Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 4



Winter, 1692



The dog growls, his frothy lips retracting to reveal yellowed teeth.

“The girls are subject to maleficia! Now the dog is afflicted, see, he ate the cake!” Tituba cries out.

The black dog’s eyes stare sightlessly upward. He manages a wheezing, strangled bark, and my breath sucks in as I watch his limbs revolt. Just like Anne Jr.’s.

“Somebody help that poor creature!”

I’m standing in the snow, my teeth chattering from the cold.

I peer around the mistress of the house, Mrs. Parris, where she stands blocking the doorway. Her eyes, angry and afraid, chastise us.

“What are the pair of them doing here?” she rages.

I stammer. “W-We were sent by my mistress, Goody Putnam to—”

Mrs. Parris flies to the door, launching Tituba out of the way. Her face is livid red. “None of you should be here, this matter be private!”

Inside, the sound of heavy breathing clogs the air. We turn in unison toward it.

Betty and Abigail drop to the floor, twitching, seemingly in perfect mimicry to the dog’s suffering. Betty’s knee smacks the floor, and she doubles in half, expelling a violent eruption of sick down her shift. It pools about her, wetting the edges of her skirt. Its steam rises into the cool air.

Sobbing, she rasps, “Help me, Momma.”

The girl’s limbs quiver as if newly resurrected. They flutter uncontrollably, banging off her face as she attempts to cradle her head. “My head! My head be splitting!”

Abigail collapses beside her cousin. “I cannot breathe!” Her tiny hands circle her throat.

Hoarse chokes, punctuated by sobs, rack her chest with every inhalation.

Mrs. Parris is disintegrating. Her eyes are wild, like a trapped animal. “Oh-my-girls-oh-my-girls, Satan be gone from our house! Tituba fetch Reverend Parris!”

I vault past Tituba and drop to my knees beside Abigail, cradling her to my chest. Beside us, Mrs. Parris sops the sick off Betty’s soiled dress.

Her face…will haunt my dreams. Her fear is eating her alive, like the hornets devouring my mind.

“Tituba, go!”

Tituba breaks from of her frozen position on the floor, rushing out the door.

Out the corner of my eye, I see John step through the doorway. His eyes full of the dog quaking at his feet. Tears flood his cheeks as he bends, hand outstretched.

He’s drawn to animals, more than people. People hurt him, taunt him. Animals only love him.

“Do not touch it, boy! Are you mad? The creature is beyond our help now!”

Reverend Parris ploughs into the kitchen, Tituba and John Indian following in his wake.

His face is tinted purple, his hands clench at his sides, as if he restrains himself from throttling me. As if this is all my doing.

His finger stabs the air. “Twice now, in your presence, these afflictions occurred. Were you not just released from the stocks some hours ago for suspicion in Anne Putnam’s fit?”

A muscle twitches below his left eye.

I cringe at his hatred. Inside the hornets snicker, buzzing to life.

His eyes flick to the dog. “Devil-dog. It shall be hanged.” I stifle a sob as he launches forward, sweeping the animal into his arms.

It whimpers a low, baleful sound. The dog’s tongue lolls out, pink and frothy, from between its teeth.

“Oh sir, m-must you hang it?” John says. His hand claps over his mouth, astounded at his own forwardness.

John’s eyes plead. “I mean, he looks ill.”

“Ill? Don’t be naïve, boy. Dog’s may do a witch’s bidding, same as any man. This animal is condemned. It be a familiar.”

I hear Tituba whisper, “But it ate ta cake.” Her shoulders slump in defeat. She’s only trying to help.

Under my arm, Betty quivers again. Her eyes jiggle to and fro in their sockets, then glaze over. She stares off as a vacant expression settles over her face. Doubling over, she clutches her stomach and writhes. Her scream raises the hair on my neck and sours my blood. John’s hands fly over his sensitive ears.

“I see her—she’s pinching me!”

“Who?” Reverend and Mrs. Parris exclaim together.

“It is Tituba!” Her limp finger directs blame. “She’s in her spectral form!”

My head snaps to Tituba. She shakes her head. Her tortured eyes overflow with tears.

“No. I would never hurt ta girls.”

* * *

Truman checked the pocket-watch; a gift from his father the day he left Scotland. Guilt prickled his conscience; he needed to call him. Better yet, go and see him. The old man’s words replayed in his mind, “Don’t know what you expect to accomplish over there. Nuthin ya’ couldn’t do here.”

His eyes flicked to it again. 3:45 p.m.

He had fifteen minutes till the pediatric stampede.

Pulling the bit of paper from his pocket, he punched in the numbers on his cell and stepped out onto the porch.

Sunny passed him, and he held his finger to his lips to shush her.

Her red, manicured nails twiddled goodbye as she crossed the yard to her car. He watched her exit the estate and turn onto the main road. She stuck her tongue out before gunning it, spinning gravel.

He shook his head and smiled. She’s a trip.

The phone rang on and on. The corn rustled, and his eyes searched, sweeping across the center. The green undulated in linear trail; as if something was wandering, cutting across the rows.

A wave of color appeared, hovering over the corn tops, about a mile in.

Sweat immediately dampened his collar.

His heart throbbed, hard and fast. He looked around for help—but he was alone.

Intuition prickled.

His lips parted as it struck. The pain. It was exquisite, acute—a migraine of emotion, cutting him down.

A lightning bolt of suffering bored his subconscious—searing into his brain, into his own desires.

He stumbled, grasping for the porch railing.

The sensations tumbled in, rolling from the south end of the field, wave after wave of purple and black.

Is it her, the girl in white? Is she in danger?

The hand holding the phone dropped to his waist. He looked around madly, seeing nothing as the panic won.

A primal urge to protect her, to find her. To save her, consumed him.

A bell tolled.

Truman cocked his head, listening intently.

His breathing staggered.

Silence again. It was only once. The closest church is twenty miles away. He paced, vaguely aware of the phone ringing on speaker.

I am losing it. Medication, do I actually need medicated?

The phone rang endlessly.

“Why isn’t the bloody MENSA voicemail picking up?”

He scanned the corn as a new crest of emotion lambasted him. This one, a scarlet tide.

It ebbed and receded, ebbed and receded.

His stomach clenched and calmed in sync with its moving presence.

A low cadence weaved between the undulating colored waves; like an audiovisual fabric, assaulting him. The beat was threatening.

He bit down hard on his lip, tasting blood.

Suddenly, with a barely audible pop, the wave sucked backward, and was gone.

He blinked, confused.

A shocking blue sea had taken over the field. Another wave?

He squinted. Birds?

Bright, azure blue birds sat atop the corn. Hundreds of beady-black eyes stared, as if watching him.

His nostrils flared. “Go away.”

As if hearing, they erupted in a blue blanket across the sky.

The flock swerved as one body and swooped down once again, in a blue explosion to the southern-most part of the maze.

His heart skipped a beat.

He felt her, the girl, when they were near. And now…. Emptiness.

“I-I….”

She made him feel, with a singular look. Something he’d strategically avoided since childhood.

No attachment, no pain.

His empath-extra-sense had read her heart like an open book.

And worse—he had glimpsed what was possible.

Seeing her, experiencing her feelings, was like breathing for the very first time after a life-long emotional suffocation.

He ground his teeth together. “That is bloody ridiculous.”

But, the draw was real. Even now he could feel it—its intensity crippling; like being separated from the other half of your mind…your heart.

What’s wrong with me?

“You don’t even know if she’s real. Or something you created.”

The yearning was unbearable.

Ram stepped onto the porch. He started so hard the phone flipped from his hand. He juggled it, caught it and shoved it back against his ear. The low-drone of the endless ringing continued.

Ram looked at him; no, examined him. Obviously worried.

Truman searched the yard, but no car. The git must’ve used the back entrance.

Ram picked up as if their conversation had not been separated by eight hours of work.

“That would make sense, actually. If she’s a specter, there’s no way you will have to commit, right? It’s the perfect relationship for you. Even better than an Amish lass,” he said in a pathetic attempt at Truman’s accent. “You won’t have to convert.”

Truman covered the phone with his hand. His heart was still skipping. He tried to joke. “Dude, I don’t know what continent that was supposed to be from, but it definitely wasn’t mine. India meets Scotland is completely lame.”

Ram stepped into the house, but poked his head back out a second later. “Also, you might want to quit talking to yourself. I don’t think the state will look kindly on granting us wards if the fearless first-mate is certifiable.”

“You’re one to talk—”

But the phone finally stopped ringing, and a woman’s voice picked up. “Hello, this is Stephanie.”

“Hi Steph, it’s True Johnstone. I’m returning your call for the emergency placement the other night.”

“Yes, well, you’re aware when I called.”

“I apologize. We had a wee bit of an incident, and then patients started coming, and this is the first chance I’ve had….”

And I’m completely mental. Experiencing love at first sight. Or possibly schizophrenia.

“Well, I saved him for you, because I don’t think anyone else can handle him.”

Truman closed his eyes, dipping his head backwards.

That means a family history like Running with Scissors.

He took a deep breath. “What’s his story?”

“He’s five. He’s non-verbal. We think from the trauma.”

“Define the trauma.”

He checked his watch, and headed into the clinic—he was running out of time. He scribbled notes on a piece of notebook paper.

“His parents died in a fire. Arson. The police suspect…him.”

“How could a five year old willingly—”

She cut across him. “He was I.Q. tested at head start. It’s at 145. He’s a bona fide genius—I knew you’d relate. The boy’s been writing at a fourth grade level and doing multiplication for a year already.”

“He communicates by writing?”

“Yes, and some sign language.”

Truman sat, his head slumped to the desk, and he gently rapped his forehead against its shiny surface. The wood was cool against his sweaty face. “And…I know there’s more. Don’t spare me.”

“He has a feeding tube, his parents were from the low income housing section, and we suspect neglect at best, at worst—abuse.”

“Always I think you can’t surprise me, yet, you always do. It’s a gift, really.”

“He has sensory problems too. Can we bring him over tonight? He’s an orphan now, True, like you were.”

I swear she uses that to manipulate me. Especially when she knows we’re full.

Ram stepped into the clinic, joking demeanor evaporated. His black eyebrows furrowed and he cocked his head, mocking Truman’s posture. He shrugged his shoulders in question.

Truman sighed and put a finger-gun to his head. And pulled the trigger.

The bus beeped outside, and Ram flew out the door.

“Yeah, fine. But he’s absolutely the last one. We’re full now.”

* * *