Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 22



“What! No! Verity!”

Her fingertips slipped away. A pulling sensation rent them apart.

He felt the door thickening under his hands. She was gone—without him. Back to that place. Where she was helpless—had no rights.

He beat on it. Both fists sunk and stuck, like a pliable mold. “She needs me! They will kill her!”

The wind blew past his ear. Voices rode it, like the bluebirds on the morning air. It isn’t time.

“It bloody well is time!”

He kicked at the bottom of the door, which was hardening into an icy wall. His boot connected, and a crack splintered up to waist level. He wrestled, pulling back his fists, leaning his full weight backward.

He kicked again, and the crack sped up to his hands. It crumbled, releasing them.

The bluebirds squawked, their disharmonious cries crowding out any other sound. Their voices rose and fell, as if mourning. They were everywhere. On every stalk, their shrill trills pierced his ears. It sounded like wailing.

“Can nothing—nothing—in life be easy for me?” He screamed upward, shooting his accusatory gaze into the corn.

His knees gave way, and he stumbled forward. The door popped shut behind him and a sparse rain ticked against the corn-leaves in response.

He automatically started in the direction of the orphanage. Seeing nothing. Hearing only the calls of the bluebirds as they followed him—they moved in one blue, flowing drove, trailing behind his every step.

His legs run, independent of his will.

Sharp leaves cut his cheeks as he whizzes through the winding, muddy paths. Thunder erupts, close enough to vibrate through the stalks.

The birds are wild. Four swoop in his path and he dodges, spinning out of their trajectory. He busts out of the corn to stare at the orphanage. The birds tumble over one another in a mess of feathers and beaks.

Ones at the flock’s rear slamming into those in the lead—who are unable to go further.

“They can’t leave the corn.”

He looks up at his window. Shakes his head once.

“I can’t act normal. I can’t do it.”

Ram appeared on the porch. “Truman—what’s going on? Where’s Verity?”

The sound of her name sends a surge of rage clawing up his throat. “She’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

Truman bolts up the porch steps. “Back to Salem.”

He swings open the front door, headed for his bedroom. Ram’s footsteps hurry behind him. “What happened?”

“I have no bloody idea. It’s like it separated us.”

“What did?”

Truman whirled. “The corn. The freaking voices in the corn—flying on the wind.” He stalked over to the closet, ripping out clothes, shoving them into his rucksack.

“What’re you doing? Where’re you going? She’s gone, man.”

“Ram, I can’t do this. Pretend like she didn’t exist. Like I don’t know what’s going to happen to her.”

“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be?”

He screamed. “I don’t believe that. Not for a minute! I…can’t believe that.”

Truman grabbed a sleeping bag, shoving it under his arm.

“What will you do?”

Truman stopped, finally taking in his friend’s expression, which had gone as bleak and stark as he felt inside.

“You already have a replacement lined up. Just pretend I’m not here.”

“Where—”

“I’m sleeping by the door. I’m not moving till it opens.”

* * *

Mistress Putnam’s two hands connect with my chest in a hard shove. “Where have you been, Verity? Been in league with the dark one, this many weeks?” Her eyes drop to my middle. “Perhaps you increase with his child, now?”

Her eyes glow with a manic tint. It was the illness, to condemn.

Show no fear.

If they sense a droplet of fear—a judging frenzy, like a shark’s bloodlust—will ensue.

“No—I—”

Mistress Putnam lunges, pushing with all her weight behind it. My boot entangles with a foot warmer, and I sprawl.

“Where is John? Does he still live? Please tell me he lives?”

“That warlock be no concern of yours! You might worry about your own neck! It shall snap soon enough.”

I wince. “Where is he? Where is he?” I stand up, fist raised, ready to strike. “Where is he, you evil, self-righteous—”

“Verity!” Mercy’s trembling voice stops me. “John still lives. He be awaiting trial.”

Mistress Putnam strikes her across the cheek.

I raise my fist again, and an iron grip wraps around it. “You…shall not strike you mistress. What has happened to you, girl?” Master Putnam wraps my arm behind my back, till my wrist is between my shoulder blades.

“Ahh!”

“Walk, Verity.” He shoves me out into the snow, walking down the road, to town. To my death.

“I do not deserve to die! The devil is not here, master. Listen to me, I have seen the future.”

He shoves my arm further up my back and I scream. “Divination. More heresy. Your depravity knows no bounds, girl.”

“No—that’s not what I mean. I can’t see the future—”

I will not go quietly. I now know I will have rights someday—or my descendants will. I stamp my boot against his toe.

“Ah! You little tartar!”

I feel his fingers loosen. I kick his shin and bolt.

To the corn.

* * *