The circle tightens. I cannot breathe. The colors of their clothes blur, and I smell the man next to me. It’s a musty, dank odor; like rotting greenery…or the prelude to death.
My mind screams and I crush my lips together to keep the terror in.
I hear footsteps. They are come. Corwin.
The bird manages to land before me, pecking the ground, hopping onto my boot.
Another goodwife speaks. “It’s a bluebird. You know they be a symbol of goodness. Of hope; perhaps all is not lost?”
“Ha!” Goodwife Churchill scoffs.
This be our chance.
With one hand I grasp John’s painting, flipping it under my arm, the other grabs him by the scruff.
“Goodwife Putnam is expecting us. Come John.”
The bluebird leaves my boot, but hovers above, too close to be natural.
I avert my eyes and push John through the crowd. No one moves to stop us, but the murmuring recommences.
“Keep moving,” I whisper into his ear. After a few, long minutes, I glance back. My breath whistles out. No one has followed us. They are too focused on poor Goody Nurse.
She’s saved us once again. A lump forms in my throat.
The raised voices are fading as we move out of the town limits. The bird takes flight, across the cornfield. I know it will be back, though.
I whirl on John. “Do you not remember what I told thee last night? That queer times are afoot in the village? That only yesterday the little Parris girl was acting oddly, as was her cousin Abigail. People are twisted tight as overwrought mattress cords, what with the smallpox, taxes, land disputes….”
John’s eyes squint as his attention dims. His gaze flicks to the forest and my patience wanes.
I know his mind recoils to a kinder, gentler place. But today…today he must listen. I understand his need to escape.
I often wish I could live in the stories I tell myself. Nevertheless, this world…is all we have.
“Are ye listening to me?”
“Hmm, yes. Smallpox. Dreadful.”
I grip his shoulders, spinning him more roughly than I intend. It has the desired effect, however. His eyes focus, staring at me; his concentration renewed.
“You need to draw somewhere alone. Do not call attention to yourself in any way. And our secret—”
“Yes, you mean—”
My hand shoots over his mouth. “Speak of it to no-one. Since the girls have been working mischief with Tituba—”
“The Parris’s slave girl from Barbados?”
“Yes, her,” I say impatiently. “The girls have been having fits. Convulsions, contortions—seeing visions of people flying, perched on the beams of the church, and a man in black, urging them to sign his book. Mercy Lewis vexes me constantly for not going to meet with Tituba—but I refuse. She supposedly predicts the future. It’s playing with fire, that is, in more than one way.”
John’s eyebrows dip in question, as they always do when I ‘speak doubly’.
“You know that vexes me. At times, I can’t discern plain speech, let alone when your thoughts have two meanings, side by side.”
A wintry gust blasts our faces, and I shiver. I glance down, noting that John needs new boots.
Old man winter has come early this year. Redness glimmers in the night sky as the sun descends to bed. Spots of snow glisten in its amber cast, and a blustery crosswind from the north arrives with a cold that cuts to my marrow.
We automatically pick up our pace. We will catch it for being out so late. I see the Putnam’s cornfield, now. The house is just on the other side.
A sound to my left. I stop dead, listening.
The corn rustles again; like a dog shaking off water.
The silky tops quiver as something picks its way through the rows. An animal? The something is large.
“What be that?” I step closer to the stalks.
“What? I did not see anything.”
“Something moved in the corn. It was for but a moment.” My legs halt as if my feet have rooted in the soil.
An overpowering urge hits. Like a compulsive hook behind my navel, tugging me forward. “Let us go see.”
John’s eyebrows rise in vexation and surprise. “Verity, we might catch a switch already, we are so late? What’s come over you? Keep walking. I be the troublemaker, not you.”
I wrap my arms around my waist, trying to fend off the feeling. The tyrannical urge grips my throat, and it tightens. Like needing a drink when you are parched.
The Something in there wants me. Is it the infernal birds?
“What were you saying about the girls and Tituba-the witch slave?”
I start at his voice and rip my eyes from the field. “Witchcraft be not a game. I care not who I will marry, for I know the answer already.”
John takes my hand, hauling me away from the rows.
The urge weakens with every step away from the cornfield. I suddenly feel the cold seeping above my boots and shiver.
John shakes my hand.
“Who will you marry, Verity. How can you know?”
I sigh. “I shall never marry. Too many women, not enough men. And I’m…different. And we’re so very poor, John. What have I to offer? I’m already eighteen. Many girls my age have two children already.”
John’s expression is wistful, his eyes churning with turmoil. He quickly brightens. “Momma always said you were special, not odd. I believe Momma.”
I spare John the retort hanging on my lips; that being special, might grant me a special walk directly up gallows hill.
My eye twitches as the noose’s snap echoes through my head. The awful angle of Bridget Bishop’s neck.
My whole body quakes.
“I think your eyes are pretty, Verity. No one else has them.”
“If everyone could be like you, brother, the world would be kinder.”
* * *
Anne Putnam Sr. glowers, her hands on her hips, as we stomp through the door. My mistress looks drawn and tired, the lines about her eyes just starting to show.
“Verity. Very presumptive of you and John to leave Mercy with all the evening chores.”
Mercy Lewis, the other maid, smirks behind Goodwife Putnam’s back. She pokes out the tip of her pink tongue.
Goody Putnam speaks again. “For punishment, John and ye shall do supper without Mercy, for three days.”
“Yes, Goody Putnam.”
I wait till the mistress departs, and set to my routine.
I steal a glance in the living room. Mercy whirls in a circle, dancing with her broomstick. Lost in one of her fantasies.
I don’t blame her, I have my own. But they don’t involve dancing with a broom.
I duck back in before she sees me.
Mercy is pleased, no doubt. This will leave her extra time with Tituba, dreaming about her future husband.
I snort.
I carefully dip the bottoms of my skirt hem in the bucket water so as not to catch fire, just as my mother before me. Out the window, I see John’s slim back lumbering toward the barn.
I tell myself a story as I shovel some coals from the fire’s embers into the master’s foot warmers.
“Ouch.”
My fingertip sears with pain and I pop it in my mouth. I pull it out, half-afraid to look.
A small, angry boil rises on my index finger; my punishment for daydreaming.
Hoisting the warmer off the floor, I stomp up the stairs toward the children’s rooms.
Tuesdays have always been red, but today the word blisters in my mind like brimstone. Monday is black, Wednesday-blue, and so on, through all the rainbow’s colors.
My mother was terrified when I told her. “Speak of it to no-one.”
Father later convinced her it was nothing infernal. Just another odd trait on my very long list.
Months, words, and individual letters illuminate in my head, all with individual hues. Like a fire made of driftwood.
As a result, my memory is
extraordinary. I learned to read by four.
I have too many secrets. They weigh around my neck like a heavy millstone. I long to confess them. But it would condemn me.
I am alone.
I am different from girls my age, different from my masters. Different from everyone.
It’s as if I’m a foreigner, incapable of speaking the language.
The loneliness is ever-present. An unwanted shadow, present both day and night.
I confessed once, when I was ten, to a houseful of children.
My eyes blink back the tears that threaten.
Time hasn’t dulled their expressions, chanting, “Li-ar. Li-ar.”
If I dared confess now, the name would be witch.
My colors are a memory aid; as much a part of me as my beating heart.
Echoes of mother’s voice whisper, “Tell no one, Verity. Others will not understand.”
I long for her.
The ache is unbearable. For her to look into my eyes and hear me.
No one sees me here. To some, I am a mere shadow, flitting about the edges of their conversations. To others, I am worth less than livestock. Something to be bought or traded.
Mother’s voice again, reiterating, Nothing good will come from it.
This new country is set on uniformity, in Puritan thought and deeds. Calling attention to oneself is not merely discouraged, it’s a sin.
I hear a knock on the door, downstairs.
I freeze instantly, the foot warmer banging against my leg.
I yank my skirt away from the flying sparks and recognize the harsh tones of Constable Corwin. The hornets revive, buzzing in my head.
My heart turns to granite, hardening with fear. “Mr. Putnam, we’d like to speak with you about one of your servants. The boy.”
* * *
Present day
Clarion County, Pennsylvania
Penn’s Orphanage for Exceptional Boys
“What? What’s that bloody—?”
The landline beside Truman’s bed was ringing. His eyes shot to the clock beside it, the digital numbers bathed the phone in a greenish hue.
Three a.m.
He wrenched the box off the nightstand, blinking stupidly at the caller I.D.
His teeth ground together in recognition. “Another emergency placement. Can’t these people cut us a bloody break?”
A dog’s shrill bark cut the night, startling him awake.
A chill walked down Truman’s neck, blazing a trail of raised hairs. A crisp fall breeze blew in the open window, surreally swirling his dark curtains like an illusionist’s cape.
Another bark.
Truman froze, hand poised above the phone receiver; his head alternating between the phone and the frantic dog outside. “Wot is he on about?”
He kicked off the down comforter and padded to the window. The phone silenced as the machine picked up and his assistant’s southern drawl began.
“You have reached Penn’s Home for exceptional boys…”
He hit the mute button and thrust his head out the old window frame. The familiar smells of barn animals, hay and half-finished apple cider wafted to his nose. A partially-stuffed scarecrow lay slumped over a bale of hay directly below his window; its yellow innards sailed up toward him in the rising storm wind.
Scanning the orphanage grounds, his mind ticked off potential hiding spots-the pumpkin patch, the cornfield, the barn? It’d be all-too-easy for someone to hide on the ten acres surrounding the orphanage.
He ducked his head back in, his eyes narrowed, checking the security monitor on the wall; its green blinking light reiterating the quiet scene outside…no breach in the orphanage’s security system.
Anxiety twisted his gut. He sighed, looking around for his jacket. He learned never to ignore his gut.
He felt so tired. Too young to feel this tired.
Did I bite off too much with this job? I mean, what other twenty-three-year-old has this responsibility?
His adoptive father’s voice retorted irritably in his mind, How many people are a wunderkind, boy? Tapping his crooked finger against his temple. Will you use that mind for good or evil?
He smiled wryly and shook his head. Despite being a million miles away, the man was still a force to be reckoned with.
The research paper on his nightstand reoriented him, its title glaring.
‘Empaths and Synesthesia; A Case Study of T’
“Or alternate title, Truman Johnstone, The Modern-day Freak show.”
He stared at the signatures beneath the title and squared his shoulders.
Ram Usman.
Soon to be head-shrinker and his very best friend. He must be, for convincing him to take this job at the orphange.
And below it, Dr. David Linkler; the aging pediatrician who’d opened the home, back in the 70’s.
The paper, written about him, was to be Linkler’s final scientific contribution.
The old man’s visits were becoming less and less frequent as his legs weren’t what they used to be, and slogging through the Clarion County mud took its toll on his rheumatoid arthritis.
Depressing the intercom button, he took a deep breath.
“Ram? Ram, are you up?”
“I am now.” His friend’s voice was thick, a little slurred. “What’s up?”
“I heard something outside, the dog was going mental. Just wanted you to know I’m going to check it out. Better do the rounds—make sure they’re all in.”
“That dog is always mental. Truman, honestly, you’re overreacting.”
Though twenty-eight, Truman was convinced Ram had popped out of his mother’s womb with a clipboard in his hands.
Born to psychoanalyze.
Truman grinned in the dark. He’d have to use that one in the morning, when Ram wouldn’t rip his head off.
Pippin, the house Border collie, growled, her hackles rising into a furry black and white Mohawk down her back. She stood on her hind legs; her front paws clicking against the window frame.
Furry ears shot up, listening, and then lay flat against her head in disapproval as she stared out into the corn. Her upper lip retracted as she let out another low growl.
“Shh, quiet! I know, I’m going. I don’t want every kid up and wailing.”
He squinted and followed the dog’s gaze as he stooped to snatch his scrubs from the floor.
A stark-white slip flashed in his peripheral vision and his head jerked back to the window.
What was that?
He jammed his head out, pushing the dog out of the way in time to see a sliver of white disappear into the cornfield.
He bolted— simultaneously wrestling a sweatshirt over his Occupational Therapy scrubs and took the back staircase two at a time till he reached the kitchen.
Flinging open the door, he sprinted, legs pumping, across the barnyard. A herd of cats scattered, mewling their protests.
A powerful tempest exhaled from the sky, blowing across the cornrows to shake their satiny heads.
He shivered as a prelude of lightning flickered overhead.
“Perfect. Hitchcockian, even.”
Maybe I should’ve waited for Ram.
Intuition prickled and he chewed his upper lip, but forged ahead, ducking in and out of the sharp green leaves.
Thunder erupted in a deep baritone rumble. So close his insides vibrated.
He froze and cocked his head, listening.
He knew he was still safe; the crickets and cicadas sang in a round; their final summer sonata before the curtain call of fall weather. If danger was near, all would fall quiet, including the bugs.
He kept his eyes fixed on where the slip had disappeared. He ploughed through the stalks, not bothering to be quiet.
He flew, bobbing and weaving, deeper into the heart of the corn.
“Wish the maze were done. Watch me get lost in me own crop.” He turned, checking his position with the farmhouse to get his bearings.
“Ridiculous. I shoulda gra
bbed the rifle.”
He started as a high keening erupted—cutting the cicada’s cut off, mid-note.
His heartbeat doubled.
A wail; then sobbing. It was definitely a woman, not a child.
His breath whistled out through his clenched teeth as his stomach unclenched a fraction.
It wasn’t one of the kids. And Sunshine, well—he knew his assistant was the crying and, or, hiding type of girl.
Another sob and a hiccup. He tilted his head.
Where was she?
A woman stepped into the row ahead, barely visible through the maze of thick, green leaves.
Her head whipped around wildly as if confused. Her eyes were glazed as if she took no notice he was there.
She wore only a plain white slip. The wind gusted to reveal long, alabaster legs. Model legs.
“Wait, Miss? Are you ill?”
She slid back into the sea of green.
Domestic dispute? Runaway?
He hurried after her. His eye caught and locked on a snow-white calf.
His stomach contracted as if sucker-punched as he hurried toward her—ignoring the tiny slits of heat where the corn cut his cheeks.
The freakshow inside him began.
Emotive pulses rose off the woman’s skin like steam escaping hot asphalt. Her emotions rode the waves, traveling to him and dousing him in their desperation; they slipped under his skin, making her pulse, his pulse. Her heartbeat, his heartbeat.
He swallowed. It was like a child’s feelings, innocent and pure.
A color surrounded her body, as if a celestial being outlined her shape with an ethereal highlighter.
She was lavender, with a jagged red fear, seeping and pulsing in the center.
“What are you?”
Escaped mental patient? An ex-communicated Amish lass? Hallucination?
His mind tripped over the last one.
She doubled her speed, perhaps finally sensing him.
“Wait, miss! Do you need help?”
He’d grown used to his peculiarities: the way his instincts could discern a person’s personality.
His mind worked, computer-like, to analyze a person’s minute facial expressions, comparing them. He always knew when someone was lying. He was never wrong.
Ram informed him this was due to an over-wired limbic system in his brain.
He wondered what her name was…how did it taste?
Where Bluebirds Fly (Synesthesia-Shift Series) Page 2