Where Bluebirds Fly

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?”

* * *