Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 9



The morning sun shone through Truman’s window, heating one side of his face till it itched. He squinted at the laptop screen, and trying futilely to rub the sting out of his eyes. The words were blurring. He hadn’t slept since he left Verity in the corn.

How could he? His mind played devil’s advocate, telling him she was a stress-induced hallucination; but his body wouldn’t hear of it.

He sniffed his sleeve...then inhaled deeply; her scent still clung to his clothing. His mind couldn’t leave her, returning again and again to her skin, her face. His fingers absently rubbed together. He could almost feel her spiral curls around his fingers.

He reached inside his trouser pocket, pulling out her delicate silver locket. His tangible proof she existed. He smiled. Should he hide it? If Ram found it…he wasn’t ready to tell him.

The locket shone in the sunlight, sending a shower of reflective sparkles glittering on the wall.

He decided, a little sheepishly, to wear it.

She was real, so he wasn’t crazy. But she’d sparked a new kind of madness.

His mind, chock-full of layered images, analyzed her every gesture, every pull of her mouth. It felt bloated, ready to burst.

How would he think of anything else? Everything else paled against his desire to see her again.

A strange, gnawing fear was growing. It said, ‘you won’t see her again.’ As if one afternoon of pure happiness was his life’s quota.

His thick fingers fumbled with the locket’s tiny clasp, but he finally managed to get it around his neck. He slipped it under his sweater. He was smitten, but not an idiot.

His lips twitched, and he smiled. Keeping perspective had never been a problem before, but it was definitely a problem now.

Ram would take the Mickey out of him for this totally whipped gesture.

He will not believe me.

“I don’t care.” The sound of his voice in the morning silence was jarring. His heart ping-ponged between exultation and apprehension.

“I just should’ve went with her.”

But guilt at even the thought of that selfishness swatted down the mental volley.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. The feel of the tiny heart against his chest gave him something tangible, a reminder she was real, somewhere.

Something shimmered on his bicep. Another living testament that she wasn’t fiction. A singular, red strand glittered with golden highlights in the sun.

He left it there. Staring at it.

You are acting like a school-boy.

He smiled so wide his face hurt.

He balanced the laptop precariously on his bed, hitting the Google search for the third straight hour.

He typed, ‘Salem Witch Trials Verity Montague’ again.

“You have to be somewhere, Verity.”

No results found, glared back from the screen.

No such person appeared to have been associated with the trials.

He scrolled through now familiar names, searching for anything. Some distant relative?

Mercy Lewis, Reverend Parris, Tituba…and finally, the words, Maine Indian Raids.

“Yes!” he whooped, and then quickly covered his mouth, checking the time.

Five a.m.

Only a half hour remained till the morning pandemonium. The high school portion of the orphans would wake within the hour. As if on cue, a shuffling pair of sock-clad feet past his door, enroute to the bathroom.

His eyes flicked back to the screen, reading furiously.



The Maine Indian Raids left young Mercy Lewis orphaned, so Reverend George Burroughs took her in; they eventually moved south to Salem, Mass. Ultimately, Mercy ended up as a servant in the Putnam household, where she too, became afflicted. Mercy was supposedly visited by many of her fellow parishioners in spectral form. All it took was an accusatory proclamation by one of the afflicted girls for the authorities to bring in the defendant for questioning. So, if one was unpopular, such as Sarah Good, who was many times widowed, and had to resort to begging…



He scanned further down.



Or if one was deemed different, in a Puritan time so set upon sameness, these ones were optimal targets for accusation, and subsequent hanging. Indeed, the Puritans were a superstitious lot, mistrusting peoples with red hair—anything unfamiliar was to be considered as a possible witch.



An impossible hole ripped open his chest, accompanied by a sensation of falling. He fell into fear’s gaping mouth, its gnashing circle quickly morphing into the hangman’s noose.

“Oh, Verity. Why aren’t you mentioned here? Where are you in history?”

His eyes shot around the room, unseeing; looking futilely for answers.

His eyebrow rose.

A wooden box, another gift from his father, was cracked open a fraction of an inch.

Irritation rose with his brows. The children were not allowed in his room, let alone in his personal effects.

He leapt off the bed, heading over to it.

Cracking it open, he paused, staring at the contents.

What? Who?

The box was brimming with canary-yellow candies. At least they looked like candy?

He plucked one out, and popped it in his mouth.

Lemon drops?

He lifted a handful, sliding them into his pocket.

At the bottom, slipped under the candy, was a yellowing, ancient piece of paper.

His heart skittered and stutter-stepped against his ribcage.

He carefully slid the candies off, unfolding it. Bits of parchment sprinkled down to the floor.

~ ~ ~

Where fears are born, and given legs,

A place to grieve, to heal, to beg.

To dare to dream, to face your fear,

And rescue what you hold most dear.

~ ~ ~

Ice water trickled through his veins, solidifying in his legs, which now felt heavy and weak. Again the surreal feeling. He half-wondered if Dave had a camera planted in his room somewhere.

Ram poked his head in the door.

He jumped two feet. “Fer the love of all that’s holy, do you ever bloody knock?”

His hand dropped guiltily, trying nonchalantly to hide the paper behind his back.

Ram’s eyes were wary. “You coming down or what? Breakfast won’t make itself, you know. Plus, they’re bringing the new boy for O.T., then he’s to stay.”

“Yes, well I’m sure that O.T. session will make him incredibly happy. He’ll be thinking from the frying pan to the fire.” He laughed. It sounded bitter. “I think the bureaucrats who write the rules for therapy should have to actually implement them one day.”

“Isn’t that what you had on yesterday?”

Ram’s dark eyes narrowed, but a boy’s call distracted him and he left, padding down the hall. His face said he wasn’t awake enough for interrogation.

Hesitating, he plucked Verity’s hair from his arm, and folded it into the locket. He snapped it shut, giving the laptop one last look. He stared at the parchment, deciding.

He placed it back under the lemon drops. If he carried it on him, it would disintegrate by day’s end.

He’d already memorized it, anyway. He wondered who had written it. And if he really wanted to know.

He followed Ram down the stairs, nodding when expected at his conversation, but inside, the words from the internet kept repeating, ‘they were hanged for being different’.

* * *

I cling to Mercy’s arm. We huddle together in the back seat of the carriage as it rattles into Salem Town.

A storm rages on, as it has for days, fueling the tempers of the men in the carriage. Thomas Putnam, his brother Edward, Joseph Hutchinson and Thomas Preston argue all the way, each with his own particular opinion about the fate of the accused.

Mercy and I trail behind the men as we file into the building. Awaiting our troop is a somber-faced John Corwin. And to his right, an equally distressed John Hathorne.

“It’s the hanging judge,” I whisper, low enough so only Mercy can hear.

“Constables,” begins Thomas Putnam, “it grieves us greatly to convene, but action must be taken.”

I feel Mercy tighten beneath my hand; an undulation of muscles courses up her arm like an invisible vice. Mercy’s eyes turn to me, wide with horror as the fit arrives.

Her expression is a woman falling.

“Good Sir Putnam, she be afflicted again!” I scream.

Mercy collapses in a heap, her head hammering on the wood floor like Indian war-drums. The sound unearths long-buried visions.

Dead, scalped bodies. The sweet smell of burning flesh.

Sweat beads my brow and the hornets restart their song.

Mercy’s limp hand reaches up as her eyes roll white in her head. She manages a strangled, wet cry.

“Oh Mercy, oh Mercy.”

I drop beside her, cradling her hand, letting my touch tell her I will protect her. If I can.

The shaking stops. Mercy’s pink tongue juts out between her parted lips.

I give it a discrete poke, tucking it back in her cheek.

I gather her into my arms and rock; just as I’ve rocked John through so many nights of pain.

“Give her to me, Verity.”

Thomas Putnam stoops, sweeping Mercy into his arms. He ferries her into a back room, following the direction of Constable Corwin’s outstretched finger.

I hurry behind, hovering, waiting.

After a long whispered conversation, they finally leave us. I perch beside Mercy on the rickety cot. The door is ajar, and their voices filter in through the darkness.

“As you can see, the fits seem to be stronger than an epilepsy. Much mischief has been done to Elizabeth Parris, Abigail Williams, Ann Putnam and Elizabeth Hubbard. Sundry times, within these two months, and lately also done at Salem Village contrary to the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady William and Mary, King and Queen of England….”*

Their voices are drowned by the scream of hornets infesting my ears.

I cup my hands over them, but it’s no use.

I see the word hornets, dripped in purple flames, and picture them licking along my ear canal on their way to eat my addled brain.

My mind flips through the pictures of the accused like a horrid walk to the gallows. Bridget Bishop. Tituba. John.

All different. None meant any harm nor malice. My hands shake again.

Hathorne’s voice cuts through my terror-fog, silencing my hateful insects. “I hereby issue warrants for Sarah Good, Tituba Indian, and Sarah Osborne under suspicion of witchcraft.”



*Starred portions are snippets from the original transcripts of this meeting.

* * *