since their death, is muted, every breath, like drowning. I shake my head. No, he needs me. What if the constables come for me?

Please, God, let someone else love him, keep him safe.
 
Oh, please let it be so.

The loneliness; I can no longer tolerate it. And it is possible to be lonely in a crowded house, like this one.

I stare at my hands, the burns littering my fingers. They’ve become infected before. People die from such a little thing. The fear of leaving him alone, unprotected, chokes me, and I gasp.

I am whispering and pacing and I cannot stop.

“No coin. No family. So, incredibly, unforgivably different. There is no hope.”
 

I must leave
. The need is unforgiving, and primal. Like the need to breathe. I flee, passing bedroom doors, where the quiet sounds of snores fill my ears.

A revelation hits. My writer, and the man in the corn…are the same?
 

Suddenly I must know.

Reaching the kitchen door, I fling it open, pelting out into the freezing night. The moon shines so bright, the whole of the barnyard is bathed in its luminescent glow. It’s like walking in another world. A black and white one.

New, white snowflakes buoy on the night air, hovering and shimmering in the moonlight before swirling down around me. The remnants of the corn, partially rotted but still standing, call me.

I feel the draw. And somewhere, music starts. Strange music, with a woman’s voice. Sad, and longing.

I listen harder. I can make out some of the words. “Lullaby…trouble…bluebirds?” I whisper.

Music, outside? How?
From where? Bluebirds? Does she summon that flock?
 

I hear
writer’s
voice again. Calling me from the dark.

I’ve tried to convince myself it’s a dream. The notes. His words. That he is a beautiful angel, come to coax me from despair. But the pain in my foot, where I’d cut it in his field, now stings, as if to prod me forward.

“It is folly. I am enchanted.”

A small voice inside whispers,
Then so be it.

I am running, flying toward that bridge.
 

No one, besides John, has looked at me that way since Maine. Since…
say it
.

“Since the raids.” I vault over the rotting leaves, their musty smell wrinkling my nose. “Since we put them in the ground.”

I hear the music rise in time to my footsteps. The sound is like none I’ve ever heard. Many instruments, layered upon one another, like the overlays of blankets on a bed.