Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 19



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?

Impossible. Yet, this was the land of impossibilities. Where dreams and reality co-exist.

Not so in Salem. One unforeseen occurrence and one’s life is irrevocably altered.

“Yes, the clothes are perfect.” I choke out the last word.

He’s before me instantly, dropping to one knee.

“Verity, what is it? Your face fell, and your color turned red again. Be honest. If nothing, else, you have to give me that.”

I close my eyes as he slides beside me. His fingers cup my cheeks, forcing me to meet his gaze.

I feel so self-conscious. My eyes are abnormal.

No wonder they think me a witch.

His finger drags across his lower lip. I’ve upset him.

“I know you’re afraid. To be frank, I am too. I won’t let those paranoid constables harm you. We’ll find a way to make it back, and we’ll find John, too. Or if the worst happens, and we cannot return…we will stay. And flee.”

“It’s not that. It’s—” My voice cracks again. Anger at my weakness forces out the words.

“Yes, what?”

My hands ball into fists. “Where I am from, I am nothing. I am a possession, unfit to wed.” I walk to his wooden chest that houses the lemon drops.

I pick it up, shake it at him. “This heirloom holds more worth than I. I was doomed to serve the rest of my days. I am invisible, seen but never heard.”

I swipe my tears with the back of my hand.

Now that I’ve seen this world, seen what’s possible—Salem-life seems a death sentence.

Pain flickers in his eyes, but his face quickly hardens to a stony mask. His fingers tighten a fraction on my cheeks.

“Listen to me. I know about being invisible. And no-one is nothing—to me, anyway.” His eyes dart back and forth, searching mine, forging a connection.

He releases me, and his eyes fall to the floor.

He jams them closed and I study the tiny, red capillaries lining his lids.

“I was raised in a string of foster homes and orphanages. Unloved, unwanted, and placed with some terrible families. I knew it wasn’t who I was-but there was no escape. No one ever really looked at me till I was fourteen years old, when my father adopted me. He saw me for me. And Verity—I see you. Do you understand?”

It’s strange when relief finally comes. The icy salve of it, runs through the cracks in my soul. Not healing entirely, but filling them.

He hugs me. “That’s better. You’re color is lavender again.”

His face turns formal, like when he lectures the boys. “We understand how your society worked. Loads of books are written on it. With the hierarchy of who married whom, according to their social status and fortune and what land was to be gained. That doesn’t exist here. We are free to marry for love. I know a bad match could doom a family to poverty in your world.”

He strides over to the desk and I notice his index finger rubbing his temple.

He hoists up a tottering pile of books, plopping them beside me on the bed.

“I have read so much about Salem, and I feel you need to understand some of the reasons why the trials happened, before returning, Verity.”

Somewhere in the back of my head, warning bells clang of the danger in loving someone so fully. I hope my color doesn’t betray me again.

“I’m listening.”

“Many scholars have studied it. Why so many were hanged, and accused.”

The fear oozes out of my cracked heart, and I swallow, not really wanting to hear more. “How many die, True? When I left, only Goody Bishop had been hanged.”

“All told, nineteen were hanged, one man pressed to death, and two dogs. A total of 141 people were arrested.”

My hands cradle my head. “John and I were there for the first dog.”

He nods grimly. “One of the first reasons historians consider is a condition called mass hysteria, it’s one of Ram’s favorites.” He rolled his eyes playfully, obviously trying to ease the tight look on my face.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “The paranoia began in the Motherland in the year of our Lord, 1641, when King Charles the first, declared it a capital crime to be a witch. The colonies are still under English Law.”

It isn’t until he sits, and slides his arm around my shoulders that I realize they’re shaking. Convulsing, almost.

“I know all about it, love,” he murmurs quietly. “Mass hysteria is when a group of people show the same symptoms, sometimes without a physical cause. I can imagine what it was like there, especially for women. No playtime for girls, no using your imagination—it was bound to result in someone acting out.”

I give a reluctant nod for him to continue.

“I think I found a better explanation. Some have suggested, perhaps the people of Salem were poisoned… by a mold, called ergot, on the crops. It happens during the rainy season. It’s toxic and causes many of the same symptoms—hallucinations, seizures. It would explain many of the behaviors. I imagine it’s a combination of these, and just plain malice by some who are jealous of others in their community, or who are trapped in their position, say as a servant?”

Revelations dawn inside my head. Pieces of puzzles falling into place. “Like Mercy…” I think of the witch cake.

“Yes, like Mercy Lewis. Everyone remembers her name, even now.”

“Really? That is unbelievable. After all this time?”

He nods. “A man wrote a play called The Crucible with Mercy as a main character. It’s quite famous.” He stands, pacing again, his finger absently tracing the peppering of reddish stubble on his chin. “Another consideration is an illness called Lyme’s disease. The point being, if John is ill, I believe it’s physical. We need to get him back here, so we can care for him properly.”

“We must go soon. Our clocks do not pass the time equally, and I have no idea what month it is in Salem. My timepiece stopped when I stepped over the bridge.”

“Verity, I don’t think you have to worry.”

His eyes stare again, intense and blue. “When I first met you—well, I couldn’t get you out of my head. I searched and searched for you in Salem documents. You are nowhere in history, love. Neither is John.”

“What does that mean, Truman?”

“Maybe you are supposed to come here, with me. To save your souls.” He looks thoughtful. “Or for you to save me.”

* * *