Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 8



Next Evening



“Are you all right, True?” Ram turned, placing the final dinner dish in the cupboard.

David, one of the teens, interjected, “You’re so white. Dude, you’re always pale, but tonight you’re freakin’ pasty.”

“Brilliant, thanks.” Truman rolled his eyes.

Dave shrugged, walking out of the kitchen.

Truman massaged his face with both hands, his fingers stopping in a steepled prayer position before his lips.

He stared at Ram. “Dunno. I think it’s the new one we’re expecting. Don’t know if I’m up to it. I mean, Todd, and his tantrums, David and Ethan with their fabulous adolescence, oppositional defiance disorder and detachment. Maybe I should’ve said no.”

“Well, your problem doesn’t help the situation, does it?”

“Which problem? Don’t start on me, Ram. I’m in no mood. I’ve been pricked, prodded and wired up to more machines than should be humanly permissible.”

“It’s emotion-color synesthesia, it has a name and we should use it. It isn’t some sort of weird, new-agey ability.” His hands fluttered and he pulled a face. “It’s a cross-wiring of your senses—we’ve been over this.”

Truman hesitated. Should I tell him everything? It would mean another endless round of battles, with Ram insisting on more tests.

I need to prove to myself I’m not mental.

“There’s something I’ve never told you.”

Ram’s eyebrows traveled up his forehead into his jet-black hair. “I knew it! I knew you were holding out on me! Your P.E.T. scans were the most original I’d ever seen. Spill it. I cannot be-lieve you didn’t tell me everything.” His expression changed from surprise to irritation in a tick.

“I’m sorry. Look, I already feel like a freak, you know? It’s what kept me from being adopted till I was what, fourteen? Because I opened my big, fat mouth and was labeled abnormal. So, forgive me if I’m not the most trusting sort when it comes to psychologists.”

“You’re stalling.” His foot tapped. “And I’m your best friend.”

“Fine.” He stood up and paced back and forth in front of the kitchen sink. “I can also…feel people, for who they are…their personalities, their singularity, if you will.”

Ram’s face re-lit with the familiar scientific fascination he’d come to despise. “Go on, man. How?”

“Again, it’s subjective, naturally, to how I assess them, I suppose—but typically it’s spot on.”

Ram stood and pulled open a drawer, scrabbling around till he extracted a notebook and pen. He clicked the pen up. “Give me an example.”

Anger simmered. Truman bit his bottom lip. He struggled not to bite his analytical head off.

He opted to scratch one eyebrow, and roll his eyes. Ram was compulsively curious.

“Like you, I’ve told you, your color is brown. But what I didn’t tell you, was the sensations which go with brown. I smell chocolate, and feel...compassion, when you’re around.”

Ram laughed out loud.

“Look, I know how it sounds—shut-it, or I’ll quit.”

He wiped the smile from his face, and motioned to continue, pen poised. He was doing his psychologist shtick.

Truman bit back a growl. “Ok.” He took a huge breath, and blurted, “The girl from the other night, in the corn.”

“The one we aren’t certain is real? The one I am fully convinced was a dream, created by your self-imposed abstinence? Perhaps resulting in a testosterone-fueled psychotic break?”

“Quit joking!”

“Who’s joking?”

“Yes, well that dream-girl was a strangely beautiful shade of lavender, one I’ve never seen before. And she felt…” His cheeks went hot.

Ram’s mouth dropped. “I’m astounded. Mr. I-have-no-interest-in-women-they-are-all-shallow-and-beneath-me just blushed.”

Truman squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to watch his reaction. “I felt her pain and fear like a black tsunami, dousing me.” His hands mimed the positions. “And below it, submerged, was a crystal pure feeling, the same I get with ice or snowflakes. Purity, maybe?”

He was surprised to hear footsteps. He opened his eyes. Now Ram was the one pacing.

“We have to tell Dr. Kinney at the lab. You have sets of synesthesia going on in there.” He tapped the side of his head.

Guilt plagued him, for editing. His mind also calculated facial expressions-analyzing them into complex patterns. The human lie detector. Ram would never let him be if he confessed it.

I am so not talking about the journal. He’ll have me committed.

“No. I’m done with all the testing. It’s going nowhere.”

“Don’t be stupid, what if your gift could help others?”

“Gift? That’s stretching it a bit. If you fire me, I could get a job as a carny, though. Come one, come all—see the human name-taster!”

Images filled his head. He stood alongside the president or prime minister, as they simultaneously requested he assess the personality or intentions of a foreigner standing before them. Or if they were lying. No, thanks.

“I’m going out.”

He flung open the back door, leaving Ram with his mouth gaping again.

He jogged toward the corn. Entering the rows, the familiar color cut the air, and he felt her presence. His heart swelled, screaming at him to find her. He barreled to the bridge.

His mind sped, flight of ideas really. He’d read about Soul Mates—their mythological origins. He thought it all bollocks.

But what if the perfect person for you, happened to be born in the wrong century? What then?

“Then this bloody cornfield.”

It made sense, in a fair, but twisted sort of way.

Somewhere to his left, music began. Music?

His heart jack-hammered.

Oh, no, oh, no. I am losing it.

He stopped dead as recognition struck. The music crackled, like his father’s antique Victrola.

“I don’t believe it.”

Judy Garland was singing. Somewhere over the Rainbow.

If any song encapsulated his childhood, his fears—this was it. He’d first heard it at the orphanage, fell in love with her, wanted to step into her world, at the age of six.

It was the one part of the song. He couldn’t believe it when he’d heard it. It was if God was answering his prayers, that he wasn’t a freak, wasn’t alone with his oddity.

If a place existed, where trouble smelled like lemon drops, then surely, that was the place for him.

He laughed out loud.

A few years older and wiser, he learned they melted, not smelled.

He bolted again, Judy’s voice sound-tracking his experience like some 1940’s film. Following him toward the bridge.

Toward her, the nameless girl, he’d felt love, overprotection…but now desire wolfed down the other sentiments, consuming him.

Somewhere along the way, he’d cut his neck. He swiped it away.

The rustling corn, the thunder, the crickets, all faded to nothing. He was consumed with a singular thought.

The woman in white. My reader. What is your name?

* * *

My boots slide in the snow, gathering on the bridge. Anything, anywhere, must be better than Salem. The sound of the hornets in my head whir in protest. They don’t like freedom, they thrive on pain.

I hurtle myself to the top, directly at the bridge’s apex.

I connect, with a hard-cold-wall of blackness. Sparks conjure out of nothing, exploding from my impact. Multi-colored and beautiful, they fizzle immediately, suffocated by snowflakes.

My head snaps back, shooting pain down my spine. I sprawl in a heap, sliding backwards on the slick boards. My head darts up, I’m riveted. And angry.

It’s like a wall.

The air churns in a rectangle, and whispers come and go. It’s as if the world is cut in two. Snow gathers around my feet, falling in huge white clusters. But only two steps more, on his side, the corn is green, lush and full.

I hear footsteps beating up the other side. My heart stutters, knowing it’s him.

I stand, and rush to the door, placing my hands against it, unsure if he can see me.

Little zaps of light envelope my hands, twisting down my fingers up to my arms.

I can’t move. I’m not afraid. I can’t move.

He bursts into the clearing. My stomach bottoms, and a hot, driving urge rushes through my veins. It is him. My writer and the man from the other day, they are indeed, one and the same.

He pauses for but a moment, his face auditioning a cast of emotions; surprise, concern, yearning, and finally joy.

He bolts up the other side, yelling, “Are you all right? Come closer, I—”

He collides with the door, hands spread like mine. Our hands overlap, but don’t touch. The door separates us.

The rainbow colored lightning overtakes his hands, melding him to the other side.

I am panting like an animal. His face is so close, I could taste his breath, if not for the wretched door.

His blue-green eyes widen before I feel it, but then a shock vibrates me, hard enough to rattle my teeth. His eyes are fearful, I know for me.

His mouth moves, but no words come out.

Then I see it, in my mind. The cornfield disappears.



I see him, as a baby, and his crying mother. She slips him into a woman’s outstretched arms, and flees the room, sobbing. She flies past a sign that reads, Applegate Orphanage.

A swirl of light and pain.

He’s a boy now. I shudder. I feel his hunger, as acutely as if it’s my own. And his loneliness. It crushes me, and my lips part—I can’t cry out. He swings alone in a dirty play yard.

More pain, a sensation of falling.

I see him again, he’s almost his age now, just a little younger. Sitting at a desk, staring at a book with a million letters and numbers that mean nothing to me. I feel the loneliness, though. It feels exactly as it did when he was a boy. Only now, it’s mixed with anger.

He grabs a container before him, spilling a bunch of small pills into his hand. He glares at them. His hand shakes, sending some flying onto the desk. Seething hatred fills him, fills me, and he pelts them against the wall. I hear their tapping as they rain down to the floor.



I’m back with him now. His eyes are contracting, and widening, not really seeing me. His mouth twitches, and his lips are moving—but I hear nothing. My hands begin to warm by bits, like ice dethawing, and suddenly I can feel his rough hands.

I am alive, for the first time.

* * *

He feels her presence. The wind is whipping crazy, and Ram will undoubtedly call the psych ward.

“I can’t go back. Not yet. And now I’m talking to myself.”

He laughed, but it died in his mouth as he broke through the corn.

There she was, standing frozen on the center of the bridge, her hands held up on either side of her as if under arrest.

Her red hair whips around her, and her expression is terrified. She shudders, the rest of her body moving while her hands remain seemingly glued to thin air.

He charges toward her, covering the ground in seconds.

“Are you all right? Come closer, I—”

His hands fuse to the invisible door. A charge like lightning gyrates his arms, legs.

What’s happening?

Her eyes stare, boring into him with their beautiful intensity. Her lips, parted and full, an inch away. He licks his lips, a scream building in his chest.

And then his mind fills. Expanding, bursting—with her memories.



She’s a wee thing, with her family. The sound of shrieks and drumbeats fill the air. Villagers flee from all around.

Her father hauls a little boy over his shoulders, and grasps her hand, vaulting her into a cabin. He throws her mother a gun. The boy is wailing behind her legs.

He feels her fear, bordering on insanity. The Micmaq burst through the door. A tomahawk flies, burying itself in her father’s chest. He falls to one knee.

The Indian wrenches his hair with one hand, and with the other, scalps the tomahawk across his skull. Skinning him like a hunter skins a rabbit.

The girl, her, drops to the ground, and the boy scrambles around her neck like a frightened animal. His wailing doesn’t stop.

Her mother is wrenched from her side, and she wails as loud as the boy.

A shudder, another volt.

She stands in the center of a circle. Grown now. A circle of girl’s chant. ‘Say goodbye to one eye, say goodbye to one eye.’

One throws an apple, aimed at her mismatched eyes.

And then a barrage of rotted fruits whiz by as she ducks. She darts, back and forth, trying to escape the circle.



A jab to the chest, and he can see her face again.

She is utterly beautiful. His breath catches. He feels his hands warming. And can suddenly feel her skin.

I can feel her skin.

The door whirls, and pops, and disappears.

Our heads clank together.

* * *

His lips finally find mine. I feel his hands around my waist, gripping me tightly. I breathe in, and I feel so alive, my blood rushing to every piece of me. Waking me from a terrible sleep.

“Are you all right? Oh bloody—look what I’ve done to your lip!”

And he stares down at me. His blue-green, almond shaped eyes scrutinize the lump rising on my cheek. He winces, forehead wrinkling under dark, untidy hair.

“Can you talk?” His fingers brush away the trickle of blood from the side of my mouth. His face is unsure. “Did you, see anything, while we were stuck there?”

His touch is exceedingly gentle, like the brush of a feather. I shiver, and an unfamiliar longing roars at my core. I am forgetting to speak, gaping at him like an idiot.

“I-I’m intact. In pain, but I will survive. And yes, I saw many things.”

“Me, too.”

His thin lips break into a relieved grin, turned up on one side. It takes my breath away. I haven’t seen such a carefree smile since I was a child.

He sobers quickly, his eyes roving over me as if checking for more injuries.

“I’m so glad yer all right. And so glad yer real. I’m not mental after all.”

The brow wrinkles again. His right eye is swelling from the impact. I stand on tip-toes, my lips almost touching it before I clench my teeth, and pull back.

He stands back, examining my clothes. “Do you work at a history-comes-alive place?” His right eyebrow rises in question. The smell of him is over powering. Cleaner than any man I’d ever been near, yet decidedly masculine. I swallow again, fighting my completely irrational urges. My mind races a streak of impossible thoughts, leaving me feeling like a common strumpet.

“What is that?” His lips purse in concern, as he gazes up at two moons. His expression changes, to something that looks like acceptance. “Those are the clothes you wear every day, aren’t they?”

Shame reddens my face. I absently stroke my dress. “Yes, I am a servant now. I was once a gentleman’s daughter, but that seems another life ago.”

Comprehension dawns on his face—that he’s embarrassed me. He quickly takes my hand, to stop its fidgeting.

He steps toward me, boldly returning his arms to my waist. “That wasn’t what I meant. I am so pleased you’re here. That doesn’t matter to me. Do you remember seeing me before? That night in the corn?”

“Of course.” My face flushes again. I must be bold.

This may be like a fae tale, and no doubt, my time with him will be limited. Like everything good I’ve ever known. “I’ve thought of nothing else for weeks. Since I found your journal.”

His eyes widen. “I-I’m honored.” His eyes drop. “I cannot get you out of my head. It’s been every day, every minute.” They flick back up and his expression narrows. “And I know that sounds completely mental—but here...” his eyes scan the stalks and he shivers, “This may be where crazy and reality meet. I feel I already know you—like I always have.” I feel his chest still, holding his breath, awaiting my response.

“As do I.” I search my feelings, to see if it rings true. It does. Being in his arms is like a homecoming. My mind screams at me to be sensible.

But this unfamiliar longing, this need, will not be silent.

It’s more than wanting to kiss him. His eyes see me. Each moment of his attention restores me; like the ghost of my soul is returning, becoming flesh and blood once again.

He was the draw in the corn. The empty sighing inside me is silenced, and the hornets are nowhere to be found. I smile maliciously. Good.

“Good sir, I know this to be highly improper, but I must speak.”

“First, tell me your name?”

“Verity Montague. And yours?”

“Truman Johnstone.”

“Verity, please excuse my forwardness.” He shifts me slightly in his arms, but to my relief, makes no sign of releasing me. “Wot year is it?”

“1692. Good sir Johnstone, why would you ask me such?”

“Please, just call me True. Because, Verity,” his eyes stare up at the sky, flicking right and left, “I see two moons, and I don’t see how that’s possible. Here, where you stand, it is the twenty-first century.”

My mouth drops open, my limbs turn to stone. The inside of my mind does a revolution, and I struggle not to swoon.

“What sort of enchantment be this?” I push away from his chest. Fear is returning.

Is he a warlock, sent to entice me, seduce me? The book, the book, I wrote in the book.

So the townsfolk can finally convict me?

I stare at him.

“They are about to accuse me of witchcraft, perhaps they are right? Am I responsible for my arrival in this unnatural place, in my fervent desire to see you again? Oh, God, please forgive me.” My legs go to water and buckle, my knees scraping the hard ground.

Fear smites my gut and resurges with a new intensity, punishing me for a few stolen moments of happiness, the swarm buzzes in my mind.

He drops beside me; his eyes are tight and careful. His hands slide around the small of my back again. He cradles me like a child and I inhale his scent; tears well at this tenderness.

No one has held me, save John, since my childhood disappeared.

His muscles tense under my hands.

His voice hums through his throat as he speaks into my ear. “I refuse to believe this strange power you have over me is witchcraft. I think it’s a gift. I can’t imagine someone’s name that feels and tastes so pure, could be wicked?”

I pull back to stare. My tethered self-control is unraveling again, and with trembling fingers, I touch his lips.

I should not. I should not.

A smoldering instinct blazes to life, incinerating my concern. My head dips forward. My lips are so close, they brush his.

He whispers fervently, “You aren’t responsible for this, and if you say you’re not a witch-you are not. I think this place, the corn, is...an anomaly. Something I’m a bit of an expert on, seeing as I am one.”

“What is an…anomaly?” I try to focus, but he’s so close, I cannot concentrate.

“I think this place somehow yoked our time periods. I haven’t the slightest idea how. I always hated physics.”

His expression wanes, and he’s breathing harder, as if he’s only realized how close I am to him.

His blue eyes widen, and his words spill out. I listen intently, trying to catch them all.

“I needed to see you again. And here you are. I’ve dreamt of you every night, since the first night. I am going to speak plainly, because I don’t know if this place will last, or fade off into the night like a bloody Brigadoon.”

I open my mouth to ask whatever a Brigadoon is, but he cuts across me.

“Tell me why you are in pain. You were crying?”

I sigh, and drop my head, fiddling with a bit of lace on my dress. It’s as if Salem’s fear seeps across the bridge, a poisonous fog, leeching into my brain to ruin this precious moment.

“I know not what will become of me, Truman. I told you my parents were killed in the Indian raids and I am now a maidservant, with a younger brother under my care. A brother who is…different. I am different, though I hide it.” I pause, ever careful with the subject. But the words tumble out. “There are more men than women in Salem—”

“Salem, Massachusetts? What year did you say it was?” His eyes crinkle. “I cannot believe I just said that.”

“And without fortune or a family to recommend me, I’m not a fit bride for any, save John Holcomb, whom I detest. He’s a drunk and a lazy—”

“Verity, someone called you a witch? Who did?”

“Many. Most recently Constable Corwin, who insists my presence, be a prelude to the fits. It is a terrible thing, Truman. Everyone in town is accused or afflicted. It’s as if Satan himself has taken up residence.”

His gaze intensifies and he chews his bottom lip.

I admit, “I’m frightened.”

I feel his hand shake and realize it’s because he is holding mine. Suddenly, his expression is as terrified as I feel.

His eyes are squinting, serious. “Verity, stay here. Stay with me.” His voice is thick and hoarse, and he swallows to clear it. His prominent Adam’s apple bobs with the effort. “You are not safe. I’ll help you.”

“I-I can’t, even if I wanted to. My brother, he is still there. He needs me—to help him. He does not understand people, nor they-him. They hate him. He has no one, save me.”

“Just stay, for now. I can still make out your moon on the other side, so the door’s open. Tell me about you. I have so many questions. Tell me about a time when you were happy?”

I hesitate for a moment, feeling the pull of responsibility. It beckons over the bridge and time, but the feel of his thumb, stroking the back of my hand is like a song.

Only time will tell, if it be a hymn or a siren-song.

He holds my hand and pulls me to sit. His serious eyes never leave mine.

The music restarts in the corn. Not scary now, more like one of my mother’s lullabies.

His eyes widen a moment, then he recovers. I must know if he is like me…odd. “Do you hear it, then?”

Both eyebrows rise in surprise. “Yes. I don’t think anyone else I live with hears the music. It isn’t frightening tonight, though. It’s rather soothing, isn’t it?”

I feel foolish, but ask anyway. “Is this the land of lullabies?”

Truman’s whole face seems to twitch, then he laughs. “Erm, no. But I’ve heard that song here, too.”

He tugs me closer to him, and my body folds into him without permission.

I talk for hours, my secrets falling out of my lips like I’m confessing my sins.

He tells me about how he is different, too.

Filling in the holes from the pages and visions I’ve seen. How he never knew love of any kind, till fourteen.

He wipes every tear that leaks down my cheeks. And I feel a reluctant thrill with every touch.

I finish, unable to admit another word, or painful memory. I face him.

His eyes smolder, and he’s holding his breath. I slide closer, resting my forehead against his. His heartbeat quickens under my hand. His breath rushes out.

His eyelids half-close, and his rough fingers leave little scorching streaks where they trace my cheekbones. My heart beat accelerates, like a bullet fired, matching his. I am not going to be able to stop. My guilt and my longing battle—my mind against my fragile heart.

“I am afraid I’ll never see you again,” he whispers. “I’ve never connected with any girl. It was like I was a soldier trying to talk to socialites. We had nothing in common.”

“I—” I try to stop his words, pulverizing my heart.

His soft lips crush mine, and I feel his tongue, hot in my mouth. My whole body convulses. His hands slide round, hoisting me onto his lap.

Fear and duty and the stocks nag my conscience. I should push him away, but I do not. I cannot.

There is a bonding, it feels almost holy.

He pulls back to regard me. “I want you to stay. There has to be a way…”

I have no answer. I silence him this time. My lips part his, and I bite his bottom lip.

I’ve never kissed anyone this way before.

The situation is impossible. I beat back the pain, crouching around my heart, waiting for my return. It is inexcusable to give into despair with him so close. I refuse to waste the feeling of him under me.

I take a deep breath, but cowardly close my eyes. “Make me feel completely alive, before I die again, when I step back across that bridge.”

He makes a quiet noise, kissing me harder.

I can almost touch the bonding, feeling it flow and ebb between us. A living, pulsing, captured lightning, intertwining our bodies.

As his hands race up and down my back, I finally understand why the other girls are so obsessed with men, and marriage. I’d choose to stay here, if I could.

To even live in this dangling spot of time.

His lips leave my mouth and trail down my neck. His calloused fingers trace along my collarbone with such tenderness, tears spring in my eyes. I remember the lashings, the stocks, the sting in my cheek after the blows.

It seems he is trying to commit every inch of me to memory. Pain crushes my insides. How will I bare these memories, when I am alone again?

A gale picks up, blowing a flurry of leaves against us. The stalks writhe, undulating like underwater reeds in a current.

The passion drains from his face, and he hauls me to stand. “I think the door to Salem is closing, your moon is gone.”

“I must get back!”

His eyes are a deep well of pain, but he dusts off my dress.

“Please, keep checking the door. I will too. This cannot be all there is…” His voice rises with a fierce anger. I cringe involuntarily. My mouth spasms, but I can’t respond.

His grip tightens as we dart headlong toward the bridge. Our footsteps echo as the old wood creaks under us. We reach the top.

“I don’t think I can go further,” he says, reaching the top of the arch. “This is where you disappeared last time.”

I stare at him, indecision tearing my heart like a wishbone. I can never leave John, but I long to remain with Truman, to hear his words, to touch him….

“Come with me, Truman.”

His face is agony. His lips open, and he bites the lower one. “I-I so want to.” His face turns to look at the house, visible over the corn tops.

His grip crushes my shoulders, and he folds me into him. “I’ve never wanted anything more,” his hoarse voice whispers into my ear.

He places a final rough kiss on my mouth. He pushes me back. His eyes are glistening.

The wind picks up, swirling my hair into my face. Below my boots, the bridge rumbles up and down like a thunderclap has overtaken it, infusing it with life. Warning me.

“Please don’t forget me.” My eyes flick away. The pain is waiting. It lurks at the bottom of the bridge.

“That isn’t physically possible. You never leave my head.” His voice is fierce.

I clutch at my throat, ripping off my necklace. My only memento of my mother. The little heart is so important to me—I irrationally feel this gesture must somehow bind us together-no matter the time.

“So you shan’t forget me.”

“I don’t want you to go, Verity. I’d do anything to change it. I don’t know how. Be careful. Please come back—tomorrow—if the door is open. Surely, it will open.”

I step out of his embrace and across the flexuous line in space, dividing the bridge in two. “I will, Truman.”

I feel the warmth of his fingers slip as I take the final crucial step.

And.



I am alone on the bridge. Falling clusters of snowflakes gather in my hair, immediately dowsing my dress. The taste of him lingers in my mouth.

Turning back to the spot where he had stood, I reach my hand up to feel the fluid-air, but all that remains is a gust of wind.

He is gone.

* * *