Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 17



Verity



The afternoon sun is hot against my back. I glance down at the corn-maze map to be sure I’m on the correct path.

The rows are well worn and mud inches its way up my boots, almost up to my laces.

I tilt my head, listening for the music. It’s been absent for days now.

The corn rustles and my heart leaps to my throat.

I spin, listening, waiting.

A bright flash of blue erupts as a flock of bluebirds alight from all around me. They followed me.

I walk faster, eyes darting everywhere. I believe many oddities to live in the corn. Lurking and watching my progress.

The corn is withering and I think of the voices, wandering somewhere, perhaps as close as the wind in my ear.

I picture them; a funnel cloud of sounds, ripping up the rows. Gooseflesh sprints up my arms, raising my hairs.

How can this place be in so many times at once? Is it the divine justice of a Creator? To somehow right the wrongs of history?

A song begins a few rows over. Gooseflesh prickles my arms.

I flinch, but keep walking forward, clutching the walkie-talkie tighter.

It is the same serenade that emanates from the whirlwind. I shake my head. Nothing shall keep me from John.

After searching for a quarter hour, the bridge appears.

It is Wednesday, the blue day. The door has always opened on Tuesdays—Tuesdays are red. It is also the day that marks my parents’ deaths.

I wonder if that is why my mind inked it indelible red?

My stifled panic breaks loose, strangling my chest. Like long-buried lungs, taking their resurrection gasp.

Being with Truman kept it at bay—without his calming presence, it smothers me, inching up my throat.

And of course, my friends buzz to life.

I spit on the ground, furious they’ve returned to haunt my ears.

I’ve made it to the bridge. Behind me, I hear the whispers, the bluebirds and the rainbow-song serenade calling. Growing louder and louder with every step.

I sprint up the bridge, hurling myself across the apex.

For a brief second, whilst I’m air born, I’m bittersweet.

I will see John.

Then my boots strike the bridge. I look up to see the same, brooding Pennsylvania sky.

“No! No!”

I glower at the heavens.

“Why is this happening? John needs me. You must open.”

Tears seep out and rage flushes my face.

“I know you hear me!” I bellow at the stalks. “You see all that happens in this field! Show yourselves, unless you be cowards.”

I press my hands to my forehead.

A cheerless tune saturates the corn, and with it, a deluge of images in my mind’s eye.

My fingers rush to the gun Truman insisted I carry.

The music drowns my senses as the doleful, orchestral piece unravels inside me. The music digs beneath my buried memories, popping them to the forefront.

My mother and father lie on the floor of the cabin, their corpses newly pale, waxen.

I choke, my fingers claw my face.

They’ve been bled out, like animals.

Each is face down in a hideous, crimson circle.

My teeth chatter, rattling my skull.

“It’s over. It’s all over now. Just a memory.”

My hands cradle my head, as I try to keep the fragments of my skull, my soul, together.

Righteous anger burns out the images.

I square my shoulders, looking for my tormentor.

This is not helping.

Verity. It is my mother’s voice. Strong and earnest. You must live. Save your brother.

The images rear again, a monster refusing to die.

My brother, toddling in a circle, his eyes wide with fear; around him, cruel children taunt, “Idiot! Idiot!”

I ball my dress in my shaking hands.

My mother’s voice shouts, silencing the hornets. Love is their poison.

John needs you. Be strong. Save him. You have not time to be frightened.

I hear them, then. The whispers on the wind.

My head swivels left and right. Bits of conversations swirl, popping in and out around me in a circle.

Like several personalities are debating, examining me.

She needs us.

Why her?

She is chosen.

“I want to go home. My brother needs me.”

The words grow louder, arguing in a heated whisper, till the air is clogged with raspy, verbal spider-webs.

“He will die!” I plead. “Please.”

My legs give way. Pain shoots through my knees as they strike the wooden bridge.

The whispers intensify, till I can hear and see the tiny funnel cloud generated by their arguments.

It encircles a cornstalk, spiraling up and down, faster and faster, spitting out yellow kernels.

They sink into the ground, disappearing.

A twisted vine erupts from the dirt and climbs; two-four-six feet, in the space of a breath.

It splinters with a thunderclap, in a myriad of directions, like woody capillaries. Its writhing tendrils scrawl to form words.

My heart hammers. They are alive?

The brown-briar spirals, weaving in and on itself. The length of it expands and contracts, as if breathing. It stretches and grows till a reedy tapestry spans ten feet across.

It stops, and I wait in a loud silence.

Even the bluebirds, perched on top of every stock, are silent.

At first, I see nothing.

I squint my eyes and cock my head as the patterns slowly appear.

I walk off the bridge.

Words appear at an alarming rate, the vines twisting, curling, and stretching to accommodate the script.

“Face your fears.”

My fears are mind-shattering. I do not wish to acknowledge them, let alone face them.

I hold out my hand, feeling for the murmuring breeze, but it’s gone.

The air turns tight and caustic. I choke on it, and cry out as I look up.

A discolored field of wheat appears, its blackened heads bending in the breeze.

A forest materializes in a blink, in the middle of the cornfield.

Every branch is covered in them, like macabre, hanging decorations.

They’re endless in number, as far as my eye can see. They materialize in and out with every breath of the breeze.

Nooses swing from every limb.

* * *

John’s body shook.

It began with a finger twitch. It traveled like a lightning-strike up his arm and he was its pawn.

His boot banged rapid-fire off the wood floor.

His thigh screamed; the contraction spread like an invisible vice, milking his legs, contorting his torso. His arms jerked straight like a scarecrow.

The muscles seized in a collective-clench and he toppled from the bench. Like a petrified boy.

The seizure changed its mind. His limbs rippled without purpose; his head crashed and bounced off the ordinary floor.

“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.

* * *